Authors: Matthew Revert
“What’s happening,” said Miss Applebaum with concern lacing her voice.
“The machine can’t process the cerebral data.”
Smoke began to curl from the tip of the scanner, casting off a burning smell. The mechanic arm jittered in epileptic confusion. There was a loud bang, which cut off the incessant squeal and finally, the machine itself burst into flames. The assistant rushed away and came back with fire extinguishers, which they used to engulf the machine.
When the chaos had calmed and everyone was breathing normally again I, somewhat stupidly, asked, “Was that supposed to happen?”
“No, Mr. Worthington… we don’t make a habit of destroying our obnoxiously expensive equipment each time we do a reading,” said Miss Applebaum.
“Why did it happen?” I asked.
“Until we investigate the incident, I can’t be 100% sure. If I may hypothesise, the result we have seen today is indicative of one of two things. The first, like you have suggested, you possess no sexuality. This lack of sexual information caused a disruption in the scanner, which in turn led to collapse.”
I smiled at this hypothesis. “And what’s the second?”
“The second is that, not only do you possess sexuality, but you possess a sexuality so strong that the machine overloaded from the pure quantity of data.”
I didn’t like that preposterous second hypothesis one bit.
“I hope you don’t expect me to pay for the damage,” I said.
CHAPTER 11
I was given several waiver forms to fill out before I could undergo treatment. After the ambiguities surrounding my reading, I thought it important to consent to whatever it would take to prove to Miss Applebaum that I did indeed lack sex. She had an egotistical air about her, and I knew full well she assumed her second hypothesis was more likely. I’ll admit that my decision to move forward with the Sexualis treatment was based solely on pride. But, when it came down to it, how many decisions in this world aren’t pride-based in some way?
The ‘treatment room’ was essentially a laboratory full of esoteric equipment. Once again, there was an examination chair I was asked to sit on, but this time I wasn’t permitted to wear any clothes.
“I really would like to keep my gown,” I said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Worthington. When you signed those forms you consented not only to the treatment, but to abiding by the process of treatment.”
Assistants approached from either side and, despite further protestation, removed my gown. I threw my hands over my genitals and buried my backside into the chair. “This is most unpleasant”.
“Just relax,” said Applebaum. “You really have nothing to worry about.”
I felt the burn of a needle in my neck, which I swiped at like a mosquito, but it had already managed to bite me. There was an immediate relaxation that spread throughout my body and everything in my periphery began to churn. In one sense, I was more wide-awake than I’ve ever been, but it was reckless. I couldn’t control my thoughts and this upset me. My precious sense of control sought this opportunity to leave.
One of the assistants wheeled a tray of needles to my side. This didn’t concern me. I merely marvelled at the way they captured light. Another assistant started swabbing my body with pink liquid, the fumes of which were vaguely intoxicating. Then the needling began. Starting at the tips of my fingers, needle after needle was eased into my body. I expected to feel a pinch, but instead I felt calm. A device was wheeled toward me containing a mass of small tubing topped with what looked like the jug of a water cooler filled with green liquid. Tubing was affixed to each inserted needle, of
which there were far too many to count. The assistants were talking amongst themselves, but I no longer had the capacity to understand words. A lever was pulled on the side of the device and the green liquid began to cough and bubble as it worked its way down the multitudinous tubing and into my body. Once the liquid was drained, one-by-one, each needle was removed from my body, a small geyser of green accompanying each extraction.
Despite having litres of foreign substance pumped into my body, I was beginning to wonder why I felt nothing out of the ordinary. Surely one would react to such substantial change in the body’s climate? Then I glanced down and became aware of my penis. Awareness of the penis isn’t something I revelled in, and had I not been medicated, this would have been shocking to me. My horrible penis was throbbing red and stretching toward the ceiling. I had heard of erections, but had never seen one before. It was stunning to me that such an innocuous flop of muscle could transform into something so violent looking. Obese veins clung to the side like worms, feeding the structure with blood from elsewhere in my body. The head of my penis had broken free of the foreskin, looking raw and hungry. It was devilish, but I couldn’t avert my gaze. From the tip, a blast of foam spat free and tumbled down my shaft. What was this?
One of the assistants fastened several leather straps along the length of the shaft and slid hooks through my strained foreskin, pulling it back. A small metallic cap attached to wiring lowered from the ceiling. It reminded me of those industrial grade hair dryers that are lower over the heads of chattering ladies, only much smaller. The head of my penis was slathered in a thick gel before the metallic cap was placed on top. Everyone backed away and the lights in the room were turned out. Other than theatrics, I could see no reason for this. A flash of light burst from the penile cap and my whole body shook with electronic intervention. This was repeated several more times with escalating intensity. I smelled something burning that I attempted to convince myself wasn’t originating from me. And this was all I remember from my ‘treatment’.
…
…And then I was in a recovery room. There was a television in the top corner that displayed a woman eating a mandarin in an overly languid way. I was tucked into my bed in a manner that made
breathing difficult. There was a plate of onions on a bedside table that did little to whet my appetite, but the fumes did make me cry a little.
Curiously, based on my memory of recent experiences, I was in no pain, or even mild discomfort. Pink spots mapped my vision, but already they were starting to dissipate with the passing minutes. The mandarin eating lady was making a real show of peeling back the skin and getting to the flesh within. She ran her tongue over the webbed surface of the exposed segments before piercing it with her teeth and letting the juice cascade down her chin. I wasn’t one for televisual entertainment, and the merits of what I was watching reinforced this.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Worthington?”
I turned my head toward the voice. Miss Applebaum stood before me in all her painted lack of modesty.
