A Million Versions of Right (2 page)

The next day at school was full of braggadocio on my part. Sure, I had bragged about my wet dream prowess before but this was the first time I had actually experienced a wet dream to back it up. I boasted loudly and proudly to all and sundry. Quizzical stares assailed me from the chums and wags as my enthusiasm was in direct contrast to my previous, untrue boasts. I’m still not sure whether two and two was ever successfully put together, but that is by the by.

I was determined to masturbate myself into a gooey stupor upon my arrival home. My erection had been a barely tamed beast all day. I felt it could sense the possibilities. Tentatively, yet excitedly, I threw myself on the bed and went to work. I clung to myself ever so tightly as I jerked and pulled the last three years of repression away. The moment of climax was a terrifying yet brilliant one. There was that split second where I feared the worst but the worst simply didn’t come. Instead I erupted all over myself in pure ecstasy. The tiler, for whatever reason, had been vanquished from my loins.

This was my ticket to pubescent paradise. My life became a dizzy blur of climax and seminal fluid. No tiler, no problems. It wasn’t until my first real sexual encounter some years later that the tiler reappeared and caused all manner of problems for me and my ill-fated sexual partner.

* * * * *

I met her in crying class. She was struggling with the basic methodology involved in the use of crying ribbons. I approached her with pure intentions, failing at the time to notice her exquisite beauty. She sat pathetically with a second generation beginners ribbon hanging lifeless from her right eye. I asked her if she needed help. She accepted. Her acceptance revealed a shame in her voice. I found the display of shame endearing.

I gently tugged on the ribbon, being careful not to irritate her eyeball. The ribbon slipped out and her eyes blinked frantically, as if shaking out the cobwebs. ‘Ribbon Jitters’ they were called according to the literature. We got to talking. There was a mutual affection and it wasn’t long before we were what the other wags called an ‘item’.

Sexual intercourse was the inevitable conclusion of our trajectory. Our affection had grown rather deep and the ‘love’ word had been used on more than one occasion. As it happened, the intercourse was a result of passionate spontaneity. My clockwork father was out for the night at a ‘dreary old function.’ We were alone in my room discussing matters of interest. The conversation arrived at the topic of nipple wheeze. We lost ourselves in passion.

I was blissfully inside her before I could fully comprehend my actions. Our awkward movements had a resonance of innocence that was purity embodied. As is common during one’s first sexual encounter, it was all over relatively quickly. The moment of climax was problematic. For the first time in years, I felt the familiar discomfort as my urethra stretched beyond reasonable limits. My deposit was a treacherous one. It quickly became apparent that I had just ejaculated another moustachioed tiler, only this time into my sweetheart.

* * * * *

I had pulled out too late. It was post-coital devastation of a most unusual kind. I could detect the look of concerned confusion in my sweetheart’s eyes. I owned up almost immediately. I explained in detail about the tiler and the high probability that he was now residing somewhere in her vaginal tunnel. Her tears flowed endlessly. Between sobs I was implored get it out at any cost. My efforts to calm her down via Rastafarian impersonation were an instant failure. I asked her to wait while I sought out a torch to shine directly up her region. Although I was gone mere seconds, I’m sure it felt like hours to my poor little sweetheart, as she sobbed wretchedly. Coils of smoke were floating from between her legs, filling the room with the scent of tobacco. I requested my sweetheart remain deathly still, as it appeared the tiler inside her was smoking a cigarette. She fanned at the smoke as it attacked her pretty face. I asked her to part her vaginal walls, which she did in a surprisingly ladylike way. I shone my torch deep within her, searching out the moist crevasses. I could just make out what appeared to be a little hand, waving about a cigarette like some form of diva. I informed my sweetheart that I could see him and she again implored me to hurry. With a long-handled spoon, I scraped about inside her, trying to ensnare the tiler. He was definitely privy to my intrusion as he dodged about, attempting to find sanctuary within the limited space available. Above me, my sweetheart squealed in a discomfort that I’m sure she viewed as pain. The real pain - unfortunately - was soon to come. As if the tiler was aware of the love I felt for my sweetheart he began to stab at her insides. I felt every little stab and slash. Her squeals of agony were intensified. I felt helpless as I desperately reached for the horrid little man. I did eventually manage to get his kicking body out but I tore my sweetheart up rather badly in the process.

