How to Avoid Sex Read online

  I had spent so long lost in my own confusing thoughts that I failed to notice the conclusion of my waste evacuation. To tell you that such a thing is rare would be a gross understatement. Even when I have total privacy, I make it a priority to vacate the lavatory at my earliest convenience. You never know what may happen, and one must never be caught with their pants down. And there I was in a public toilet of all places! Sure, it enjoyed unparalleled seclusion, but the existence of the written note suggested that it wasn’t completely unfrequented. And the pristine state of the facilities would surely require the expertise of a cleaner. It’s shameful to admit, but I had become side-tracked by thoughts of the sexual solicitation on the cubicle wall. It was completely out of character. When my cognisance had regained its usual reason, I quickly cleaned myself up and made a hasty exit.

  The birdman had maintained a patient vigil while I was indisposed, busying itself with a caterpillar it had excavated from a bamboo shoot. Given the reason for my indisposition, I couldn’t control the hot flush of shame and embarrassment that spasmed throughout me. The birdman showed no signs of caring, choosing instead to lead me back out of the forest. I dutifully followed it, all the while imaging what, if any, situation may eventuate for the gentlemen who penned that cubicle wall request.

  My passage out of the forest took mere minutes. The kind birdman waited at the forest threshold, assumedly to ensure I was safe. In light of the courtesy and respect afforded to me by my guide, I became horrified at my choice of headwear. Pith helmets are perfectly suitable for exploring new terrain, but they don’t lend themselves to social graces.

  “I must at once apologise,” I said. “You are in need of a solid tip of the hat as a thank you for your assistance, but this pith helmet isn’t appropriate. I don’t know if I can bring myself to tip it, but if it would please you, I’ll certainly give it a try.”

  The birdman picked its nose with his claw and hopped back into the forest. He was either terribly offended or unconcerned with such ritual. Finding it impossible to believe the latter, I felt a horrible rush of etiquette inadequacy.

  CHAPTER 3

  Having found such a perfect restroom so close to work should have filled me with ease and lightness. And while it’s true that a weight had been lifted from my shoulders, a new one had been placed. Following my experience in the bamboo forest toilet block, I was unable to tear my mind away from the cubicle message. It had planted a seed in me that I was watering with obsessive thoughts, and as I couldn’t halt the thoughts, the seed was blooming.

  I’m not sure what my motivation was, but I wanted to meet this man – I was quite sure of it. It certainly wasn’t sexual in nature (as I shall explain a little later, I am devoid of sexuality in even its most rudimentary forms). He embodied a certain passion that I found beguiling. Were I to follow my strange new drive, I would likely disappoint him. Under no circumstances would I offer my sexual services, which would make my presence akin to an attainable cracker dangling before a starving man’s maw. It would have been an act of cruelty, so decided it would be wise to forget the whole mess.

  My newly discovered toilet facilities excited me. When I returned to work, it was with a spring in my step and modest smile on my face. I was willing my lunch hour to arrive, which as you can imagine, only made the time drag intolerably. My co-workers didn’t help matters. Having been absent for several days, they felt it necessary to bore me with their interminable chitchat. I’ve never enjoyed the act of conversation with those I deem inferior. I find myself compromising my integrity by providing commentary on the weather or recent sporting events. I’m not forthright enough to withdraw from such conversation and being innately polite, I over-engage, ensuring my interlocutor is inspired to extend the inanity. Beyond elegant headwear and inscrutable etiquette, there is very little I am personally at want to discuss.

  I spent the hours leading up to my lunchbreak consuming copious amounts of water and trying not to think about the enigmatic cubicle man. The former ensured I had just cause to appreciate my newfound facilities fully and the latter was for my own psychological benefit. It wasn’t natural to consume oneself with the carnal desires of another. I found myself mentally sketching what I imagined this man looked like. Given the delicacy of his penmanship, it seemed sensible to assume he was a proper-looking gentleman. One reveals much about themselves via their handwriting. It is a window into the soul. One who takes cares when writing will often take pride in their appearance and demeanour. Sloppy handwriting suggests a sloppy personality – a personality to be avoided at all costs.

  I was clearly consumed with the exact thoughts I wished to avoid, and as the consumption grew, I became less concerned, which has the dichotomous effect of concerning me further. I had projected many admirable traits upon this gentleman, and save for his propensity toward soliciting depravity in public restrooms, I had come to view him as the sort of person I wished to know. Caught within the vortex of my consumption, I failed to notice the gradual swelling of my bladder until it had become a sharp, intolerable pain within me. My immediate situation had become quite urgent and even if it hadn’t been a suitable time to take my lunchbreak, I daresay I most likely would have. I shuffled past my co-workers, trying to maintain a visage of civility, holding my breath and clenching my urethra.

