NICK WAS GREEK and had stopped all contact with family members. The men folk didn’t understand and the women…well it was them who he couldn’t handle. Out of everything, he missed watching television the most. Of course he could watch the channel3 news at 8am. At 8.13 he had to turn off, lest he see the weather woman who talked of rain or sun or cloud. Cartoons were ok. Usually they came on at around three in the afternoon. He didn’t watch the cartoons often. Sometimes little girls would introduce the next programme. He hated tugging it over kids. He felt like crying whenever he had to. He didn’t cry. Maybe he cried sometimes during the first few months. Having lived with the condition for nearly two years, he had become somewhat jaded by the political correctness surrounding his subjects.
For the last few months it had been a Wednesday when he would venture downstairs, over the street, to a small shop. Kamule worked there on a Wednesday weekday. Never any women around when Kamule was working on a Wednesday weekday. Guy was a fucking pervert. Nick the Greek would run on over and buy supplies. Beer, smokes, typing paper, shit loads of food, tissue paper, toilet roll, petroleum jelly, toothpaste and diluting juice. That’s really all he’d need until the next week. Sometimes he would call and have take-out food. An Indian or a Chinese or a pizza. He would get it delivered straight to his door. Woman never deliver food that way so he was o.k.
Whilst stuck in his little bedsit for so long, boredom became his biggest enemy. He would bite his fingernails, read the classics and listen to particular radio shows. He just waited it out. Never knowing when or IF it would ever end. But, like all things, if it did end, it would end BADLY. But it never ended and he had to endure. He liked his radio.
It was over the course of a Wednesday when it all went mental for Nick. He had recently returned from Kamule’s shop and was cooking a grand feast. As he read the cookbook he followed the instructions to a T. He could be a master chef one day. He was preparing a pot of gravy when suddenly he noticed a spider sat upon a spider’s web. The web stretched from the window to the side of a cupboard. Nick was amazed.
He studied it for a long time, burned near all his delicious dinner. Even the gravy spoilt. He didn’t care. He was an adventurer. He was a wildlife expert. He was following the trials of the environment's most misunderstood arthropod.
For an hour he watched. The spider was a big old eight legger. He had to be called Achilles. Anything that strong and brave had to be called Achilles. He was scared that Achilles would leave so he closed the window. But then he considered how Achilles would trap food. He reopened the window slightly. From then on he would leave the light on all night and the window slightly open. Nick, after a time of watching Achilles, dumped his cooking and went about searching his collection for a book on insects. He searched. No cigar. But he had a CD encyclopedia. He looked up spiders. There are over 40,000 species. Forget it. Whilst at the computer he started a poem about a spider that got stuck in a radio. It was his most grand poem.
Sometimes a few days would go by and he would wonder if he was cured. He NEVER purposely tested himself. He knew that sooner or later he would somehow see a woman. That would be his test. He would see her and close his eyes and wait, 1, 2, 3… and nothing. He’d open his eyes and run to her. He often dreamt of that moment. And he NEVER whacked it over them, his dream girls, even if they were smoking hot. They were always smoking hot. He would converse with them or play sport with them or go for a drive with them. Escapism had never seen such exhilarating mundaneness. But his dry dreams would go on and on and on, until he woke up into a world of wet nightmares.
There were, of course, benefits to his condition. Nick the Greek always tried to maintain a positive outlook, despite the odds. He had written some great poetry and short stories during his time as a slave to addiction. He liked to write about men who worked offshore or who were stranded on an island. He had one, very nice, short story about a black spaceman. He felt a unique bond with isolated individuals.
“Write about what you know”, said Jack to Jill, whilst going up the hill.
He read the poem about a spider to Luke. A poster of Cool Hand Luke, holding a shovel, was tacked to the wall above his computer. Luke winked at him. It was a fine poem. There were a few posters in his lounge room. Cool Hand Luke was the only white man amid great black heroes of past. Luke was there to guide the poetry. Martin Luther, near the front door, served for motivation. Malcolm X had his own corner. Nick decided he would perform aerobics in that corner. Nick never did perform aerobics in that corner but the plan was always there. The little kitchen area was home to Rosa Parks, on her bus. She was glued up in the kitchen on the inside of an empty cupboard. Her image was the only “porn” in the house. On one side of the kitchen was Rosa, on the other side, was Achilles. The house was becoming quite crowded. He had always liked that poster of Rosa. He had always liked buses. Now he couldn’t enjoy either. The great Ali was in the bathroom pulling an angry expression. He helped with the tough shits. Ali would scream,
“Come on, son of a bitch, push it out. You’re a champion. And champions don’t struggle with shits.”