“Thank you for distracting me from the television,” I said.
“Are you experiencing any discomfort?”
I mentally scanned my body, looking for problematic areas. If anything, other than desperately needing to go to the toilet, I felt better than I had in a while.
“I feel great,” I admitted.
“Any sexually charged thoughts or feelings?”
I balked at the suggestion. Not only was my body more barren of sex than ever, but I felt a towering sense of superiority. “I can assure you, there is nothing within me remotely sexual. Your treatment, although elaborate, was a waste of time.”
Miss Applebaum nodded, not really listening, just writing down her infernal notes. I had expected her to offer me something resembling an apology.
“What are you writing?”
She hugged her notes close to her chest. “It’s scientific jargon, Mr. Worthington. It would mean nothing to you.”
Now, not only was she underplaying the grandeur of my sexlessness, but she was patronising me. I was going to snatch her notes before I left this hospital because I was feeling petulant. She was undermining my triumph.
“The tests went well,” she said. “No signs of trauma. Would you like to try standing up for me?”
I flung back the blankets, felt a chill and then noticed I was still naked. I threw the blankets back into place. “Do you think I could get my clothes back?”
“Your clothes are being cleaned. Don’t worry, they’ll be mailed to you.”
“What the devil am I supposed to wear in the interim? I have to go home.”
She nodded toward a wardrobe. “You’ll find some temporary clothes in there. Don’t worry about sending them back. Consider it our parting gift. If you’re feeling as well as you claim, you can leave, Mr. Worthington. This has been a very interesting day.”
Before leaving Sexualis Delirium, with a mind to never see it again, I had to know what Applebaum had been writing about me. Wearing temporary clothes too ghastly to mention, I snuck out of the recovery room and back into the lab. Applebaum was hunched over a computer and lost in her own world. She was holding onto her clipboard of notes loosely by her side. I pounced. She turned to face me. Her mouth fell open as the weight of my body came down on top of her. Her hand released the clipboard, which slid across the polished floor. I scrambled toward the clipboard while Applebaum scrambled toward my legs, trying to keep me out of reach.
“What are you doing!” she yelled.
I kicked out of her grip, army crawling those last precious feet to the clipboard. What I saw was a cause for puzzlement. Rather than notes about me, or scientific data that I might pretend to understand, there was a childish drawing of a radish pleasuring itself.
“What is this?” I asked.
Applebaum picked herself up off the ground and gave me a sheepish grin accompanied by an awkward wave.
“Explain yourself, Applebaum.”
Rather than bother with explanations, a split began to form in her painted exterior. Her skin tore apart like cheap material, and from the tear two children emerged, one male and the other female. They were dressed in school uniforms and pushed each other on their way out. The female scampered
away, and after blowing me an obnoxious raspberry, the male followed suit. I’d had enough of Sexualis Delirium.
CHAPTER 12
With the benefit of time, I did start to notice some personal changes as a result of my Sexualis treatment. My attitude to sex hadn’t changed much, but my attitude toward Windsor’s appetite for sex had evolved into something more understanding. Although I attributed this to the treatment, this may have been the result of my own personal development combined with my longing for Windsor. It had been less than a week since he and I had last seen each other, and in that time, his presence within my heart had grown. If he wanted me to sit on him, I was prepared to do that. A successful relationship is forged from compromise, and if he was willing to tone down his sexual animalism, I was willing to provide him with release. The fact I was willing to include myself in such a situation was a testament to the effect love was having on me.
An insecure part of me worried that Windsor considered me too difficult and had sought out someone else. Although I believed myself in the right, I conceded that most people would have been happy to provide sex. If Windsor managed to find someone unperturbed by the fact he was a chair, well… it doesn’t take a genius to conclude that I would no longer be in contention for his affections. I felt guilty for these petulant thoughts. Windsor wasn’t like that. It’s true that he and I hadn’t yet spent a great deal of time together, but that didn’t lessen the intensity of our connection.
Thankfully, before my self-doubt could get the better of me, I was given a sign that told me it was time for Windsor and I to reconnect. I had returned to my place of employment, and just like any other day, I had the dilemma of toilet requirements. I felt a little uncomfortable returning to the toilet block in the bamboo forest, but the fact remained – my body still produced waste, and the bamboo forest toilet was still the most immaculate public facility I had ever encountered. In one sense, it felt as though I were returning to the scene of a crime, but in another, it was as if I were returning to the birthplace of something beautiful.
My first post-Windsor trip was confronting. I sat in the same cubicle and considered the toilet wall solicitation that had started this whole adventure. Had I known that Windsor was a chair, would I have met him? I shuddered at the thought. I don’t know what I was expecting when I foolishly sought to meet the author of the solicitation, but had I known it was a chair, common sense most likely would
have kept me from going ahead. With that said, I was driven by an obsession quite foreign to me and it was clear common sense hadn’t played a significant role in my decision. I became so entrapped in personal reflection that I was several hours late back to work, which attracted disciplinary action.
My subsequent post-Windsor trips to the bamboo forest toilet weren’t as difficult. I was able to do what I came to do without getting lost in my own thoughts, just mildly tangled, which wasn’t an unpleasant feeling. It was on the fifth visit that something amazing happened. I didn’t notice at first. I simply sat on the toilet to go about my business, but as I motioned to flush the waste away, it dawned on me… the toilet wall solicitation was no longer there. In its place was a black square of paint. Windsor had been here! By covering the solicitation, he was making a statement. He had found was he was looking for and no longer needed to solicit anything. He was looking for me. I was his man. It was time to rekindle our glorious connection.