Good Riddance

It's impossible to hide a hard-on in a checkout line. You are suddenly the very interesting center of the room, whether you are or not. I could have been invisible a few minutes ago, but now I can feel everyones' eyes on me, well a part of me anyway. "Rising to the occasion" must have rendered my shy camouflage inoperable.
I hear a sound from the rear that I am positive must have come from another dimension, due to nothing on earth capable of voicing such horror. The old man behind me occupying the electric wheelchair and sporting a bright red "Veterans of something or other" hat is whooping at me in some unknown language he must have picked up in... wherever. I hear him muttering "At least your not one of those flaming faggots from California" in between bouts of coughing and the strange tone-deaf bird sounds. I guess that's his approval of the object of my desires. I'm not sure that makes me feel any better.
Not knowing what to make of that, I quickly turn around to see that the woman that was in front of me in line is no longer placing her items on the conveyor belt. She's staring, wide-eyed, at my crotch and holding her hands over her two little girls' eyes, trying unsuccessfully to save their innocent childhood from me. I don't think they are as naive as she seems to think. They are giggling as they peek at me from behind her fingers and seem to know more about what's going on than even I do.
I have to bring this situation back under control before I get killed by a soccer-mom. I force myself to look anywhere else. You ever wonder what's above the false ceilings in some of these places? Neither have I, but I am trying as hard as I can to start. Stare at the conveyor belt. Nothing remotely seductive about the conveyor belt, right? Wrong. The belt goes in one direction. Towards her. The Ultimate Sex Goddess Cashier of my dreams. Again, my eyes crawl up her body. My vision quickly settles on her cleavage as the main stay of its tour, but this doesn't mean that my brain completely skipped the formless blue apron and the possibilities it could be hiding. I think her bra is pink. If you stare at the blouse long enough, it becomes transparent. Kind of like one of those magic eye puzzles that only reveals itself after the person inspecting loses all sanity. My eyes linger on her lips. I picture myself kissing her but it doesn't last long. I'm not sure romance is what I want with this girl. Perhaps a better use of our short time together would be spent in a quick estimate of her potential as a soul-mate? That's probably more morally rewarding than debauching her madonna-like body with my mind.
I think her cherub face could fool most people into thinking she is actually happy. I, however am quick enough to see that her ignorance merely prevents her from being smart enough to be depressed. There is one thing that gives her stupidity away. Her eyes. What is there to say about her eyes? I think they are my favorite part. If you look hard enough into her eyes you see directly through to the back of her skull. Nothing, absolutely nothing in there. Her mind is as vacant as the family photo-album of an orphan. Hers is the kind of brain you could wrap around your little finger. Thinking about the relative ease in which I could make her love me gets me harder than dreaming about her body. This girl would do anything I want her to.
I have to stop. My thoughts cannot be allowed to continue. I have no doubt that if anyone were to hear my feelings, they would be mildly appalled. This is not why I must not continue down this path. As morally repugnant as my honesty may be, I assure you that every man feels this way. They hide behind their contrived sensitive demeanors, but they are the same as I am in this regard. I might lie and charm my way into this girl's pants if I was so inclined but I wouldn't lie to myself to make it seem alright. I speak for the entire male community when I say that we all know exactly what we want and almost all of us know exactly what to say in order to get it. I'm not going to pretend to know if a woman is similarly deceptive (although I have my suspicions) because it already leaves a bad enough taste in my mouth to pretend to know how a man thinks. No, the reason I must stop thinking about this woman is because of a feeling that I don't think is shared by the rest of the gender.
The woman in front of me has, by this time, finished paying for her merchandise. She has her back to me but I can see her putting her wallet into a monstrous whale of a purse. Her two daughters are still giggling and staring at my unmentionable (Which has not receded one bit. Kind of impressive actually.). I would wave at them but the mother's purse is big enough to conceal some kind of artillery cannon so I don't think I will take any more chances. She zips up her blackhole and slams it back into her cart. I honestly think I hear the wheels groan in protest from the weight. What in hell do women carry in those things? Soccer-mom gathers up the rest of her groceries and pushes the cart out of my life. I think she's making a point not to look at me but her girls are still laughing it up. I really hope they both grow out of the giggles. Men are for the most part very self-conscious about their size and might take it the wrong way if a woman broke into a hysterical fit when they disrobed.
It's finally my turn. I place my item on the belt and move forward to stand in front of my fixation of the moment. Mesmerized by her pouty lips, my brain barely registers the loud beep and the corresponding rustling of an item going into a plastic bag that signals my move in the dance of consumerism. Her glossy dull eyes lock onto my own and I see her blank expression. Could she really be oblivious to the situation that her "Raphael-like" features had put me in? My previous observation about the size of her brain must have been pretty accurate.
