How to Avoid Sex Read online

  HOW TO AVOID SEX

  3645 Greenwood Ave N.

  Seattle, WA 98103 U.S.A.

  www.darkcoastpress.com

  [email protected]

  Copyright © 2013 Matthew Revert, all rights reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, website, radio, or television review, no part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  eISBN-13: 978-0-9881725-5-5

  Dark Coast Press e-book edition, 2013

  HOW TO AVOID SEX

  Matthew Revert

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  How to Avoid Sex

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  … and Other Stories

  Concentration Tongue

  Goodbye, Captain Nowhere

  The Nook

  Are You Ever Going to Put Me Down?

  Stuck in the Splits

  Introduction

  My brother is a wanker. I know for a fact the only reason he asked me to write this introduction is because I hate his writing and he thinks it’s funny. I’m tempted to piss him off by telling you how good his books are, but I can’t bring myself to do it, which means I’m playing into his hands, but fuck it. I read a bit of his first book when it came out. I think it had more to do with the novelty of seeing my surname in print than anything else. The novelty wore off about two sentences in. The writing was the most self-satisfied shit I think I’ve ever read. You could tell he thought he was so fucking funny, which was just embarrassing. Since that time, I’ve made a point of avoiding his writing, including the book you’re now holding. And it pisses me off that you’re holding it. You people are the reason he thinks it is okay to keep doing this shit. Fuck him and fuck you.

  Wanna know the sort of person my brother is? Would you like a taste of the shit I had to put up with for 15 years when we were growing up? There’s really too much to mention, so I’ll give you one example. Matt fancied himself as a videogame hero growing up. I think he wanted to be that kid from that movie, ‘The Wizard’ who hung out with that kid from ‘The Wonder Years’. He’d act like he was some kind of Nintendo master all the time. Thing is… HE FUCKING SUCKED!

  He had ‘Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening’ on the Gameboy, which he played for months before he finally finished it. It was his Gameboy, so I couldn’t play it until after he had finished it. And when he finished it he gloated like crazy, really rubbing it in. Then it was finally my turn. I don’t know if you’re familiar with ‘Link’s Awakening’, but it kept track of how many lives you had lost, and Matt had lost a fuckload.

  What Matt would never admit at the time, and probably wouldn’t admit now, is that I was always much better at videogames than him. He was the one who talked a big game and I was the one who actually played a big game. I was kicking ‘Link’s Awakening’s’ arse and got right to the end of the game without losing many lives. Matt lost hundreds, and I had lost about ten. I could tell Matt was nervous because he started trying to look over my shoulder when I played, and it was pissing him off that I had managed to get so far in the game so fast. This is when he proves what a fuckhead he really is.

  One night after I’d gone to bed, Matt got his Gameboy and starting playing my ‘Link’s Awakening’ file. His only aim was to sabotage me. He spent hours using my file to die as much as possible. He wasn’t trying to progress my game, merely fuck up my game. What’s really sad is that after hours deliberately dying to raise my death count, it was still lower than the real death count on his file. That proves how good he was! He couldn’t even deliberately die more than he genuinely died.

  So the next morning I wake up and go to continue my game and Matt runs out of the room like the coward he is. The second I saw him run I knew something was up.

  I opened my game, saw my death count and became furious. He screwed me over for no other reason than I was better at videogames than him. He tried to deny it when I confronted him about it, but he was smirking, as if he was real damn proud of himself. I punched him and he cried. He’s my older brother, by the way.

  I deleted my file, started again and finished the game using even less lives than the previous file and Matt had to sit there and take it. He was afraid I’d punch him again. To this day, if I raise my hand, he cowers. Nothing makes me happier.

  I could fill up this whole book with stories about what a dickhead my brother is, but I really can’t be bothered giving him any more attention than I already have. He asked for 1000 words and I’m going to make sure I write less than that.

  My brother’s writing is a joke no one’s laughing at. He is just embarrassing himself. It would be kinda fun to watch if it wasn’t so damn sad.

  James Revert

  CHAPTER 1

  …HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Ahem… sorry about that. I’ll try to compose myself. Sometimes laughter has a way of blindsiding you, and one doesn’t realise it’s happened until it has already manifested in an altogether uncontrollable way. I’ll ask you to forget about that now, because the following story isn’t of a laughable nature. In many ways it’s a regrettable episode, but one that has irreparably altered my life. One that, in my current predicament, I feel as though I have no choice but to tell. At the very least, it will pass the time, which currently exists at an unbearable surplus.

  My name is Montgomery Worthington. Before the following events unfolded, people referred to me as Worthington, but when this tale draws to a close, I suspect you’ll have a desire to call me Monty. I’ve relayed this story to an audience of no one on numerous occasions now, and each time I’ve noticed key details changing. For this reason, I offer a disclaimer: the following events are correct in as much as, at this point in time, I don’t believe them to be false. That said, if you remain seated during my inevitable retelling, I’m sure you’ll notice differences. Please accept my apologies in advance. This is not an attempt to mislead or subvert the truth. This is merely an exercise in passing interminable time. The laughter has escaped my system now, so I think we’re safe to begin.

