Full dick or get the fuck out.
He absorbed
Allison’s message, the acknowledgment of his cop-out deflating Roger’s
confidence faster than the flushed, un-full dick that was still drooped sadly
across his knuckles like an ulcer-prone salamander.
Drawing the
blue alien thing and/or palm tree over it in the Snapchat he’d sent her had
been a gamble, stupid enough for her to forgo an acronym and use proper
punctuation in her Gchat response. He’d done it because Allison had told him
about how she, before sending a pic, would sometimes doodle Pac-Man ghosts
skirting across her cleavage, how she and her friends would turn their nipples
into rabbit noses or penguin eyes or a “titmouse,” her favorite pun.
When he
couldn’t find flattering lighting in his room or seated on the toilet, when
he’d only managed to achieve the thin-blooded hard-on of a gun-shy flesh rookie,
when he’d found it impossible, given the length of his arm, to get a proper
dick selfie angle that wasn’t an anatomy-book close-up but didn’t provide too
much unnecessary perspective, he’d decided to compromise. Life was compromise.
A breast partially blocked by a stick-figure rendition of a woodland creature
was still a breast. He could live with that.
He’d
positioned himself at his desk, scrolled through a few of Allison’s recent Facebook
photos, worked himself to a state of semi-stiffness, gripped the base, extended
his phone and tapped. The image had been fuzzy, the lack of contrast between
skin and white tee shirt making for a less-than-enthusiastic representation of
the focal appendage.
He’d used
the app’s drawing tool to make a blue outline, expanding its parameters,
shading it in. He’d added green palm leaves and/or antennae on top of the head,
and two eyes and/or coconuts about halfway down the shaft. Not bad, he’d
thought. Open to interpretation.
There would
be neither interpretation nor reciprocation from Allison.
-
Doesn’t count since I can’t
even see it.
-
you racist against blue dicks?
-
a little. come on roger. Full
dick or get the fuck out.
-
fine, fine.
Roger
listened for distractions, hoping his suitemate might need to borrow laundry
detergent or ask why the bottle of Lubriderm was missing from the bathroom. He
glanced out his window to see if any of the likely green-card-less Asian guys
working construction on the adjacent building were having one of their frequent
smoke breaks-slash-bullshitting sessions but the rooftop was empty except for
plastic bags doing battle in the breeze. He remembered a movie where a
maladjusted loner filmed a similar scene with a 90s camcorder and told his
girlfriend that it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed. To Roger,
the twirling sacks reminded him of a sadness he couldn’t quite place, emptiness
under the guise of total freedom.
More
importantly, he had no excuses for Allison, whose emojis had gone from
tongue-flicking and joyous to crying/barfing zombies.
Roger
removed his boxers a second time.
*
She’d gotten his email from the
bottom of an article he’d published on an obscure site curated by a former
professor. Some drivel about the evolution of celebrity worship syndrome
focusing on the potential illuminati symbolism of fingerless gloves worn by
Beyoncé and Jay-Z at a diabetes fundraiser. She wrote to Roger that she liked
his acknowledging that the “legal framework in post-racial America relies on
the myth that racist concepts no longer exist,” and was impressed with his
portrayal of Beyoncé, noting that it reminded her of “that slutty girl who you
keep around bc she’s a hot mess, makes you feel better about your life and
always has good stories bc she’s a pathological liar – who i havent talked to
after she got married at age 18 to a guy who needed a visa, just messaged me
asking if she could use my email because she lost her pw. wut?”
He’d given
up actual psychological research as an undergrad, and writing was a hobby in
the downtime between preparing invoices and market analyses, but it felt cool
to have a fan. Even if she didn’t seem like the throws-panties-on-stage type.
Even if she didn’t seem like any type.
Allison Anvil.
Her name sounded like a proto-feminist but retroactively offensive comic book
character, like her online persona was administered by a psoriatic identity
thief trolling in his basement for passwords and social security numbers.
Roger knew
she was real, though. As in, not a dude.