Having received Cool Hand Luke’s approval, Nick took his wine to the couch and pressed play on his VHS system. He only had one Video, The Thing. It was a fine video. Not one woman in the whole film. Nick the Greek had watched The Thing a hundred times in the last two years. He knew the lines by heart and would talk over the dialogue as he enjoyed the deaths of artic scientists. Those crazy Norwegians indeed. Nick had grown a fine beard, one that matched the thickness and greatness of Kurt Russell’s.
“I like you Kurt. You have some real stresses going. But you handle it like a professional. You locate the problem at hand and you beast for a solution.” Nick tasted some wine. Red wine. The night was going a certain way. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the poetry. Maybe it was Kurt’s rugged good looks…and his fine beard.
“Hey Kurt. What do you know? I got a question. Does trying, with all your might, every second of every day, to NOT see, or be anywhere near, any women … does that make you gay… Kurt?”
Kurt never answered, he was fixing a flamethrower.
“Forget it K. You’re busy. I understand that and I respect it. Anyways, gay, straight, bi… what’s the difference? It’s a social thing. What’s wrong with two men sharing a night and helping one-another release built-up bodily juices…” Nick sipped his wine, had a thought and then continued,
“…In ancient Rome, it was a great honour to be invited to the palace, where one would blow the king’s cock clean. It must be great to be a king huh? ”
Nick turned the film off. He felt like he was going funny in the head. He went to the bathroom and asked Ali if he’d ever had gay thoughts
“I’m just asking because male contact was such a big part of your life. Boxers are always hugging in the ring. And you don’t have sex for ages before a fight huh? Come on Ali, you can tell me. Did the mighty Joe Fraser or the smoking Joe Foreman ever pop into your head whilst you were beating off in the shower??? Ali stared his angry stare and whispered a stern no.
“Me neither Ali! In fact, I’ll show Kurt Russell who’s a gay.”
Nick shaved his long beard clean off. He flushed the hair down the toilet. Then he went to the little kitchen area. He opened the empty cupboard and stared at Rosa Parks on her bus. As soon as the image hit his brain his neck went into a slight spasm. He leaned against the work counter with one had and, with the other hand, he started violently beating off. Rosa sat quite quietly and looked somewhat astute. His hand worked his cock for less than a minute before he came everywhere. A spider, sat upon his web at the opposite side of the kitchen, winked at Nick. As soon as he came his neck unstiffened and his hand and cock flopped. He would clean the mess up tomorrow. He never got the chance. Nick the Greek went to bed pleased and unconfused.
“Goodnight Ms Parks...you little ten dollar whore. And goodnight Achilles. I love you both. Fuck Kurt Russell.”
That night, in bed, he thought about travelling the world. He would wait until he was cured and then he would take Achilles and Rosa and travel the globe. He had a large golden map and had planned his route many a night. An ex of his had bought him that map. Sarah. She had wanted him to be more actively ambitious. Nick was sure that he missed Sarah. He was also sure that Sarah had something to do with his condition. Some two years ago, the couple lay in bed. She never used to let him whack off. He had become, after a time with her, a very lazy lover. And so, whenever he did whack it, she could kiss goodbye to sex for a good few days. He would jack it in the shower or whenever she worked late or in the garden. But one night, as they lay in bed, after Sarah had fallen asleep, he slowly took it out and stroked it. He had closed his eyes to think about some black girl who he once worked with. He had pulled the sheets down a little. This was so he could see Sarah’s huge, perky breasts and her flat stomach. He went back and forth from the black girl to Sarah’s breasts. Tugging all the livelong night. It was a dangerous tug. For the last hurdle he only needed the black girl. He shut his eyes tightly. The black girl was into anal. Sarah had face cream on, her tits were nice, but she fucking hated anal. Hell hath no fury like a woman who believes she to be second best to imaginary whores, so Nick the Greek tried a little faster. He could finish this quick and she would never know. His legs shot straight and stiff as he came. Sarah woke up. She saw all the mess on the sheets and she saw him, still holding onto his jimmy hard. She smelled his cum. She immediately sunk her teeth right into his arm. He screamed and cracked her on the head. She passed out. A slight dribble of blood ran from her head, down onto her face-creamed face, onto the white pillow case. Nick the Greek panicked. He jumped out of bed and dressed. He thought about phoning an ambulance but he was sure she’d be fine. She’ probably wake up and reflect on the whole situation and laugh. Probably. But just in case, Nick the Greek did run out of that house and he waited for her to phone call. She never called. After a few nights staying over on friends’ couches, Nick found and rented a small shithole bedsit. On the second night he woke up, during the early hours, with a terrible thumping headache. He was violently sick and had the shits to boot. As soon as the nearest shop was open he ran down to get some medicine. On the way home, just outside his building, a mother and young daughter walked right past him. As soon as their image hit his brain his neck twisted a little and he dropped his shopping. Suddenly his hand was upon his jimmy and he cracked some corn. Right there in the street. Hand inside of pants. Whacking it like there’s no tomorrow. The mother and daughter had walked right on by and hadn’t noticed Nick the Greek. He just stood there, alone in the street, uncontrollably beating off. He came in his pants and ran into his building, up the stairs and into his shithole bedsit.