  …

  The public toilet block in question resides within walking distance of my workplace. For the sake of completion, I will inform you that I work at a firm that sues people who dislike high quality music, but this is of minor importance. My workplace merely accounts for how I came across the public toilet block that would herald many changes in my life. I have always believed that calls of nature should be handled in isolation due to the unsavoury nature of excreta. It is a dubious substance responsible for much shame and embarrassment – a blight upon the human condition. Until evolutionary improvements free us of this unfortunate necessity, there is nothing to be done. We must endure the multitudinous mountains of filth we create. This does not mean that others should be privy to the act. Over 500 people share my working environment, and between us we have but one unisex restroom with two cubicles. As one can imagine, a solitary toilet experience is rendered impossible in
such an environment. It should be said that I tried to work within these limitations when my employment with the firm first began. I would endeavour to arrive before everyone else, or stay back long after most others had left for home just to utilise the facilities unencumbered. But this never worked. I was never the only one with such clandestine plans. No matter how early, no matter how late, I was never alone. Someone would always situate himself or herself in the cubicle next to me. It would become a ghastly showdown between the two of us… who could hold out the longest before evacuation occurred. In situations such as this, without fail, the showdown would end with me leaving the restroom, determined to survive the commute home in a state of discomfort.

  It wasn’t long before this situation became untenable. A ruptured bowel shortly after my first month of employment instilled in me the urgency of my predicament. I needed to find a suitable location in the immediate environs of my work that enabled me to achieve relief with dignity. Donning khaki, a pith helmet and a flask of water, I arranged for a week of leave and dedicated that time to surveying the area. One wouldn’t expect that a workplace in the midst of a thriving city could by surrounded by such variable terrain. Nevertheless, within a one-mile radius I navigated snow-tipped peaks, vast deserts and the frondescent choke of the deepest woodland. I found restrooms of course, but these ranged from unsuitable to extremely unsuitable. They all possessed clusters of humanity eager to dispose their waste. None afforded privacy or dignity. It struck me as quite hopeless.

  I had entered into serious consideration about the merits of colostomy bags. My leave was drawing to a close and I was yet to find a suitable location. I decided to explore a bamboo forest a mere 300 metres from my workplace. In the years I had been working in the city, I had never considered exploring the forest because bamboo confuses me. Forced to choose between confronting bamboo and the continuation of my current toiletry crisis, the bamboo won with ease. Upon entering the forest, I assured the bamboo I meant it no harm and edged forward. The forest toyed with me, undermining my sense of perception until I barely knew which way was up. A sonorous cooing sound, the origin of which I could not discern, echoed around me. I turned in circles, feeling at once that it would be advisable to go back and forget about my quest. Even had I wanted to retreat, my bearings had dissolved into a puddle of confusion. Possessing the ability to see struck me as a hindrance in this situation. I had grown distrustful of my eyes and decided upon scrunching them shut. I moved forward. Disabling the visual confusion focused my other senses. The cooing sound no longer possessed its previous omnipotence and I was able to follow it.

  I couldn’t tell you how long I continued my blind walk. I walked for an instant and forever. Time was irrelevant. The cooing grew in intensity until it was a blaring siren stirring pudding in my ears. The breeze that blew about had grown frigid. I could feel my skin sprouting goose pimples. The cooing stopped as though it had never existed, leaving sine waves of tinnitus as a memento. Un-scrunching my eyes brought me face-to-face with the dubious creature responsible for the sound. The best description I could offer would be a bird with the head of a dignified gentleman. Its head contained a superior moustache while the bird body was gamey and sleek. It walked around me in circles, bobbing as it moved, stopping every so often to scavenge on the ground for microscopic sustenance, which it chewed with its mouth closed. I want it noted that I felt no fear when confronted by this curious beast. On the contrary, I felt a sense of comfort. Enclosed as I was by my bamboo surrounds, I welcomed the arrival of another living soul. The birdman’s humanistic qualities inspired me to try and communicate, but I was met with a barrage of the cooing I had heard earlier. The birdman made no attempt to escape. Instead it hopped about as if performing a dance, eventually coming to a standstill at my feet where it roared with playful delight. We exchanged a gaze that I can assure you contained love, or at the very least, non-violence. It started to journey forward, stopping only to cock its head in a suggestive manner. I followed the creature, convinced it was the proper thing to do.

  Any navigational issues I may have experienced were absent in the birdman. It moved with purpose – a deep affinity with its surrounds. The journey it led me on eschewed obvious walkways and cut through dense bamboo coppice. On occasion, my forward journey was hampered by the density, causing me to chop at the thickets in a facsimile of the martial arts. The birdman kindly waited for me whenever this occurred.