Their
exchanges followed a natural progression: Gchats, texts, following, friend
requests. Her mobile uploads and posting history formed a more or less complete
depiction of her last five years, too thorough to be forged. There were
throwbacks of beach trips, a blurry ride on Disney World teacups. Diatribes
about Holocaust Remembrance Day and World of Warcraft. A Young Democrats dinner
highlighted by a Bill Clinton handshake and an ex-boyfriend Roger thought
looked like a younger version of himself minus ~fifteen pounds of beer
inflation. And the most recent ones – drinking simultaneously with lip-glossed
companions from a bowl of neon-infused sludge, their duckfaces straw-induced
and therefore permissible.
The kind of
stuff Roger imagined he’d see and read from Jocelyn – the neighbor who did her
laundry at the same time as him in their building’s communal basement dungeon
and, when she wasn’t buried in her phone, appeared to be around the same age as
Allison – if they’d been friends on Facebook or in reality.
Roger was a
man who had done so much laundry.
He still
lived in the first apartment he’d found on Craigslist, stayed put through
several drug- and career-related roommate transitions and absurd rent
increases, worked as a headhunter at the same IT company where he’d started even
though he was mostly bored and there wasn’t much chance for upward mobility. He
used the same hair product – “power putty for a windblown surfer look!” – long
after his faux-scraggle days had ceased.
In the nine
years since he’d graduated and moved to New York, his only relationship had
been brief and on FaceTime with a girl who was still at the school he’d gone to
in Maryland, who couldn’t deal with the distance between them and her desire
for at least two members of the ultimate frisbee team.
That
someone who seemed to crave stability would remain single for so long was
puzzling to the friends and coworkers who populated the periphery of Roger’s
life. He didn’t suffer from a recurring skin condition or extraordinarily gross
breath; he was no better and no worse than the majority of his boat-shoed,
IPA-swilling comrades.
There were
women, maybe one or two a month. Bar-hookups, Tinder dates, alumni functions.
Connections that lasted a couple hours, or petered off after a few increasingly
foggy mornings after, and ranged from the outrageous – the day trader who let
him put it in her ass after he bought a $400 bottle of Grey Goose and told her
his Kindle sales rivaled James Franco’s, the daddy-funded poet from whom he
received a period blood mustache and who later tried to cover it up by asking
if he’d had a nosebleed – to the more pedestrian: a texting moratorium, an
unrequited friend request.
It wasn’t
that he was incapable of reciprocating passion, that his moments of sensitivity
were feigned and served an ulterior motive.
He was
alone because above all else, Roger loved ideas.
Age seven
or eight, he would sit in Sunday school, listening to a watered-down version of
Revelation, thrilled by the cartoon chaos it evoked. He would spend hours in
his room creating his own action-figure End of Days – Mumm-Ra as the
Antichrist, Princess Leia and Wonder Woman as angelic mediators, Ninja Turtles
as the Four Horsemen. But a couple of years later, during a stretch of summer
that included the demise of a second cousin, a cat, and a Siamese fighting
fish, death became something far more brutal than the easy deus ex machina
redemption found in dismembering a villain’s plastic limbs. If there was a god,
Roger no longer wanted to be a part of his or her utter fucked-up-ness.
Instead, he
focused on another portal that was mostly reliable and seemingly infinite,
where age/sex/location was as malleable as his grasp of geography and his
desire to blend in with whatever chatty den of liars and pedophiles his clicks
would lead him. His first girlfriend was ninety-eight percent instant messages
and two percent hugs before and after school. When she broke up with him
in-person before the seventh grade winter formal, using more audible words than
she’d spoken to him in the past month, he was only shocked because her messages
the previous evening had included the requisite number of extra vowels and
punctuations – byebyeee talk to u sooooon!!!! – to make it seem
like everything was going smoothly.
High school
nights, holed up in a parental home office suckling on filched Bacardi, he
would scroll through his AIM contacts. He devised and honed a system for
gathering information, for establishing a connection that seemed more meaningful
because it usually played out on his own terms, the rehearsed-yet-casual
sequences of manipulation that belied the painfully ordinary insecurity that
consumed his non-typing life. He’d start with a simple, hi, hey, hello, wait
for the nm u? response.
