Pete was right. Anything that couldn't pass the Pastor Wilcox test was wrong. Which meant that most things were wrong. But some things were more wrong than others and this was probably one.
"People like you," he continued, "disgust me. Always acting so holy and then, first chance you get, bang your best friend's mom."
"I'm sorry," Oscar repeated. "I won't do it again."
"Too late," Pete replied. "You made your choice. Now face the consequences."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll see."
*
"Congratulations," Mabel said. "The fish has eaten the hook and all you have to do is rock the boat."
"Don't you mean 'reel him in'?"
"Whatever," she replied, waving her hand in protest.
Mabel had never seen the point of fishing. Why would anyone get up early and sit all day in the sun just to pluck a fish from a lake when you could buy them already cut up into nice neat little pieces at the Co-op? Because, after all, wasn't the whole point of civilization to escape such real life experiences? Rudy took her fishing once, for their honeymoon, and she hated it. Money was tight and his uncle offered them the use of his cabin. Mabel thought it would be romantic, just the two of them, eating and drinking and relaxing. Little did she know he would wake her up at five, make her sit in a hard boat on a blazing day and for what? Just to sit and watch him look at the water. Oh sure, he handed her a rod but there was no way she was going to use it. What if she actually caught a fish? Then what? She'd have to reel it in and if there was one thing she knew about fish it was that they didn't like being pulled out of the water with a hook in their face. Well, who would? So naturally she said no. And then there was the washroom issue. Their first fight, in fact, was when Rudy refused to return to shore to let her pee and told her to just hang her bum over the edge of the boat instead. On a small lake with other boats nearby! Needless to say that was the last time they did anything outdoorsy together.
No, Mabel preferred malls. No bugs or animals or fresh air or sunlight - it was all so pleasantly artificial. Sometimes, strolling past a store so clean and crisp or sitting in a cafe with a nice piece of cake in front of her, she forgot nature existed. And why not? What good was it? Except of course as raw material. Mabel couldn't understand people who preferred trees to wood. To her, a tree was just unfinished furniture. Either that or toilet paper. As for flowers, they were dirty and attracted bugs. A floral design was much nicer. It made Mabel mad to hear hippies talk about cavemen and how natural they were. Like they enjoyed wiping their bum with leaves. Give a caveman a roll of toilet paper and a bag of leaves and she had no doubt which one he'd choose. Just because they were cavemen didn't mean they were stupid. Unlike hippies, who probably did use leaves. Hope they get poison ivy, she thought, and relished the idea of some dirty hippie being unable to sit down.
That many of the wonderful things she liked to look at and buy were made by poor people in distant countries was not something she liked to think about and resented being reminded of. And not just by hippies either. Lots of seemingly normal people also felt that way. Spoilsports, she considered them. Always rabbiting on about injustice and how we shouldn't buy anything because the people who made it were being mistreated. At least they have a job, Mabel would retort, all the while suspecting that her accuser did not. Even Myrtle was not immune to such madness and had gone through a left-wing phase where she went to political meetings and wore a beret. Mabel had been to one. Myrtle told her it was for the Sandinistas but all she heard was the word sand and so, assumed it was about beach resorts. She was expecting a pleasant little talk, some slides say and maybe even a souvenir, a pen perhaps, with a lovely logo, and was shocked to find herself surrounded by a bunch of smelly radicals who argued about politics and demanded donations, which caused her to hold her handbag a little tighter.
"Either way," she said, "you've got him now."
"I guess."
"Don't tell me you're having problems already."
"Nothing major. It's just that... I'm not sure he's enjoying it."
"What do you mean?"
"It's been almost a week and he has yet to orgasm."
"No orgasm?" Mabel repeated, a little too loudly. "Impossible! All men orgamize. It's what separates them from women."
Rudy had never had a problem. He always came, and usually quite quickly. Which was just as well. So many other things to do in life. The less time wasted on sex the better.
"Not this one."
