Stankpit

Jacking off is making me blind, it is. It ain’t no old wives tale. I know it’s true. Luckily I figured it all out before I lost all of my colors. First it was red, my favorite color, it was. During a particularly active period of self-abuse in my life, red just up and left me. Anything that color became a murky grey smudge, it did.

Doctor Mackledonnie didn’t believe me. No sir. Mackledonnie said I was under a lot of stress and suffering from depression he did. He showed me charts and pie-graphs and calculations with funny symbols that said that I couldn’t be losing my colors. He told me to stop drinking, get some rest and eat better, especially stop drinking. “Stop drinking,” I says, “hell, that’s what kind of helps keep me from touching myself.” He wants me to go blind, he does.

Mackledonnie also didn’t believe me about the quivering slit that sometimes appears in my right underarm area. When I tried to part the coarse hair to show him the slit, it was gone. “It’s like when you take your car to the mechanic and it won’t make that there grinding sound you’ve been hearing, it is,” I told him. “But you can still smell the slit. I didn’t put deodorant on so that you can smell it.” He didn’t even try to take a whiff. Old sawbones said I have fly-crinks and prescribed some sort of medicine that will make my head tingle. And he made me stay at the office until Ramona picked me up, he did.

The minute I walked out of that office building I felt the slit open up again. It does that, it does, opens and closes at the most inopportune times. “See,” I told Ramona, lifting my arm and pulling back the sleeve of my shirt, “see, it’s back, it is. It went away so that Mackledonnie couldn’t go probing around and sniffing it.” Ramona just shook her head. Her orange shirt didn’t seem as bright as it did the last time she wore it.

Everybody acts like I’m the one that’s crazy when I talk about losing colors and my underarm-pussy. Our roommate, Eddie, pretends like he doesn’t see my slit when I try to show him. Eddie with the gray hair that was red before he went to jail. He laughs at me, tells me he can’t see anything through the matted muff of underarm hair, and says “an underarm snatch would have made you a popular gal in the joint.” He laughs, but last week I woke up and his nose was just inches away from my man-slit and he was greedily huffing the fumes. It’s like that, it is: people try to deny and act like I’m the sick one, but when they think I’m not paying attention, they have to try it out for themselves.

Even Ramona is intrigued, although she denies it, she does. Just yesterday I tried to take a nap. It was either that or a tug of war with cyclops. Red is already gone for good and orange has almost completely bled out. So take a nap it was. No more touching myself or all that I will see will be grey fuzzy-like television static. So I napped, I did. And when I woke up Ramona was finger-fucking my slit. She said she was just trying to dress my wound.

“Bullshit, that is,” I yelled at her. “You don’t even have any bandages.” And she was wearing one of those little nubbed finger rubbers that the postman always wears on his thumb, her finger mechanically thrusting in and out of the slippery little hole. Her glazed, grey-flecked eyes were locked on my armpit. Small beads of perspiration formed on her upper lip. Stiff little nipples poked through her grey shirt. She won’t fuck me, acts like I’m joking when I flirt. But just wait ‘til I nod off, then she’s all about finger-banging my manhole, she is. Never mind the fact that it gets me worked up and I have to sneak off to the bathroom to lose more colors.

Dora from Doctor Mackledonnie’s office called, she did. She said that the doctor wants to schedule me for some tests tomorrow. They will need to knock me out and shave my armpits. I’m not supposed to drink, eat anything or jack off after midnight. I schedule the procedure, I do, and wonder if I can trust Mackledonnie. I wonder if he can help before I lose all of my colors. Maybe I’ll also ask him if he can do something about the asshole on my shoulder.