In The Middle

I sat uncomfortable at our table. There were strangers and our nights had become somewhat inclusive. However, I really miss the way those nights unrolled. There was no work talk. Not that anyone cared about it but I think I kinda did. We would talk about France and wine tasting. Ostrava and its night life. Mexico and the fact that nobody rides donkeys when they commute.

I liked this place. Rodeo Drive had become the place to go after work. The food was totally different from what you could find everywhere else. Beer? I didn't really care as long as it kept on coming. I liked to have Fish & Chips. The real thing? nah, but it did the trick. Tasty and plentiful.

This night offered more than the usual. In addition to the French man, the German and the Czechs. An American newcomer happened to be there. Sitting right next to me. I had seen him before at McDonald's carrying a food tray with more food that I could ever even think of buying. Even for two people. It was too much food. "Maybe he is here with a group of friends from work", I thought to myself while waiting in line and following him with my eyes. "No, he is alone", I sighed.

Most of the conversations would start with my stories. Sometimes the Czechs would share information on new places where we could meet up the following Friday. Sometimes the French one would surprise us with his thick accent and a joke. I really never had a problem with his accent, but he would often ask us if his accent in English was American or truly British. We didn't care. We liked him for who he was and his accent would always put a childish smile on our tired faces.

Sometimes, we would make plans for the weekend. Not that night. That night went towards one of the most bizarre nights I had ever lived through.

"Circumcision", someone said. We all looked at the American. He went on by expressing how sad he was of not having had the choice, when he was born, of saying no to the removal of his foreskin. The German quickly try to change the topic of conversation by talking about french vineyards. Of the beautiful weather of south France in the summer. French cheese, "it is delicious", she emphasized with a mouthwatering sound. Her plan did not work at all. American boy had our attention.

"That's why next Spring, I will have my foreskin reattached", he said. We all were in for a hell of a story. A friend of mine removed her glasses and stared at him. She was intrigued by such statement. Somebody asked foreskin guy, "wouldn't it hurt a lot?, I mean, to..." she paused. I was just sitting there waiting for the right words not to sound like a complete dick. Pun intended.

There we were, at our favorite place discussing foreskins and skin grafting to cover some dick's second head up with skin from some unfortunate organ donor whom American Foreskin dude hoped had the same complexion. "It has to look natural",he added.

"All I want to do after my surgery is to go to some baseball game", he said, "like the Yankees or the Cubs"."Man up", I said to myself. 

"Are you from from New York?", I asked

"No, I am from California", he replied

"And you like the Yankees?", I continued

"No, I just can't help to imagine what it would be like to be there for a game"

"Yeah, lots of people, I don't like places with more people than it is necessary"

"Listen, every time I am pissing", he paused, "I have this urge"

"Urge?"

"Yeah, I have always thought about doing it"

Everyone was there just listening to our little conversation. It was like when you were a child and someone would go and tell you a horror story about some brutal killer on the loose, and the narrator would just continue to elaborate a story that is supposed to be short. The killer kills and that's it. Yet a good narrator always builds up a state or condition of mental uncertainty or excitement, as in awaiting a decision or outcome,usually accompanied by a degree of apprehension or anxiety. He was a good one, even though his story was about his trying to put a hood on his German war helmet.

"You have always thought about doing what?", I inquired

"You know, when I am pissing, especially in a public toilet, I always use the urinal in the middle"

"Go on", said one of my friends

"So, yeah, I wanna go to a Yankees games, and during the 7th inning, head to the men's room. Imagine how packed it would be", His eyes shone in excitement

"I would go straight into the men's room, unzip my pants, take out a gigantic black dildo and slap it against the urinal"

Everyone went mute. 

"Imagine the other guys' reaction", he added.

"It has to be one of those stainless steel urinals", he continued, "Imagine the sound it'd make".

Coldwell

22.1.13

The Sound Of Pissing I

When I was in college, I was always afraid to urinate when girls were around. I was afraid to pee directly into the toilet bowl because I had the feeling that girls judged the size of your cock by the sound of the flow, and I didn't want any kind of judgment going on. So I would always pee on the inside of the bowl and sometimes it would go a little over the edge. But with Melanie, I would take two big empty grapefruit juice bottles, fill them with water and dump them one at a time, very slowly into the toilet bowl. This would go on for five minutes while she was outside, screaming with laughter. [Taken from "College Girls", by Spalding Gray]

10.01.13

Contributed by Villardo Ricalobos

The Devil Is In All Of You

My phone kept on ringing. I left it on the table. And took several hits of rum. The ice had already melted but my drink was nicely cold. The goddamn phone kept on ringing. Nobody ever bothered to call me and ask how I was or that shit. But tonight it was ringing. Somebody wanted to talk to me. And I didn't. 

I never considered myself to be a bad person, let alone rude or uncaring. Friends always told me that I should learn how to be assertive.  But I just didn't want to answer that phone call. I took another hit of Bacardi and washed it down with beer. I could feel the booze making its way into my system, slowly but surely. It felt good. 