"Do you think he's a girlie-boy?"
Mabel hated the word gay and avoided it as much as possible. Just using it was a kind of acceptance. Not that she had anything against the act itself. Men were men and if they saw a hole, they naturally wanted to stick their thing in it. Nothing you could do about that. But to use that as an excuse not to have a family was unforgiveable.
"I don't think so."
"Maybe you should send him to a doctor. Have his wienie measured."
"It doesn't work that way."
"Of course it does. Girlie-boys have little wienies. That's why they can't do it with women. It doesn't reach."
This again was Rudy lore: gay men had female brains - which of course were smaller than male brains - which caused their bats to shrivel up. You'll never hit a homer with that, he'd say, spotting someone effeminate. Best you can hope for is a double.
"It's big enough," Myrtle said. "I can tell."
"I suppose so," Mabel conceded. As someone who had only had sex with one man, she wasn't in a position to compare and had no idea what was normal. She did know, however, that men thought it quite important. They were always talking about how big their member was, often at the most inappropriate times. A German girl, Mabel grew up eating sausage but Rudy ruined it for her. I'm bigger than that, he'd say, pointing at her plate. Once, just to shut him up, she went to a specialty shop that made them extra large but he was so dejected she never did it again.
"I think he's just repressed. He is a Christian, after all."
"Nothing wrong with that," Mabel said. "Unless of course you believe it."
"That's the problem. I think he does."
"Don't they have something for that? A pill or programmer?"
"That's for cults."
"Exactly."
"You're half right," Myrtle admitted.
"I usually am," Mabel proudly replied.
"I should send him to a therapist. Help him get unblocked."
"If you want. But what's wrong with being blocked? I've been blocked all my life and it hasn't done me any harm."
Mabel was proud of the fact that she had never experienced sexual pleasure. So many women get all confused, chasing men that only satisfy them sexually instead of focusing on the important things, like life insurance. Where would she be now if Rudy hadn't had insurance? Working at the Co-op most likely. Baton twirling can only take you so far and she didn't have any other skills. Mabel had never worked and didn't intend to start now. That she had managed to snag a man early was her greatest triumph. Not that there was anything wrong with working - someone, after all, had to bring her food and drink - but she preferred being the customer. So much easier. The other great joy of her life was children. Or rather, the lack of them. Mabel was grateful that God had seen fit to bless her with infertility. Rudy, of course, had wanted kids. A boy, naturally. Someone to go hunting and fishing with. But kids were a lottery. You never knew what you were going to get. What if you got an ungrateful snot like Pete? That would be horrible.
"Of course not," Myrtle agreed, all the while thinking otherwise. To her, Mabel was the life unlived. No career. No child. No boyfriend. Just a dead husband who had failed to satisfy her. Myrtle, whatever her faults, was adventurous. She said yes to life. Unlike Mabel, who always said no. Sometimes, Myrtle pitied her. Others, she looked down on her. Either way she was smart enough to keep such thoughts to herself. Mabel was her oldest and closest friend and she wasn't about to do anything to damage that.
"But,"
she continued, "it can't hurt, can it?"
*
Strange, Jack thought. No return address. Inside was a letter written ransom style with every word cut from the newspaper:
your girl friend is a slut ! her new boy friend is a circus freak with a monster clock who satisfies her in ways you never could . kill ! kill now ! sincerely , a friend
Enclosed was a photo of a fat guy standing in front of a theatre.
Jesus, Jack thought. It's only Monday.
*
"And how often," Dr. Kelsey asked, "do you masturbate?"
A short man in a stretched sweater, he held a pen which he compulsively clicked, every twenty seconds, blandly dividing his days by ballpoint. Aroused by something his patient had said, the clicking would speed up, and you could measure his interest by the briefness of their intervals.
"Sorry, what?" Oscar asked, confused by the question.
