Story

This is well fucking depressing. I’m sitting in my King’s Cross flat, it’s 14:55 on a Saturday & I’m waiting for the football to start, & while I’m waiting I’m listening to “I Can’t Stand Myself” by James White & The Contortions on my iTunes (shuffle mode), & while I’m listening, I’m perched, wobbly, on a chair trying to get a decent shot of my cock to send to Hitomi Sato—17, Japanese, hair: black, eyes: brown, measurements: 30-23-32—in Tokyo. She asked for it. But I can’t get the right angle. My cock looks like a stubby cigar (Yeah, yeah, Freud-schmeud), now it resembles a half-eaten saveloy, & now a dwarf eggplant (aubergine—baba ganoush me, baby). & my pubes look gingery & sparse—a russet tundra, a sorrel Siberia, the remains of an angel-hair bolognese. It’s cold. I need a trim (no wax near my knacks). If I raise myself up on one knee I get a darting pain running along the angry scar tissue from my cruciate ligament operation a few years back, but if I pivot on the right knee a tendon in my left leg does a seizure-come-pole-vault-flop & I have to hop around to get the feeling back. So I lift my MacBook (black natch) onto a cardboard box to see if that helps, & it does a bit, except now my cock looks like the wooden handle of a skipping rope (apples, peaches, pears, & plums) & the big vein that runs along one side (shouldn’t that be on top?—vena dorsal profunda) looks like a motorway on a rolled-up road atlas of Great Britain—the M6 (for some reason)—Preston, here I come; there I go, Birmingham. I should be writing. I really should. I have a book review of Stephen Barber’s Tokyo Trilogy to finish for The Japan Times & something to prepare on the tripartite language of subtitling with specific reference to audiovisual translation interpreted through Derridean themes of différance & Lacanian theories of lack. But, no. No, I’m putting things off. Procrastinating all over the shop. I shilly & I shally. I goldbrick & I tarry. Earlier, I had a bacon sandwich (Tamworth not Gloucestershire Old Spot, smoked not unsmoked, brown not white, unsalted not salted), two cups of tea (PG not Earl Grey), opened Word & then had a shower (eucalyptus oil not aloe vera). If I jump up & down (god, that’s tiring) I can get a decent shot of my cock in action but the resulting picture is a bit blurry & my performing penis resembles a dead pig on a trampoline with a couple of spacehoppers thrown on for good measure. After I showered, I sat back down (undressed not dressed), moisturised, injected my insulin (forgot earlier). Got up. Made coffee (medium-ground fresh roast not espresso). Forgot to buy cream (double not single). Turned on the Wii & played FIFA 08. Liverpool sealing the title with a hat-trick by Fernando Torres (assisted by the electronically transferred Lionel Messi). I made another cup of tea (oolong not breakfast). An idea. A thought. A consideration. If I put my MacBook on the floor & tilt the screen back & stand over it (think Ozymandias: “whose frown, and wrinkled lips” “boundless & bare”) my cock looks huge—like a pink Godzilla stalking the pine wasteland of my kitchen. First thing this morning, I received a lovey-dovey email from some woman I shagged while I was in South Africa—well, not lovey-dovey actually more hatey-watey—it went something like this: “I’m not prepared to wait 4 someone who doesn’t luv me or care abt me”—Good. Delete. Empty trash. If I lie on my side & hold my cock out then Hitomi Sato—17, Japanese, hair: black, eyes: brown, measurements: 30-23-32—will be able to get a good idea of its length—looks like a sausage roll (jumbo) or a hot dog (no ketchup, hold the mustard, & the onions can take care of themselves). If I turn on the effects button (bulge, dent, twirl) I can make it look (squeeze, stretch, woah!) like a bendy straw or a balloon dog—but Hitomi Sato—17, Japanese, hair: black, eyes: brown, measurements: 30-23-32—might think it actually looks like that & the promise of a Shinjuku-based fuck next time I’m in Tokyo will be well out of the question. No chance. Get outta here, mister. Take a hike. If I hold my MacBook in the air, careful not to pull out the speaker wires, & mind that... whoops... mind that wet patch, & if I tilt it, I can get a shot of the tip, the very top of the glans and it looks like a one-eyed mudskipper, or a sulking and pouting King Charles the First wearing an eyepatch. So, I take a look at jayarthur.com &—after a cursory glimpse at a blonde with her legs spread wearing a white thong: I’m thinking wishbone & slingshot; a brunette impaled on a vegetable: cucumber, courgette, or artichoke; & a redhead grappling with a mechanised Squiddly Diddly—in the Balkanised porn listings (between the BDSM & lesbian categories) under the rubric “big cocks” I find just the right photograph—not too big, not too small, but just right—& is that porridge I see (Ready Brek not Quaker Oats) a-dribbling? I drag. I save. I attach. I send. What am I going to do for the rest of the afternoon? & as I turn to get a beer from the fridge, I see it staring back at me from the screen of my MacBook. There, within the event horizon of my buttocks, my future, the fundament—a star, an asterisk, a sea urchin. Now, I wonder if Hitomi Sato—17, Japanese, hair: black, eyes: brown, measurements: 30-23-32—would like a photograph of that? Gospel.