The trick was in dictating the movement, carving its direction. If KatyKay40286
complained about the frumpy patterns rimming her newly issued field hockey
skirt, he would commiserate by mentioning how his swim coach had screwed up
everyone’s Speedo sizes – yea sucks its a little uh…tight hehe. After her
expected LOLish response, he would write that it was probably nothing compared
to the sports bras she was forced to endure (KatyKay40286 being a notable
subject of bust-related speculation). Roger would then suggest that they play
The Question Game. You had to alternate asking each other questions, one at a
time, and that while the questions could be about anything, yes/no answers were
discouraged. The game would start innocently enough – what life decisions caused Mr. Neary to become the kind of teacher
whose coffee mug reeks of Kahlua every other class? – but would quickly veer toward the erotic:
whats your favorite position?
how big is/are your
[
]?
The
questions were far tamer than what he’d encountered as a pubescent smut room
devotee, but there was a thrill in the forging of textual intimacy, an arousal
on par with what he imagined actual physical contact would elicit. If the girl
got skittish and stopped playing or signed off, he would resort to another
slightly less gratifying pastime: scouring the streaming video landscape in
order to check in on which of his favorite starlets was farther along on the
oft-tread arc, from casting couches and coy handjobs to triple penetration and
rectal prolapse.
To an adult
Roger, Allison was a welcome throwback to that indispensable era, though not in
any sexual sense; the need to fulfill unrequited horny-boy urges no longer
existed. Instead, they traded the facts – the loan-drowned reality of her
recent graduation from a small school in a rust-colored Ohio city, his summer
share on the straight part of Fire Island – and the obsessions – her resentment
of a single-mother childhood and the sperm donation that led to her creation,
his fear of developing colorectal cancer due to chronic Burger King gluttony –
that comprised their inner and outer lives. She was fascinatingly ADD,
filterless, able to jump, in the space of a few lines, from her internship at a
law firm where she was trying hard not to perpetuate “America’s meritocracy
myth,” to her quest to pillage the interwebs for the most awful sounding white
baby names (my personal favorite so far is
Kamdyn – aka murder capitol of the east coast), to the vitriol she
posted on random people’s walls: “You do realize that Native
Americans are a marginalized ethnic group that still exist, not a cutesie
halloween costume. and your baby isn’t cute, fyi. is this an ad for birth
control?”
For all she
confessed, she never demanded the same from him. She could discuss how her
roommate was a popular webcam model who got paid to play videogames in an elf
costume and how sometimes Allison would try on the ears to not feel lonely, or
how her bulimia phase had been so extreme that she wouldn’t go to class unless
she was guaranteed a seat by the door and a clear path to a bathroom or garbage
bin, and Roger wouldn’t feel compelled to tell her about how he cried
constantly for months after he beat a pregnant squirrel to death with a nine
iron or how he and his neighbor Timmy, before his mother found out about it,
would take turns wiping themselves, post-toilet, as part of a game Timmy called
“family time.”
All he had
to do was keep the conversation going.
He would
come home from work or a bar or wake up late and activate one of his devices and
know that in a moment he’d be inundated with the same pleasing stream of
pathos:
ugh roggerrrrr im dying
i took a vicodin
but i just took it
whenever i get really bad
insomnia i get scared that i’ve developed bipolar
because that’s an early warning
sign
and this is the age when people
show their first symptoms
like stay awake for a week
straight babbling like a homeless veteran
oh no. katy perry is back on
Reddit.
save me from myself.
He could
absorb her brand of damage until sated, take what he wanted and give back
nothing.
Sounds awful :( gotta pick up a jacket at the
dry cleaner. Later
After a
year Allison started trying to meet Roger in person. At first it was subtle.
She was thinking of staying at a friend’s in Hoboken, would he be around if
they took the train into the city? She had to come in from her mother’s house
near Trenton to get her passport renewed at a Midtown office that happened to
be near Roger’s office, would he want to get smoothies?
His limp
excuses – he was sick, he had to attend a company-mandated retreat at a
mud-covered obstacle course upstate, he would be starting a juice cleanse that
would render him unbearably flatulent – awoke in her a directness that Roger
found difficult to combat. They could hang out on his schedule. What weekends
did he have free? When was she going to finally meet the famous suitemate who
used Febreze as body wash? She would have no problem sleeping on the couch as
long as fewer than three sex offenders lived in his building.
Roger knew
that it might go down like this, that she would try to sabotage the idea of
herself he had worked so hard to cultivate and maintain. He wasn’t skilled
enough at Instagram to keep conjuring images of the places that coincided with
his cop-outs, so he tried broaching the subject honestly.