Oscar didn't know much about medicine and, other than the stabbing, hadn't been to a doctor in a long time - which was just as well since Pastor Wilcox believed disease to be a sign of demonic possession. True Christians never got sick and any illness was due to lack of faith. Cancer was simply Lucifer hiding in your organs and concentrated prayer could drive him out. The last thing you wanted was to die from it, or any other disease, because that meant you were going straight to Hell - a point the good pastor frequently failed to hide from the terminally ill, which made for some rather uncomfortable hospital visits. Even so, something about this clinic seemed unusual. It was partly the magazines. Despite checking every one in the rack, Oscar failed to find anything about the motion picture industry. There was almost always something, an interview with a star or a celebrity diet, but all he found were pictures of people with their clothes missing. And then there was the office itself, with not a single piece of medical equipment. In a way, he was relieved. No needles or probes to give him pain but the doctor didn't even check his blood pressure. Just asked him questions about his libido, whatever that was.
"You know, pleasure yourself."
"I like movies."
"That's a start."
"Especially ones with animals in them."
"Really?" the doctor asked, and double-clicked his pen.
"My favourite is The Incredulous Journey."
"Isn't that a kids movie?"
"It's for kids of all ages."
"You find that stimulating?"
"Very."
"I see," he said, making a note in his file. "Well, that is different."
"Is something wrong?"
"No, no, of course not," he assured him. "There is no right or wrong when it comes to sexuality. Only inappropriate."
"For example," he continued, smiling affably, "if you're in a crowded theatre, surrounded by children and attempt to pleasure yourself... well, that would be inappropriate. But if you do it at home, either alone or in the company of consenting adults, then that's your business pure and simple and totally acceptable."
Oscar was confused. Was he saying that movie theatres were bad and everyone should watch videos instead?
"But I like doing it around children."
"You do?" the good doctor asked, pausing mid-click. His face, once so warm and welcoming, fell into a worried furrow.
"Yes," Oscar answered. "I like their laughter."
"I see. So what you're saying is, you like being humiliated."
"What's that?"
"When people laugh at you."
"Sure. So long as it's funny."
"I see," he repeated, making another note. "And do you expose yourself in other situations."
"Sorry?"
"You know, pull out your penis for others to see."
"Certainly not!"
"So it's just in movie theatres?"
"Never!"
Now it was the doctor's turn to be confused.
"But I thought you said you did."
"Did what?"
"Pleasured yourself in movie theatres."
Oscar was shocked. "In a theatre? Surrounded by people?"
"It's been known to happen. Some places specialize in that sort of thing, although they're not as common as they used to be."
"Thank God!"
"Yes," the doctor happily informed him, "thanks to the miracle of videotape, people can now pleasure themselves in the privacy of their own homes undisturbed by police or unhelpful onlookers."
"Not me."
"Where then? At a friend's place?"
"No. I mean, I don't."
"Don't what?"
"Pleasure myself," Oscar answered, blushing noticeably.
"Really?" the doctor asked, extremely surprised. "Never?"
"No."
"I see," he said, repeatedly clicking his pen before making another note. Never masturbates. Liar? Or deeply repressed?
"Is that bad?"
"No, no, not at all. Just different. A celebration of life's diversity."
"Really?"
"Absolutely," he replied. "Let's try something. Close your eyes."
"Okay."
"Now think of something exciting."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Whatever gets you excited."
Oscar thought of Barkie, his long pink tongue hanging from his mouth as, panting joyfully, he was petted by a stranger.
"What do you see?"
"Barkie. From The Incredulous Journey."
"And what's he doing?"
"Just playing."
"Who with?"
"Some guy."
"That turns you on?"
"No."
"Then go deeper."
Now Barkie was running through a field. Ahead of him, standing beneath a tree, was a female dog. Barkie approached and eagerly sniffed her butt. His penis stiffened.
"Good. Now open your pants."
Oscar hesitated.
"It's okay. I'm a doctor."
Oscar obeyed.
"Touch it. Gently."
"But-"
"Relax. Go back to your fantasy."
