Unsolved Ejaculations of Mystery

I dreamt of a pitched tent nagging at my sexual campsite. I wondered, Should I throw dirt and smother it? Or wrestle it like a sedan-sized bear, using every once of my strength and guile to keep my food stuffs safe.


But then awake, I noticed it wasn’t morning.

The other side of the bed, my bed, was cold.

Where was she? Did she leave?

Earlier tonight. Yes. She came over. We talked, mostly about nothing: my quiet habit of picking the seeds off of a strawberry before eating it, her compulsion to lick salted meats and collect coats of all kinds. It was nice. The food was nice. I made a fantastic salmon smothered in a cheesy dill sauce with a side of buttered-broccoli.

I was sure then that night was at full tilt. Even the drab talk of the weather and coming cold could not deny it. Nothing less then sex was left. Her eyes and bare nipples made that clear.

Then she dipped into her purse. A bizarre thing, it was. Like the neck of an alpaca; furry, slender, somewhat annoying, with straps. She brought out two blue hexagonal pills. Ecstasy, I thought.

“I want you to suitcase these,” she said.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“No. I want YOU to suitcase these.”

She had a firm grip on my wrist by then, reaching across the table. Her naked chest was covered with dill the salmon missed. She must have seen the confusion in my eyes. Suddenly, we were standing and my arm was wrenched behind my back and she was fumbling with my belt.

I’m not opposed to new things. I believe it makes me smarter, wiser, a better person. It might not be clear now where and in what ways my life will improve having experienced a stranger’s (albeit an attractive, top-less stranger’s) finger pushing two unknown pills up into my body from the back door, but I’m sure it will make itself clear in due time. I now at least know “suitcase” to also be a verb. Until this night, it was merely a sad, sad noun.

She called them “enhancers.” I was still thinking Ecstasy. But now she’s gone and my body is stiff and sore and alone in bed. A pinnacle of comforter rises from the middle of me, screaming with my heartbeats.

Quickly I do the math. Six, no five and half hours ago we finished dinner. No sex was had, that I can remember.

“Gwen?” I call, thinking maybe the topless blond I paid for “interesting fun” is still here.

The only answer I get is the familiar quiet of the walls and floors and carpet of my two-room apartment soaking up my sound. Nobody is here. Just me and my thundering erection.

I’ve never thought of using a male stimulant. Actually I still don’t. Not yet, at my age. But at the same time I never thought I would be afraid of my own penis either. Here it is, a fleshy flag pole fighting my boxers and the sheets above it, trying to blast off, break through the ceiling, explode into flashing glitter-balls the shape of a peace sign or the American flag.


I know what I have to do. Every man would.

Deflate the urge, manually.

I’m like a prize fighter who’s slept through the first eleven rounds to wake up hurting, eye swollen shut, cheeks slick and puffy with pain. There is one more round to go. This will not be graceful. This will not be set to pretty music. This will sting a bit.

I reach around under my bed for the magazined smut. Oh, it hurts to move. The stash that has been kept under countless beds since my adolescence has been a constant comfort, not so much in my use of it but more in the existence and the readiness of it. If the two or three magazines were any more accessible they would be on my bedside table, but that just isn’t the look or the comfort I’m going for. While feeling for the porn, I briefly picture a naked woman pouting her lips and twisting a nipple on the way to self-exploration with one hand, holding on with the other. She’s on a helicopter, banking in at some ridiculous angle to save me, hair all curls and wind.

I position myself. The magazine is open.

The pages are familiar, the faces and poses contrived. This won’t do. I close my eyes, try and settle myself, try to forget my member. I wonder whether my feet or hands will have to be amputated because my penis is hogging all the blood. Then, in my mind, my manhood becomes a hook, all that will be left from this horrible ordeal. Some sort of prosthetic grapple hook. I will be only able to mate with robots and cans of pineapple juice. But I will have a way to get into my car when I lock the keys inside.

See, there are upsides.

No. That won’t happen. It can’t. I just need to get on with it.

I fuddle between images of the suitcase-these-and-I’ll-leave girl smeared with dill, a co-worker at the microwave in the empty third floor lounge, a familiar yet random busty park ranger coming across my lone campsite, but nothing is holding, nothing enticing. My imagination–grown strong and vivid by the very practice of self-satisfaction on a weekly, if not daily, basis–is at a loss. Frustration ensues.

I try not to give in to the thoughts washing through my mind. That I am now welding a weapon, a billy-club of blood and vein; a battering ram capable of pulverizing the plastic cage of some nefarious hamster; a quarterstaff used to punish those that steal or use inappropriate language. This is not my gentle member. This is not my beautiful house.

Then my mind flashes. She returns, my Helicopter Girl. She is laying down this time, on the floor of the machine, arms and hair spreading down toward me, a sly smile on her face. She wants to save me, to send down a rope to bring me closer. And I will have it, have her. This will be my own Clancy novel, full of bad dialogue and military intrigue. And I will get in the helicopter, after just exposing some Russian covert operation for the greater good, on my own, under the radar of the United States Government. And she, my Helicopter Girl, is my prize. She won’t mind that I had to suitcase two strange pills. I had to, to save the country. And she’ll see that, she’ll know that, and be turned on. She’ll have no choice but to please me, tie me up right there in the helicopter with ribbons of bullets…

A few thoughts later I can feel the end approaching, my goal almost procured. I had to let my mind go where it wanted, trust my imagination. A healthy, flaccid me is soon here. A few moments left.

The release is momentous. Memories even seem to leave with it. I forget for a second how this all happened, how my body came to ache. But that is no matter compared to what my casting loose brings about.


Parkas, rain slickers, down jackets, leather blazers; my bed is filled with coats. I just came coats.

The shock is numbing. And when a still-topless Gwen appears from my closet and gathers as many jackets as she can from between the sheets, then kisses me before leaving, all I can do is blankly watch.

Outside it is snowing.