-
Do you ever think that if we
met in person it would ruin our internet bond?
just
that once you meet in person, that’s it, it’s no longer an internet friendship
and there’s no turning back and reinternetizing it.
Her
middle-finger emojis were swift, relentless.
He was
selfish. He was a solipsist. He was needy. He was too privileged to understand
the consequences of cultural appropriation. He wore the same Third Eye Blind
tee shirt in at least fifteen of his pictures.
Though
Roger agreed with most of her accusations, he didn’t feel the sting of her
absence until the third day of signed-off silence. His coworkers had left their
usual happy hour spot and he had secured a seventh pint. He was looking at a
Buzzfeed list of horrible-sounding Trader Joe’s products that “seem vegan but
shockingly aren’t!” and wanted to text Allison the link. He tried thinking of
someone else whose opinion about the article he would find interesting or
worthwhile. The bartender was mostly ignoring him, occasionally glancing at the
dwindling pile of singles in front of his beer with increasing trepidation.
With Allison he could drink to the point of being a dickhead and send her
stupid shit and regardless of her response he would know that they were on the
same wavelength for at least a few moments, feeding a deeper need, what he
imagined it would be like to have someone worth coming home to.
Now he was
simply another lonely dick.
When she
signed back on (heyyy dummy I still h8t you and
im never coming to nyc but hows ur week been??) he decided he would
be more present, give a little more of himself, enough to keep her appeased.
Even if she only wanted to tell him about sending her ex-boyfriend Photoshopped
pregnancy tests or her ideas about the patriarchy’s relationship to
anti-Semitism that evolved into a treatise on the shortcomings of biology. He
would try.
-
if i could redesign sexy parts,
balls would be on the inside, as would clits, and there would be no vagina,
just a little hole, covered by the labia. and nobody would have hair.
it would be like the iOS 11 of genitalia.
-
isnt that pretty much what a
vag is
-
no there’s the other shit
inside
i don’t know what it’s called
the labia minora!
-
idk i kind of like my genitalia
-
you’re the only one.
the worst is when guys send dick pics.
like okay, i can tell if someone has a nice
dick but i don’t need to see a picture of it.
-
note to self do not send dick
pics anymore
-
i’m not going to get off to a
picture of an erect penis
-
lol
-
you would never send a dick pic
-
haha only if asked
-
send me one
thats what snapchat was made for
-
i dont have an erection tho
-
that and me sending pictures of
my boobs with animal faces drawn on them
how hard is it to get an erection? pun intended
-
very punny
-
now i’m inspired to send
another boob creature
-
do it
-
not to you. i would only send
it to you in exchange for a dick pic.
i just sent my friend a boob puppy.
-
are you going to have me
arrested if i send one
-
no!
-
as long as you don’t screenshot
mine
-
i dont even know how to do that
He didn’t
know how, either, and wouldn’t have done it if he did. He didn’t want to deal
with pissing her off again. The reference to a relative state of photographic
permanence awoke in him a twinge of memory, an ugliness he tried to shake off
while looking for his phone.
While
Allison waited, faceless and soundless somewhere in New Jersey.
*
Roger took a second photo – this
one blatant, unaltered – and pressed send.
As the
image slid through the data channel to Allison’s screen, he felt a sharp
pressure on his throat, a sense of suffocation that sped down through his
limbs, a putrefying heat. Then a dizziness like when he was a child and would
intentionally spin in a circle until falling to the ground, except now he was
trying not to move, fighting the downward plummet.
At some
point his vision ceased and he was aware of nothing but a feeling of fullness,
a widening, a roar of liquid forcing him towards an artery-choking torment. He
was swimming in near-darkness, submerged in a milk-thick sludge that, while
alternatively burning and sponging his lungs was also buoying him in the
direction of a faint light that kept getting closer until he collided with an
earthen hardness a few feet beneath the surface where the water was now
soup-thin, gleaming. He reached for one of the root-like structures whose ends
rippled and flickered from the embankment and it broke loose, rubbering down
into the murk.
He reached
for another, another until he gripped one that held, pulled himself and emerged
into an air that convulsed, engulfed his chest. He crawled onto a sandy outcrop
and closed his eyes.
