Onanistic Sessions II
It was summer and my cortex-eating school was finally over. Two months of spiritual freedom was spread before me and I was ready to rock. Or should I say “Beat off”? Summertime had more masturbation than any other season of the year and things were firing up pretty easy. The neighborhood park was filled with hot babes, mini skirts, water balloon fights with wet T-shirts, boob grabbing and a scent of flirtation was flooding the dry city air. Of course, I was sitting alone under a eucalyptus tree being loathsome as ever…watching them.
The humans didn’t want me in their park. I was laughed at and occasionally I had to block flying rocks with my eye sockets. It was fun fun fun but I didn’t care. No sirree. Because my Playboys were on a boat, stranded on an olive field in that entirely different story… which is this one.
First came the “sowing”.
My little brother and I were a team. We were destined to clear the filth off the newsstands and, goddamn it, we did it. We were snitching more than 20 new pornos a week and my personal stash rose effortlessly to two hundred. And August was still “green”.
Our scheme was bullet-proof… We rode our bikes seekingly, targeted a kiosk or shop with an outdoors fridge, scanned for what we liked and then we worked the place. My job was to go inside and distract the owner with stupid questions and whatnot, while my brother was outside pretending to read comics when in fact he was waiting for the right time to act. As soon as the owner’s scrutinous glance was diverted by my shenanigans, my brother would grab the magazines, let them drop unsuspiciously to the floor and then tuck them under the heavy ice-cream fridge with slight kicks. When he was done, he would shout something like: “We’re coming mom” and we would leave.
Then came the “reaping”.
When the kiosk was closed, we returned to claim our loot. The scheme run like a well-oiled dildo (it means awesomely). If they caught us we were not exactly stealing, we were just kicking it under the fridge from fear: “I panicked sir; it’s the truth sir, when that old lady caught me looking at dirty pictures I dropped it and kicked it under there. I didn’t know what else to do. I got scared”. And if they caught us with our arms stacked underneath the fridge, gathering our ”seeds” we would say: “We just saw it there sir, we didn’t know what it was until after. It wasn’t us who put it there”... We were unstoppable and we knew it.
Last came the “garnering”.
Near our house was a fenced olive field with a bunch of abandoned fishing boats of all colours. We called it The Boat-cemetery and it was therein we kept our plunder. Every afternoon we climbed the fence, disregarded the Beware Dog sign and hid in the cabins to masturbate like the gentlemen we were.
I used to keep them ordered in my father’s wooden cigar boxes and oftentimes I didn’t even wait for them to empty. I just stood over the toilet bowl and crumbled the last cigars over the water. Then flushed. Then got pummelled with a shovel. In my little mind they were as precious as babies (made of gold, not of flesh) and in an immediate need of a dry and caring environment.
So one day I went there alone to check on my babies. I went in my boat from a hole in the main body and through a hatch I climbed in the cabin. I sat cross-legged on the floor and placed my ‘favourites’ box on my lap. I opened it slowly and took out the magnificent seven. While in the process of popping a fairly huge boner a screeching sound was heard and my nails penetrated through the magazine cover. SHIT! A second later a hairy arm raised the hatch and a rugged head craned in.
“What are you doing in my boat?” said the man through his thick moustache.
“EEeeeerrr… I just found them here. Are they yours? They’re not mine”
“No they’re not. What are you doing here?”
“Nothing!”
He pauses.
“Are these yours?” continued the man and pointed the seven with his eyes.
“No no. I was just passing from here and saw the boats and then found these”
“You were just passing eh?”
“Yes. I’ll go home now”
“Where do you live?”
Terror overwhelmed me.
“Near here”
“Where exactly?!!” persisted the man gravely. I couldn’t think straight enough to lie so I spilled my guts.
“ 11 Kronou Street. In ‘60 Skales’ territory, if you know Strovolos. It’s the house with the thick hedge on the corner. Near Kasou street.”
“Ok,” said the man “now go home and leave these here”
“Yes sir. I will” and left hurriedly.
Shortly after, I remember running to my house feeling relieved and contemplating scenarios in case the man gave my father a visit. I thought my denial of the whole thing was pretty solid and decided on that. I just found them dad. After all, I couldn’t let my father find out I was stealing.
I arrived at home, ran in my bedroom and shut the door. I inhaled rapidly and exhaled slowly. I was alright, I made it. Then it hit to me like a bus on the rampage. My father’s cigar boxes!!! They were still there, ready to fry me.
“I have to go get them” said my voice out loud and stormed to the front door.
I opened it wide and between me and freedom stood: a cigar box, a hairy arm and a moustache. They had to surgically remove the shovel off my ass.
The End.