This is not exactly what happened, though. I didn't get it at first, this turn of events, ("reversal," to intimi). I left the room in complete desperation, stumbled into the bedroom, sat down on the bed, still crying. It was when I felt his touch on my shoulder, Alex's touch, that I realized my survival at the hands of the washed-up scriptwriter.
|John F. Kennedy Jr.|
So now we sit on my bed, next to each other. I really need to pee. I didn't go to the bathroom since when? Perhaps I hit the urinal at the Blue Moon, I don't remember. In the hospital, I didn't dare to ask for the men's room, I felt that the emergency receptionist felt that I had to be instantaneously available for the bad news, like you can't miss the moment that they fish John-John out of the water, you remember, you may be too young for this, when the hottest scion of the Kennedy dynasty, who had just saluted the coffin of his presidential father at the tender age of three, had gone missing together with his wife and airplane, and we were watching CNN, and were shown nothing but a beach (plus the sea), for hours, and the anchor tried to keep us entertained (ratings), but not too much (propriety), for hours, and it was Search & Rescue (John-John, by now, had disappeared for 18 hours or so, supposedly here, in the sea off Martha's Vineyard, because pieces of his luggage had already been retrieved, here), so we are watching S&R ("search and rescue"), the beach, the sea, bright sunshine, the anchor bubbling haltingly, for hours, and then, suddenly, without prior warning (they could have warned us that the coast guard is now changing from S&R to a more somber recovery mode), suddenly the anchor's face reddens, and he announces that the rescue mode has switched from S&R to this more somber mode --- you were glued to the screen, you couldn't miss that moment, your bladder be damned. “I need to pee,” I say.
"I need to pee, too," Alex says. We trot to the bathroom. We're buddies now, serious sex pals, we will fuck together, we will pee together. I lower my pants. It's not that I really have an erection, but my ding-dong is not at rest. Alex lowers his pants as well, and my ding-dong does ding. Alex stands at a ninety-degree angle to me over the same john, my penis stands a 45 degree angle above the floor, ca. 20 degrees in erection country. I cannot pee. His semi-erection is milder at a more modest 35 degrees (there was no ding), but he can't pee either. Why can't you pee with an erection?
Nothing happens. Alex laughs. "We're in a sexual response cycle," he says, "and we've already entered the excitement phase, with our genitals experiencing vasocongestion. The penis is a pendulous organ that swells when blood fills its principal tissues, in particular the corpus cavernosa and the corpus spongiosum, cavernous, spongy structures that expand under blood pressure. Expanding, they exert pressure on the urethea, which sends messages to the internal sphincter of the bladder to that effect, informing it of its encumbrance. The sphicter closes. You can't will the internal sphincter, it's autonomous. That's why you stand there. And me, or I."
|Bob Bienpensant: Vasocongestion|
"What can we do about it," I ask like a little brother, "I have to pee."
"The internal sphincter is controlled by an autonomous part of the brain. But this part reacts to contexts, as any well-designed, autonomous agent does. So you have to change the context. Don't think sexual arousal. Think something absolutely detumescent."
"What's your worst nightmare?"
"A faculty meeting. A meeting of the faculty of my department."
"You mean you're a professor?"
"Well," I say, "I teach at SSC, Southern Georgia College, I teach French."
"I know that place, in Greensborough, I had a fling with a student. I had to drop him off, unseen, behind the Buckthorn bushes, hush hush, touch and go."
"Yes, the place is still in the closet, but that's the least of its problems."
"Elaborate," he says, "it'll help."
"For starters, it's a hippocampus, you may have realized."
"Hippocampus? That's another part of the brain, involved with memory."
"I mean, the campus crawls with hippos; obesity rules the college sea."
"Obesity rules the college sea," he repeats. The words melt on his tongue, sort of.
"You get the gist."
"And you are a professor."
There I stand, my left hand still embracing my pendulous tumescence, unable to relieve myself, and I'm lectured on mixed metaphors.
"You better release your dick, let it swing freely," Alex says, "the swelling is sensitive to direct manual stimulation, that's how masturbation works."
I release the dinger. He releases his dinger in sympathy. Both dingers are now swinging freely in bathroom space, and there would be the suggestion of some rhythm, were it not for the fact that his penis is more pendulous than mine. Alex studies both choppers carefully with his green eyes. "You'll have to continue bit," he says, "tell us more about the campus."
"It doesn't work," I say.
"Well," he answers, "the thought of rotund academic disciples may stimulate the pervert in you."
"Your detumescence isn't happening either," I'm saying, but it's not true. His pendulous organ is quite pendulous now.
"Wait," he says, resumes manual control of his pecker, and starts to pee. A thin urine jet steadies quickly into a healthy gush.
He's proud of it, as if this were Brokeback Mountain. I'm not into pee sex at all, I don't even like watching this, in public toilets, when I really have to pee, I'm always seeking the urinal away from the crowd, so this helps, detumescence strikes, and I can pee again, although not as convincingly as the alpha dog does. But we're done in the bathroom.