WHAT THE FUCK was that?? Nick had to laugh a little. Jesus man, pull yourself together. Can’t go punching women in the head and beating off in the street! But fuck it, Nick thought; at least it would be a good story. He continued to be violently ill the rest of the day. At some point he turned on the TV. A wildlife program. As soon as the presenter interviewed a black African female native, Nick’s neck went a cranking and his hand uncontrollably grabbed his, immediately erect, jimmy. JESUS MAN! What are you doing? Stop! But he couldn’t stop. With his free hand he pulled at the active wrist and tried with all his might to free his erect penis from his own grip. For a moment he separated the two but he couldn’t maintain the strength, and as soon as he let go of his wrist he was back to beating off.
The first week he spent studying and experimenting. He remembered something from high school psychology, a theory of progression. What constitutes an image of a woman? Nick blindfolded himself. He took a picture from an adult magazine. It showed a girl named Amy in a barn, butt naked and fingering her pussy. Nick cut the picture into several pieces. A porn jigsaw. He turned all the pieces over so he couldn’t see them. One by one, he revealed them and started putting the pieces together. Her feet, nothing. Her feet and legs, nothing. Her feet and legs and fingered pussy, nothing. Her feet and legs and fingered pussy and torso, and his neck twitched and he came all over poor Amy. He started the other way round. Hair, nothing. Hair and face, and his neck twitched and his poor jimmy was red raw but had to go again. Poor Amy got another load. It was different every time. Sometimes the face was all that was needed to set him off. Sometimes he’d look at ¾ of a woman before he’d be forced into beating off. He couldn’t figure out which single variable to change. It must be psychological. His cock was bleeding and his hand had blisters. Forget it!
Another day, another experiment. Nick got a transsexual adult magazine. Shemales didn’t set him off but if he cut out the cock and took a glance at the cockless shemale, jimmy was up and being worked.. Guys with pussies didn’t set him off, no matter which part he looked at. Nick was extremely relieved. Phone calls sent the neck twitching but the radio was o.k. Nick concluded that his was definitely a mental problem. He thought,
Due to lack of consistency, it must be all in my head. I can control it. All I need to do is think right. Ill just forget about it. I’ll figure it out!
He never could figure it out and he soon started on mere survival. He bought some posters, threw his phone out the window and started drinking whilst writing poetry. Two years later he was in bed, having recently beat off to the image of Ms Parks, who sat on her bus, in the kitchen.
As Nick lay in bed an older women took a key and unlocked Nick’s door. She came in. She was old. She was surprised that the light was on. She was dressed very elegantly and held her little bag close to her chest as she looked around. It was a room. On one side, it had a couch and a TV. On the other side, there was a small kitchen area and to the left of the small kitchen area were two small rooms with no doors. In one room there was a shower and toilet. In the other room there was a single bed with a sleeping Greek on top of it. The place was very clean but it smelled funny. She looked at Nick asleep in his bed. She sat on the couch and took out a book from her bag. She read her book and waited for Nick to wake up. She was Nick’s mother.
Nick’s mother heard her son moving. She put her book in her bag. She stood up and faced the bedroom. It was a very early Thursday morning. Her naked son walked out the bedroom and into the bathroom. He splashed his face with water. He said ‘good morning’ to Ali. His mother spoke,
“Did you just say ‘good morning’ to meee Nicolas”?
Her son fell to the ground and gave a little scream. His mother watched as he started furiously masturbating in the bathroom. He was screaming louder now and crying and his eyes were shut.
“Get the fuck out of here!!”
“What are you doing?? I wont go anywhere so you better stop that right now”
“MOM PLEASE! GET OUT. Ill call you later but right now please GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!