When he
opened them he was upright, walking on a path that reminded him of a
condo-stunted nature preserve where he and other ambitious young degenerates
would share saliva and hastily rolled joints. Except here the sun-doused
vegetation pulsed with a velocity that made him giddy, growing denser as he
whirled into what became a vortex, a sequence of spirals that disintegrated and
regrouped as irregular rows of hulking columns, multi-shaded and huge and
formed of a substance that was softer than bark and free of branches.
Giant
dicks. Thousands of them.
And tiny
ones, lining both sides of the path, a sea-smelling undergrowth of brown and
pink mushroom caps. The members implied an entire pulsing diaspora of masculine
possibility: erections with varying degrees of height and curvature, throbbing
and agitated, drooping, foreskinned willows, boulder-balls jostling the exposed
earth, a coarse pubic lichen that could be dense or peach-sparse, leafy dark
ringlets curling and twisting past the base of shafts, others manicured to a
new-purse sheen.
As he took
in the now-sharp environment, he realized that he had seen these dicks before,
their context obvious in the memories with which they corresponded. Timmy’s
baby carrot dangling in a toilet bowl. His first timid side-glances at adult
equipment (including his father’s) in the piss-trough at the old Yankee
Stadium. A fraternity brother whose primary career aspiration was to join an
off-Broadway troupe of “genital origami” artists and who would practice his
craft during chapter meetings. The ex-roommate he found one morning passed out
naked on the couch, shit drooling onto the carpet, a sheet of bruised tinfoil
splayed across his lap.
The path
began to widen and bend, and as he followed its curve, he noticed that while
the skin foliage was thinning out and revealing shards of waning sun, the
individual dicks were becoming over-rigid and mammoth, redwoods where once had
only been saplings. He easily recognized which porn actor each belonged to,
remembering the many holes that had contained them. Billy Glide’s barrel-girth,
a ring of freckles just below the circumcision scar. The pale English hammer of
Danny Dong, thinner at the base and rouge-tipped. And Lexington Steele, an
obsidian tower stabbing and combining with the dusk, glossy with lube.
The path
ended in another shock of color and vertigo and he found himself in a field at
night, standing at the entrance to what looked like a medicine man’s sweat
lodge he’d seen set up at a “pow wow” near an Indian casino where his mother
bought wolf-claw necklaces and he watched complacent men pound drums and yodel.
The structure, under the clamor of frozen stars, bubbled like a marshmallow,
hissing from the pressure of whatever resided inside. The entrance was
concealed by a curtain of six-foot-long chrome dicks, tips swaying a few inches
from the muddy ground. He spread them apart, gently, and walked inside. As he
tried to adjust his eyes and to not gag on the corrosive fog that now contained
him, a groan flared from somewhere close and the hut expanded, recoiling at his
presence. A spurt of flame – a hearth? – throbbed in a far-off distance and he
moved toward it, coughing, lifting the crew neck of his tee shirt over his
nose.
The smoke
pulled and ebbed and spewed a montage of images, each featuring the same
expanding and contracting protagonist. He saw himself in an earth-toned
bathroom he barely recognized, his tiny pink nub sud-shielded and bobbing
alongside rubber Sesame Street toys; slouching in a ski resort’s communal
shower, peach-fuzzed and shy-shrunken; adjusting to the unwelcome rawness of
his first jock strap; cautiously assessing the welcome friction that resulted
in his first unexpected dollop of salty release. An assortment of time-lapsed
close-ups, varying levels of pubic hair, razor stubble, the sores last year
that were only a harmless reaction to defective latex. And then, the twinge
that had gnawed earlier when he’d sent the Snapchat to Allison: pictures he’d
taken with a primitive digital camera and sent over AIM a decade ago – some
full-body, others side-posed, spread-eagled – to someone named peachez00100 who
never sent anything back, and who, he found out much later at a reunion, from
snickering classmates who had seen the pictures, turned out to be a guy he’d
gone to high school with.
He let the
old embarrassment rise and blind his brain with a shattering percussion that,
when it subsided, left him cold and feverish, tongue swollen with thirst.