With the bastard tiler in my tight grip, I surveyed the scene. Bits of my poor little sweetheart seemed everywhere around the room. Needless to say, my carpet was sodden. My stony gaze returned to the squirming, little tiler in my hand, the source of so much misery in my life. My first sexual experience had concluded with the death of my first true love. I felt worthless.

My mind began to occupy itself with thoughts of the tiler and what I should do with him. I was at quite a loss, until I remembered the previous actions of my father. That day, laying on the floor, covered in tiles, my father had indeed come to the rescue. His actions were so sure. He did what he did with barely a thought and it had worked.
One thing you should know son, is that when faced with a situation such as yours, when you ejaculate something untoward, you should respond in a manner that is at least equally as untoward as the ejaculate.
These were the strange words my father had said. With conviction I slid the moustachioed tiler into my tight anus.

* * * * *

The tiler’s presence was by no means muted. I could feel every movement as he writhed about my inner workings. A profound sense of discomfort overwhelmed my being, as I contemplated the purpose of my actions. On top of the discomfort was the feeling that my bowel tract was at that very moment being tiled. Just how long the tiler was to remain inside me, I didn't know. The first few minutes had been extremely unpleasant and I shuddered at the possibility that the fate which had befallen me was a permanent one. How was I to defecate or even walk appropriately, given the constant clench required to keep the wretched tiler inside? Clearly I needed to consult my father in the matter, which is precisely what I did.

I awkwardly walked toward my father in a style that could best be described as a blimey tortoise. He was in his sitting chair watching his stories. I wasn't aware of my father's tele-visual tastes but the show seemed especially unusual. There was a man on the screen among the shrubbery, and the hat he was wearing was clearly incorrect. In a mild panic, I averted my gaze. My father looked up at me, examining my blood spangled body. Rather than a shocked or horrified reaction he simply nodded knowingly with a degree of genuine warmth that momentarily elevated me from my emotional doldrums I had been lost within. Explaining the situation in detail, with several well-timed points of the finger toward my backside the gist was understood completely. He informed me that although
he
had chosen to dispose of the tiler via his anus, it wasn't necessarily a path that I should take. He looked me square in the eye and repeated something that will resonate within me for the rest of my life:

"There are a million versions of right, son."

Those were his exact words. They circulated throughout my mind as I tried to grasp their import.

I spent a great many weeks with the tiler inside me as I couldn't find any alternative solutions to my woe. My precarious bowel movements were infused with miniature tiles and cigarette butts. On the odd occasions where my mind wasn’t obsessed with the beast inside me, I mourned my sweetheart. I had completely stopped attending classes and accepting guests into my home.

These were dark days as I retreated more and more within myself, almost shunning the reality of the world around me. My father’s words were still but an unbreakable cipher in my mind. Any efforts made to convince my father to expand upon his statement were met with a solemn shake of the head and inexplicable gesticulation.

Descending deeper into a private hell I beat upon walls with bare fists and slapped my weeping rump, trying to knock the tiler about. He remained very much alive inside me, assumedly subsisting on a back pocket full of never ending sandwiches and god knows what other edibles.

When an unfortunate situation removes all vigour from life there comes a time when you must seek a conclusion. It appeared as though having the tiler inside me simply wasn't working out as I’d planned. My bowels were pregnant with a life that irritated me to a completely unreasonable degree. After many sleepless nights, I finally arrived at the decision it was time for the tiler to go. I simply couldn't tolerate his presence anymore. He had ruined all that was worthwhile about my life and if
it
didn't end soon I feared my life would.