As I reach down into my pocket for my wallet, I catch a glimpse of something that changes everything. A bead of sweat is slowly making its way down her perfect forehead. My world turns upside-down.
My blood flow stops in that instant. The air ceases to fill my lungs. It feels like existence itself freezes. Some part of my mind that is keeping track of these things notes that the old man behind me stops mumbling and the constant flow of traffic through the store screeches to a halt. Time itself stops just to crystallize that one droplet of perspiration and embed it into my psyche. I can feel the lust draining from my body as I stare at her. Every image that my mind's eye has conjured up changes into something else. I wish they would disappear but they don't. Every pleasurable sensation I might have ever experienced with this girl is washed away with that one drop of sweat.
Look at this whore. Is this where she solicits her customers? Right here in the check-out line? I'm staring at her cleavage again but all I feel is disgust. There should be a law to make sluts like her wear properly covering clothing. Should the rest of the world really be subjected to her shameless lack of decency?
She almost had me. That's the scary thing. A few more moments of weakness and I would have betrayed myself again. This conniving little minx is very good at what she does. A giant pit opens in my stomach when I think of the things I would have done with this girl. I am perched upon the precipice of the doom I swore away.
I struggle to bring my wallet out of my pocket. My hand is competing for space with an erection that will not go away. I no longer care if anyone sees. It signifies something else for me now and only serves to fuel my anger.
I slide some bills across the check writing platform. She turns to get change from the register and my eyes bore holes into the back of her head. I reach impatiently for my bag. I could care less about the money. I need to get out of here right now. I replace my wallet in my pocket and begin to walk away when she makes the worst move she could have.
"Sir!" she calls out excitedly. I turn around glaring at her. "You forgot your change" she tells me cheerfully. I hold out my hand for the money and I feel her skin brushing against mine when she gives it to me. Her tone shifts a bit to seem inquisitive "Do I know you from somewhere?"
I'm looking at her face right now. I swear she just batted her eyelashes at me. Her hands move up to her face and push her hair behind her ears. It must be some kind of nervous tic.
"I think not" I reply curtly. She starts again "Oh, I thought I recognized you. I'm sorry. Are you new in town? I could.. show you around." Her eyebrows furrow at my lack of enthusiasm. "If you're interested" she quickly adds.
I could destroy this presumptuous little bitch. I know what she wants. I can see images in the back of my head of us tonight. Her naked body is thrusting against mine in some pitiful effort to use me as much I as use her. I can smell her perfume mixed with sweat and various other unpleasant aromas that I'm sure no one has to be reminded of. I can taste her on my tongue and it burns like bile. There's something else there she wouldn't like. I can hear her scream. I can see the bloodstains that will be all but impossible to wash away. I can feel the punishments given for a life she never even tried to shy away from and a life half of me is too weak to deny. I know the absolute nothing that the end would bring. In death we would mean even less than we did in life. There's no other way. I deserve it just as much as she does. My stomach retches with disgust from my desires. I am no different than anyone else.
Full of lust. Full of disgust. Full of hate. And then it ends. Just like it always does. I am left standing all alone in the middle of a fancy grocery store. The cashier has gone back to her job, taking care of the man that was behind me. Customers walk by, busy with their full lives. The world continues. I am invisible again.
All I want is to sleep. My eyes burn with exhaustion and barely contained tears that well up without any thought at all. I don't want to hurt anyone. I want to go home. I want someone to hold me and tell me that everything is going to be alright. I want to be done with all of these feelings I can't control. I want so badly for someone to help me. The world isn't ever what you want it to be. Clutching the bag to my chest, I turn around and walk out the door.
Everything happening around me seems so far away. I can feel the sunlight buffeting my skin with heat. It's the kind of warmth that makes you close your eyes and let your thoughts drift away. My body goes through the robot motions of getting in the vehicle and making its way home. My mind is no longer in control.
What did I almost do? Is there no decent part of me? All I am is hate, anger and indifference. How could someone like me love themselves, let alone anyone else? Even now as I make my way down the street, my eyes seek out everyone in the passing cars and I am full of judgement. The serious business-men in their economy cars on their way to and from work. Driving themselves closer to death, one mile at a time. The aging house-wives with the mini-van full of screaming kids. From this distance you can still make out the dark circles under her eyes from never-ending stress that she tries to cover up with make-up. Does she honestly get any satisfaction from her life? What about the teenagers driving endlessly up and down the streets in sports cars that mommy and daddy buy for them? They engage daily in some exhaustingly long and pointless social exercise with no clear goal. Do they get some sense of fulfillment from that?