He was a
few yards from the source of the hut’s light, a tube of fire that loomed
phallic and enormous, though it emitted no discernable heat. The flames in his
direct line of vision parted and realigned as a projector screen that appeared
to be operating at an archaically low definition. The video was a point-of-view
shot, missionary position, the first girl he’d slept with – whose name he
couldn’t remember – her pleasure-stunned stares at him while he surveyed her
neck, breasts, belly button, plunging in callow, arrhythmic excitement. Then a
flicker and she changed, her body’s outline blurring. Lighter hair and lips, a
thickening of thighs, paler skin, still familiar.
His dick
remained.
The screen
wasn’t deficient, he realized. There were many screens layered against each
another, a living composite of everyone he’d ever fucked. The length of time
that each body would rise and dominate the surface appeared to correspond to how
many times he’d been with that person and the duration of the encounter(s). The
college-era girls cycled through at a brisk rate, the end results of mostly
un-remembered brownouts or casualties of his prematurity. As the bodies beneath
him aged and held their focus longer, it grew harder to look at them, though he
had no choice but to absorb the emotions that manifested the same way every
time: the pleading for something greater, a future not predicated on his dick,
a future he would never give them.
After
several minutes he watched himself pull out and deposit a belly-smearing load,
but instead of the relief and fade-to-black he expected, the girl/girls
remained and he was still inside, though not in any way he’d felt before. He
was the negative space that his dick had created, a shadow that nevertheless
had the ability to bore beyond any untested womb, to inflict a greater pain
that he now shared, the pain of never transcending a definition, of
once-harmless ideas destroyed in a searing of flesh.
He knew
what he was.
He tried to
run from the flames and the screens that had separated and surrounded him in
every direction, the lives he could no longer thwart, a white light and sparks
and the stars were above and whirling and he leapt into it, screaming, and the
light snuffed out and he was alone in a dim halogen glow and silence. Something
soft in his hand and he knew without looking down that he was in the old
recurring dream, the one where his dick had come off and he couldn’t figure out
why there was no blood and he forced himself to wake up but when he reached
down he touched a smoothness, a nothing of skin, and he heard a humming
laughter, receding with the light, a joy from which he would forever be
sundered unless he could reattach himself, if he could find a way to avert the
stars’ dissecting gaze, if he could convince his feet to move, if he could
only…
Allison’s message blinked at the
bottom of the screen: nice, roger!! followed by a
sequence of emojis that included various salutatory hand gestures and what
looked like a frog with a potentially hazardous goiter. He reached for his
phone, opened Snapchat to view the response picture she’d sent. One visible
breast – large, pale, mostly unremarkable except for a nipple that was pinker
than he’d imagined and possibly larger, if it hadn’t been obstructed by the
nostrils of a monochromatic alligator head. Ten seconds later it was gone.
Outside, on
the adjacent rooftop, a hooting. Construction workers on their break, smoking,
chugging Powerades. Most of them were lined up near the ledge, tossing junk
from the vacant apartments they’d been renovating. Whenever one of them found
something worthwhile – a scarred Blu-ray player, a pack of Parliament Lights –
they would take turns aiming and dropping garbage bundles into the commercial
dumpster positioned near the front of the building.
Whoever’s
bundle landed closest to the dumpster’s center, Roger assumed, would win the
prize.
One of the
workers was cradling a filthy doll, clothed in the shreds of a baby blue dress
and stockings. The head was missing an eye and most of its orange curls, and
those that remained looked like they’d been burned. Each time someone hovered
over the ledge, ready to toss, the man with the doll would move behind him and
pretend to hump it, hold its arms and make it dance, simulate oral sex. The
other workers would crack up and the tosser, also laughing, would turn around
and smack the doll across the face or stomach, as if blaming it for his poor
aim.
When
everyone else had tossed, the man with the doll snatched one of the plastic
bags that were swirling around the roof and placed his projectile inside. He gripped
the bag by its handles, swung it in a series of circular arcs, and released. As
the bundle flew upwards, doll and bag separated, terminating on the horizon, a
black rift in the sun. A flutter of garments and for a second it looked like
she might float down, saved by a parachute of fabric and air.
She fell no
slower than the rest of the trash, made the same echoing crunch against the
dumpster’s metal.
The
unencumbered bag drifted and landed where it had been thrown, where the workers
stomped out butts, jostling and grinning, shuffling into the building through
the fire exit.
Roger sat
down and waited for whatever Allison was typing.