I noticed that my phone had stopped ringing. I turned it off. My ipod was in my bag, on the chair next to mine. I reached inside my green Converse bag and grabbed it. I managed to untangle the headphone's cable and I put them on. I liked this place, Mandragora, a run-down rock pub with a broken PA system. The perfect place for me to get on with my writing.

I enjoyed being there. Cheap booze, darkness and pictures of rock bands no one had ever heard of before hung perfectly from the slimy walls. Decoration or just a vain attempt to cover up the filth of these walls, I thought. I liked slimy walls better, I smirked.

I had shared this place with only a few people. They never liked it. It stinks like piss, one said. The other two had a posh attitude towards everything and they rated this bar as a shit hole. I didn't care. I can be here by myself, I thought. I enjoyed being alone. With some drinks and my notebook. Alone was ok.

I began writing some lines. It was November 2010. I kept on drinking. Another beer?, the waiter asked me. And a shot of Absinth, I replied.

Soon the drinks were on the table, right next to my black leather notebook. I wrote and wrote. Cold Red Light by IAMX was playing. I felt the energy flow through my skin towards my fingertips. I was writing something that wasn't part of what I had intended to write. I had had some beers and I was shooting up absinth straight into my blood.

I closed my eyes and when I opened them I was heading towards the toilet. It stank of shit and cigarettes. But I didn't care. The doors of the toilet actually locked. Something unusual about toilets of places like this. I liked to be able to lock myself in the bathroom and do my business without having to care about being interrupted by drunk patrons of Mandragora.

I was there. I wiped clean the toilet seat. I unzipped my pants and pulled them down. I sat down. I wasn't sure if I wanted to shit or just to piss. It didn't matter. Marilyn Manson began to play.

"Hey, cruel world…You don’t have what it takes

We don’t need your faith.

We’ve got fucking fate."

I sat there looking at the walls of this one toilet I was at. There was nothing new to see. Stickers of Anti Fascism and graffiti. I checked to see if there was enough toilet paper. There was plenty. I was fine.   

"The center of the universe

Cannot exist

When there are no,

No edges"

Manson sang. And I listened. Then the middle eight of the song kicked in. I could hear some people outside. I could make out some banging. I could only think. Are they fighting?. Should I stay in here?. Should I call the police?. Fuck, I thought, I don't know what to do. I heard some screaming. The banging got louder and so did the song. I will stay here, I said to myself. There is no way I am going to open this door now. I paused the song. I removed my headphones. The shouting got quieter and quieter. And in an instant, it was quiet as a grave.

I waited. I pulled my pants up and tried to peek through one of the cracks the door bore as a signature of violence and of bravery. There was nobody outside. At least no one I could see. I thought of running away from that place. I thought of the fact that I still had to pay for what I had ingested. I thought of leaving the bathroom and being blamed for the raucous. Shit, I thought of being mauled by the ferocious men that instants ago had been fighting in this very place. 

I opened the door and the first thing I saw was a man lying on the floor. There was no blood. Only piss and paper towels everywhere. I left the toilet as quickly as I could. They Waiter was at my table replenishing my beer. I waved at him, and signal him to come with me. He did. 

He stopped right outside the toilet and right in front of me. What? he asked. There was a fight, I said, and a man is on the floor, I continued. He opened the door and went inside. I followed. He stooped down and put his hand on the man's neck. He went on, this man is deceased.

Hrms Etc

8.1.13

 

The Almighty Toilet

I was on a bus heading north. There was enough light for people to mistake this time of the year for Spring. Yet the trees were dormant. There was frost all over their thick barks. Their leaves lay on the ground as if they had wanted it this way. The bus moved across the city and in 5 stops I was out of this grand mess called Brno. It all seemed happy as Clone by Metric played on my head.

The sky was red fading into blue and the people were slowly going to work.

"It's too late in the day,Too late in the day to turn it around or change my mind

It's too late in the day to take you on all the rides

It's too late in the day to tell me I'm off the path

We're already in the aftermath"

I sang to myself.

It was the 5th. stop and I had to get off. I looked at my phone in order to see the time and see if I could at least light up a cigarette to help me with the wait. Indeed, I had 6 minutes to kill a camel. Kill it   for the sake of the waiting. So I did. 

I saw a girl running from afar. And my next bus was up to pick me up. Bus number 1. I got on and then I was off again. I turned around and I saw the smoke of the cigarette butt that I forgot to put out making the most delightful plumes of white. 

Then the flushing sound of the toilet behind me brought me back to reality. I had finished long ago, but for some reason I just stood there, thinking of something I would never write. Thinking of something that seemed too beautiful to be true. I zipped up. Washed my hands. And there I was again. In my office, full of people I would never like. I just couldn't wait for the next time I had time to escape my white-collar endeavor.

Immanuel Kant

3.1.13