The bowel movement was dramatic in the worst possible way. Based on the sensation of my anal stretch and tear, I was sure the tiler had grown in size. Sprays of gassy blood painted the toilet bowl murky red. Tiny tiles shattered upon impact with the porcelain. Stools of the most improbable shapes, colours and consistencies rocketed from my tiny hell hole. Then there was the smell! The fetid, miasmic stench engulfed the toilet room. I felt as if caught in a death tempest.

Eventually, with much pain and applied pressure, the object of my woe slowly began to slide out of me. Bloody flatulence and splatterings of faecal inhumanities accompanied its exit from my worn and torn body. When I thought the pain could get no more severe I finally felt the tiler exit me completely and drop into the toilet stew with a mighty splash. I sat upon the toilet for upwards of an hour as I tried to assimilate the intense pain and fatigue I was feeling.

When I had sufficiently recovered, it dawned on me that I could hear no sound whatsoever coming from the toilet bowl. I expected to hear the angry tiler splashing around, fighting for breath and swearing emphatically in my general direction. I tuned in closely to the minutiae of sound within the room. I concentrated so deeply that I heard the blood rushing through my veins but still, no thrashing, splashing tiler.
Could it be true? Was the tiler dead
? I was almost too scared to look. I had to psyche myself into it. I slowly stood up with my pants still around my ankles and stared hard into the revolting bowl. Nestled within the grisly muck, exactly where I would have expected to find the tiler, I found something else; something that filled me with immense concern. If my eyes weren't deceiving me, instead of the tiler’s body, all I could see was a rather large black stapler!

* * * * *

My mind was in cartwheels of wretched confusion. I immediately picked up the stapler, completely unaware I was subjecting my hand to pure filth. I held the stapler up, studying it. Toilet juice ran down my arm. I was far too preoccupied with the reality of the stapler to be overly concerned. Before I knew it, I had entered into tiny mental spasms. I ran from the toilet room, stapler in hand, arms flailing, pants still at my ankles. A wall, which I swear should not have been there, eventually cut short my little episode by knocking me out cold.

I awoke to my father standing over me, staring down, face full of concern. I was covered in blood, tiles, faecal matter and cigarette butts. The stapler was still firmly in my grip. Once again my father had found me in an unfortunate situation with my genitals exposed. Through a daze of concussion, I relayed the events which had just occurred. He nodded, as if completely unsurprised by my experience. He helped me up into a chair, looked hard at me and simply said, "Have you tried the stapler yet?"

I watched him walk away, taking his position back in front of the television. I sat for a while, once again contemplating my father's words. Everything appeared so simple to him. Perhaps the truth really was that simple. Perhaps I had let this whole situation work me up into a ball of neurosis for nothing.

I showered thoroughly, scouring every speck of my body several times over until I felt sufficiently clean. The stapler had been soaking in a cleaning solution that I’d purchased from a discount balm outlet. By the time I was dried off and changed, it too was sufficiently clean. I took it with me into my bedroom and sat it on the desk. I ruminated for a while before I worked up the gumption to test its functionality. I squared a short stack of loose paper and readied the stapler for work. The result was an utter failure. There were roughly ten sheets in the paper stack and the staple barely penetrated the first couple. I kept subtracting sheets, seeking the threshold. As it turned out, the threshold was only three and even this appeared a struggle for the bowel stapler. This was the tiler all over again, I could sense it. He had seen fit to make my life unpleasant from the first moment I ejaculated him all those years ago. I didn't know if he had turned himself into the stapler, or whether it was a naturally occurring phenomenon but it fit his modus operandi to a tee. I cursed his wretched name. I picked up the wretched stapler and motioned to hurl it against a wall. I stopped. I couldn't bring myself to do it. I placed it back on the desk, glared at it, cursed the tiler once more and finally sought refuge in my bed. I fell asleep almost instantly with a conviction to never have an orgasm again.