  Geographical logic would suggest that our journey couldn’t have been a long one, but it didn’t feel this way. In the otherworldly seclusion of the bamboo forest, time was rendered immaterial. When finally we reached a clearing, I couldn’t have told you whether minutes or years had passed. The creature ceased its travel and with a point of the head, implored me to continue. A quaint structure with cobblestone walls and a thatched roof sat in the centre of the clearing. It was the kind of place you might expect your grandparents to live were they not dead.

  As I drew closer to the structure, a sign attached near the doorway, which bore the unmistakable pictograph of a man, attracted my attention. This was an internationally recognised indicator of toilet facilities. I pressed my face against the pictograph and laughed. In the heart of isolation, where it appeared humanity refused to tread, I found the toilet of my dreams.

  CHAPTER 2

  Throughout life we become accustomed to certain patterns, and until something jolts us out of such patterns, we accept it with dogmatic ignorance. A prime example concerns public toilet blocks. Even when blessed by the care of a vigilant cleaner, one would never venture to suggest public toilets are sanitary environments. An ever-changing roster of visitors, plucked from myriad social classes, visit such facilities, each subjecting it to their own standards. All it takes is for one bad apple to mislay their excreta and the entire environment is compromised. One does not expect public toilets to embody cleanliness. Of course, I’d venture to say that one hasn’t experienced the toilet block I had just found. In an instant, my notion of public toilets altered immeasurably. This toilet block, hidden away by the dense bamboo forest, was the cleanest structure I had ever encountered. Its surfaces were decked in pristine Yule marble, as white as a fear-filled face. A toilet cubicle with rich mahogany doors sat at either corner of the far wall. The dulcet scent of cured pomegranate filled the air and polite muzak crept from speakers hidden within the floor. I hope it doesn’t strike one as exaggeration to suggest that this toilet block was akin to a heaven on earth.

  Spending so much of my life bereft of adequate facilities, my body had become accustomed to withholding its desire to evacuate waste. But as I stood amidst the grandeur of this luxury lavatory, my body, clearly smitten, gave itself permission to let go. Using the toilet had, within the space of a few seconds, become a matter of urgency. I glanced about, making absolutely sure that I was alone, and made haste for one of the cubicles.

  With lowered underthings, I sat down on the seat and felt an immediate sun-kissed warmth penetrate the flesh of my buttocks. In a manner unbefitting civility, I sighed deeply, garnering genuine pleasure from my discovery. I glanced around the cubicle, enjoying the detail as it danced across my retinas.

  As I surveyed the cubicle, my eyes fell upon something that, at first, I found alarming. Not even this public restroom, secluded in the bamboo forest, could avoid the blight of vandalism. Immediately to my right, above the toilet roll dispenser, was the horrid scrawl of graffiti. Restroom graffiti is of a curious breed. In some unconscionable circles, it has become de rigueur to use restroom walls to solicit sexual liaison. I will admit, despite the disgust this practice arouses within me, I have always looked upon it with fascination. In a practical sense, it seems as though this method is doomed to failure. Perhaps I’m too reserved for my own good, but the thought of such a thing resulting in a successfully executed sexual event had impossibility painted all over it.

  There was something different about the particular solicitation written on the walls in this cubicle, however. For on
e, the penmanship was divine. Its cursive hypnotised me into following the path of each loop. The weight of each stroke appeared to breath in and out like a sleeping child. I was in the presence of something great. The graffiti read as follows:

  Dear sir,

  If you are reading this note, I must at once apologise for my spurious choice of medium. I admit that it comes across as crass. With that in mind, I won’t be surprised if you ignore this request.

  I find myself in a situation where sexual gratification remains elusive. Despite what you may expect, I am not what one would call a sexual pervert. Nor does my sexuality cast its gaze upon any one gender. There are certain peculiarities about my situation, but I am quite positive that my sexuality is healthy. I was advised that communicating via a lavatory wall might attract a certain type of person willing to overlook my physical impediments. Should you be interested in a tryst, I would do my best to make it worth your while.

  Written below the note were a series of dates and times, each crossed out except for the most recent. There were at least fifty proffered dates and times that had assumedly passed without success, the earliest just over a year old, while the most recent was a mere three days away. I hadn’t made up my mind whether or not I envied or pitied this man’s persistence. In a sense, I admired him and I wasn’t sure why. The concept of a clandestine, completely anonymous sexual meeting was enough to inspire nausea within me. But written as it was, upon the wall of the most delectable toilet I had ever seen, infused with mannered sincerity and restraint, I was willing to betray my own morality by admitting a certain fondness for the unknown gentleman. On a basic level I still didn’t condone his actions, but within its own context, he had acted in the best possible way.