Who am I to judge? Do I have things so much more in hand? There is not one thing in my life that I feel good about, and I hate everyone else because they are different. Who the fuck would want to live the way I do? I don't think I would survive looking at myself the way I look at other people. For every fault they possess that I magnify in my mind, I have ten. I envy everyone.
I don't want to hurt anyone. I don't want to think the things I do. I am disgusted with myself.
I pull into the driveway and turn off my car. My body sags back into the seat and I lay my head forward onto the steering wheel. I peer over at the bag laying on the passenger seat. There really is no other way that I can see. It's not that I want to do this. Call it an act of survival. I really don't think I will be around for very much longer if I don't take action.
Sighing to myself, I grab the bag and get out of the car. There is a lot of people outside today. Pretty weather and everyone seems to be enjoying it. I can hear kids laughing and playing in the street. My nose picks up the scents of freshly cut grass and meat cooking somewhere. I can imagine families ands friends sitting down to a nice meal in their backyards, everyone having a good time. No one sees me. My anti-social armor is in full working condition right now. I make my way to my house.
The chill of air conditioned darkness greets me when I open the door. I step inside and seal myself away from the happy landscape and the unwelcome thoughts it brings. My mind is currently detached from the world. This cold and aloof state is the only time I can trust myself to not make a scene and do what needs to be done instead of what I want to do. I only wish my protection was a bit stronger and didn't crumble into raw emotion that I can't begin to sort out whenever a pretty girl happened to smile at me.
No more of this. I am so fucking tired of the constant whining that I put myself through over and over again. Am I the only person in the world with issues? You would think so to listen to me. Solve the problem and be done with it.
In the kitchen I have everything ready. The vice is clamped to the edge of the table. I have a towel draped over the surface and another ready to try and keep the bloodflow to a minimum if at all possible. Hammer and machete are laying on the counter, ready to do the deed. I take the knife sharpener that I bought at the store out of its bag. Can you believe machetes don't come sharpened? What do they expect you to do with a dull machete? Picking up the blade, I start to scrape it through the slot on the sharpener. The sound of metal screeching rips its way into my brain. I wonder what the sound of cutting flesh will be like.
The pale flourescent light sickly illuminates my thoughts, gruesome as they are. This has to be quick. I don't know how much longer I have before I lose my nerve. My whole life is going to change. I think I will finally be free. It has to be sharp. I don't want to have to cut more than one time, but I will do what I have to. This isn't the kind of job that you want to leave halfway finished.
A few minutes of grinding metal and I think I am ready. I find the phone and dial 9-1-1. All that I have to do is press the "send" button and help will be on the way. If I stay conscious I guess. I undress quickly and for a few seconds I think shamefully about the emergency workers finding me naked. I comfort myself with the thought that I won't have anything to be modest about in a couple of minutes.
It's called a "penectomy". Apparently I am not the only person that seeks relief in this way. I have done a bit of research and I know that I stand a good chance of living as long as I get help quickly. I don't want to die. I want to live.
The vice is cold touching my flesh but I won't feel it much longer. I crank it tight around my penis and take a deep breath. I'm almost done. Shakingly I pick up the knife and grip it tight in my right hand. Everything seems surreal and the only thing keeping me from totally drifting away is the cold unrelenting metal.
Smiling, I raise my hand and bring the blade down with a sure force that I have never known. I have a sense of doing the right thing enter my head as I feel the metal entering my skin. My first instinct is to pull the knife back but it's imbedded too deeply in the table. I can't make it budge. The red filling my vision and my kitchen and the immense pain I can't begin to describe aren't enough to overshadow the first good feeling I have ever had. It's done.
I press the spare towel as hard as I can against my waist and press "send" on my phone. I'm staring at the hammer as I tell them my address and calmly ask them to send help as quickly as possible. There's just one last thing to do.
I allow anger to fill me one last time as I think about my whole life spent at the mercy of this thing that never was a part of me. I grab the hammer and smash my old self into nothingness. I cannot allow it to be reattached. Blood and ichor covers my house and myself but I feel cleaner than I ever have before.
I'm sitting on the floor of my living room when they find me. A red pool is collecting around me. A smile forms on my lips when I see that one of the people helping me is a very pretty lady. I feel absolutely nothing towards her. My last thought as I fade away is that everything is going to be alright.