“With what phone will you call me? No. I’m staying. Your father agrees with me, we’re going to get you help. I’ve called…”
Nick the Greek stopped listening. Some of his cum had gone onto the bathroom floor. He climbed into the bathtub. He held his cum-filled palms over his ears and closed his eyes tightly. He hummed a tune. It was by Cat Stevens. And he cried. His mother walked to where the door would be. She looked at her son and felt such pity. She went to the kitchen with plans to make a coffee. The counter had Nick’s cum all over it. There were no cups in the first cupboard, just a poster of some black lady. She ripped it off the wall and threw it in the bin.
“What man doesn’t have cups Nicolas? I’m sorry but I’ve been so worried. When you’re better I’ll get you lots of cups”
She didn't search any more of the kitchen. She went to the window and looked at her car. She noticed a little spider. Nick was at the bathroom doorframe. He shouted,
“MOM. IT’S VERY IMPORTANT THAT I DON’T SEE OR HEAR YOU AT THIS MOMENT. I’m bleeding pretty bad. YOU NEED TO LISTEN. GET THE FUCK OUT MY HOUSE OR IM GOING TO FUCKING MURDER YOU.”
Nick’s mother picked up a newspaper and swatted the poor bastard of a spider. Then she went over to her son and ripped his hands from his ears and screamed,
“I thought you were dead you selfish little man. Your father hired a professional to find you and the he told us that you were crazy and never left your house. What’s brought on this behaviour Nickolas? Please talk to me! We don't have much time”
Nick’s hand automatically went for his cock and he rushed back into the bathtub. He cried and screamed so loud. His mother let out a tear and headed for the front door. She said some words but Nick the Greek didn’t hear. She left his front door wide open.
She was gone. Nick stood up and applied a bandage to his bleeding cock. He came out the bathroom and looked around. She was gone. He noticed that Achilles and Rosa had been murdered.
“NO!!! NO no no no no!! ACHILLES! I’m sorry. FUCKING BITCH! NO NO NO. I had it set up. Achilles I’m so sorry. AHHH No no no. FUCK!”
He cried and cried and then he heard steps from the outside hall. Someone was coming into his shithole bedsit. He looked over at the door. A little girl wondered in.
“Are you O.K.? You’re screaming an awful lot. Do you need a doctor? My mum’s a nurse who fixes dogs and cats but not flies cause I stood on one and she couldn't do anything. and my dad-“
The little girl was cut off by fear as Nick ran towards her shouting, “Close the door!”
Just in front of her, Nick fell to the floor. One arm fighting the other. He was pulling at his bloody limp dick and screaming in pain. The little girl was somewhat fascinated by the scene but eventually thought it her duty to scream. Her mother rushed over and then SHE screamed and Nick heard and cried some more. He shouted for them all to get out but couldn’t move from the pain and the beating off. Then, the little girl’s father was there. The father screamed for the women to leave and then he kicked Nick in the face. He demanded Nick to stop masturbating. He ordered it. Nick just lay there and bled and furiously pulled on poor bloody jimmy. After a few hits he was half unconscious. Before the father killed him the police and ambulance crew were there. Nick’s mother had called them. The police told the medics to wait downstairs,
“We’ll bring him down. He’s a dangerous psychopath. He is mental”
The father told the police that he had caught this son of a bitch beating off in front of his daughter. They all knocked him around a bit more. Then, they carried Nick the Greek down the stairs, naked and all, to the ambulance. He could just about see the female medic standing over him. He finally came but there was hardly any cum. Mostly blood. His hand went floppy and he passed out.
The hot medic laughed her little ass off, “Jesus. I never saw a man go at it like that after such a beating. You were determined to finish huh? Ha-ha. A little admirable. Well, they beat you good. But nothing that wont heal. I’m a little worried about this though. Your dick looks like you’ve worked it with a tin opener. Just get some rest…WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY, DAN? YEAH, HE’S STABLE…. WELL… HE MAY BE DANGEROUS BUT HE’S OUT COLD…. and don’t worry Mr… uh… HEY DAN, WHAT’S THIS GUY’S NAME ANYWAY??... “
“JESUS SHARON, I DUNNO. HE LOOKS LIKE A PAKI TO ME. LET ME CHECK THE RUNNING SHEET… NICKOLI PROPOLIS. ”
“OH… Well Nickoli, you just rest and we’ll get your body sorted out… As for your mind… your mother and a head doctor are both waiting for you at the hospital.”