Oscar saw himself behind the bitch, her smell in his nose as he scrutinized her ass. Heavy with blood, his cock climbed his crotch.
"Good. Now wrap your hand around it and rub."
Oscar's breathing deepened.
"Good. Very good. Keep going. Concentrate."
Excited, the doctor clicked his pen several times rapidly, heavily crunching the cap.
Suddenly Oscar was on top of her, his front legs grabbing her by the hips and holding her still as he thrust his cock at her.
"Woof!" he said. "Woof!"
"Keep going," the doctor urged, his pen clicking like a castanet.
Struggling to stay upright, his legs shook with the effort of finding her. And then, he was in. The feeling was so soft, so...
"Keep going! Keep going!"
"Uhhhhh!" Oscar shouted, as the sperm rocketed up from his crotch.
"Excellent!" the doctor cried, snapping his pen. "Such progress! And so soon!"
*
"Great idea that was. Now he won't touch me."
It was true. Despite Dr. Kelsey's assurances of a breakthrough, Oscar had declined to play horsie several nights running. At first he had claimed to be feeling bad and certainly looked feverish but Myrtle had been refused sex often enough to know when someone was faking it. My own fault for sending him there, she thought. For once in her life she had done the unselfish thing and look what it got her. Should've left him as he was. So what if he couldn't come? It was almost better that way. No danger of him spurting past the finish line before her. On the contrary, she could walk the whole track, waving to the crowd all the way and still beat him.
"Don't know what you're complaining about," Mabel replied, pausing only to spear an olive and strip it with her teeth. "I'd love to have a man lose interest in me. A marriage is never secure until the romance dies."
"We're not married."
"Whatever. He lives with you, doesn't he?"
"Unfortunately."
"See? The mouse is in the trap. No need to buy more cheese."
"But I like cheese."
"Of course you do. It's delicious."
"I'm beginning to think I made a mistake."
"Don't do that," Mabel ordered, pointing her plastic sword. "It's always a mistake to doubt yourself, especially when you're wrong. I can't count the number of times I've made a mistake. And it's never stopped me from making another."
"No, really. I should never have lured him upstairs. Now I'm stuck with him."
Myrtle prided herself on being a feminist, which she saw as being able to do whatever she wanted. I've got rights, she'd say, convinced it was the same as being right. To her, disagreement was discrimination and she had lost several friends by 'sticking up for herself' and 'refusing to be bullied'. Only Mabel was impervious to her self-righteousness and that was because her views were so fossilized no one could disturb them. That she, a free and independent woman, could be stuck supporting a guy who wouldn't have sex with her was extremely exasperating. It was like being married all over again, but without the financial assistance. At least David had had the decency to cheat on her. That she could understand. But someone who didn't want to have sex? What could you do with such a person?
"Give him back to Pete."
"Not sure he'd take him."
"Then kick him out."
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"He has nowhere to go."
"That's what you get for taking in strays. Just stop putting food in his bowl and he'll disappear."
"Not sure it works like that."
"Of course it does."
"But I like him."
"Plenty more fish in the sea. Just get a bigger net. Or go to the Co-op."
"What do you mean?"
"Not sure," Mabel admitted, "but it's worth thinking about."
"If you say so."
"I do," Mabel insisted. "I most certainly do."
*
Breakthrough was hardly the word for Oscar. Revelation was much closer to the truth. Pastor Wilcox had warned him about the danger of self-abuse but he had always thought of it as being like eating too many potato chips: a steady gluttony followed by an unpleasant satiety. That it could be so intensely pleasurable was a shock and he vowed never to do it again but the miracle of masturbation could not be denied and, within hours of returning home, he found himself lying in bed, clutching his penis and humping bitches in his head. The shame he felt afterwards almost made him cry. At least at the doctor's office he had had professional sanction. This, however, was pleasure pure and simple and so, totally inexcusable. Pastor Wilcox was not going to like it.