  …

  Making your way through the city when it’s choked with lunchtime bustle is always a difficult proposition. In my state, it was difficult to remain mannered and patient. It’s shameful to admit, but on more than one occasion, gentle shoving was involved. The traffic jam of human bodies going about their business was a frustration. Each person had an air of urgency about them, but I was sure that my urgency usurped each and every one of theirs.

  In sheer distance, the bamboo forest wasn’t far away, but that was of little consolation. I felt as though I may explode in a shower of my own insides at any moment. I clenched my pocket-handkerchief, convincing myself this token act may be of assistance. During my journey, I was set upon by all manner of individuals trying to sell me food I had no desire to eat. I came close to raising my voice when a particularly pushy vendor waved a fistful of gravy-soaked meat in my face. I arched backward, as if engaged in a limbo tournament, and shuffled beneath his greasy arm.

  I arrived at the merciful threshold of the bamboo forest to find my kind birdman in wait, looking as dignified as ever. I reached for my hat to give it a gentle tip to discover, with a sense of horror, that I wasn’t wearing one. To be seen in public without a hat is unthinkable. I silently cursed my bladder for attacking my sense of dignity. The birdman didn’t appear concerned, but that wasn’t the point. I had already come close to dishonouring my gentle guide with one hat-related discourtesy, and now I had gone that one unthinkable step further.

  “I’m so terribly sorry,” I said. “This cranial nudity is most unlike me.”

  I couldn’t allow myself, no matter how desperate my situation, to inflict such discourtesy. I implored the darling birdman to wait, making stop signs with my hands. It obeyed and I made a dash for the nearest hat vendor of repute. The alleyways that surround my work are bulging with hat vendors of every conceivable sort. In matters of civility and manners, I tend toward bell crown toppers as I believe these convey an appropriate level of respect. Few vendors see fit to stock such headgear, but over the years, I’ve certainly done my research. A gentleman by the name of Hooster Bean has had a small stall for many years and in this instance, I knew he was my man. I fought my way through the crush of hat vendors, seeking Hooster out, hoping that my slithering tour guide remained in wait. On a couple of occasions I had to be rather forceful with particularly pushy vendors who insisted that I sample their wares.

  Hooster had been relegated to the deepest recess of the dingiest alleyway. It alarmed me to note how little prize we pay quality these days. Immaculately attired in a Valentino Newman suit and deadman top hat, Hooster beckoned me over.

  “Worthington, my lad,” he said to me. “It’s b
een days.”

  “Yes, my dear Hooster. I apologise for my scarcity, I’ve had urgent business that required my full attention.”

  “Pay it no mind. It’s just so jolly good to see you.”

  “The feeling is completely mutual,” I replied. “As much as it pains me, I must dash off as soon as possible.”

  I made a show of studying my fob watch to illustrate the point.

  “Certainly,” he replied. “In what manner may I be of assistance?”

  “So kind of you to ask, Hooster. I require, and I do hope you can provide, a bell crown topper immediately.”

  “Ah, Worthington!” He said with a kind smile. “You certainly are a man of superior taste. I believe I have exactly what you’re looking for.”

  “Smashing!” I replied, letting my excitement get the better of me.

  Hooster began foraging through hatboxes beneath his stall, carefully moving one aside to examine the next. He emerged a few moments later with a pink and red-striped cylindrical box.

  “Wait until you lay your eyes on this number,” said Hooster. “This work of supreme artisanship has been imported from France.”

  The Europhile within pumped a gentle fist of excitement. Hooster placed the box before me, slowly removed the lid and then, ever so carefully, peeled back the white tissue paper. The redolence of the Bastille filled my nostrils, briefly overriding my other senses. As my vision returned, I was greeted by the most adequate hat I had seen in some weeks. Hooster held it toward me.

  “Would you like to try it on?” Asked Hooster.

  “Indeed, I would, but I’m afraid I have no time. I really must be off. That said, I will most certainly purchase this kingly hat. How much do I owe you?”

  “Let’s see,” he said, fingering the label on the box. “That will be $840.”

  “A remarkably good price,” I replied while placing the cash before Hooster.

  With a handshake, followed by a mutual bow, I made haste back to the threshold of the bamboo forest, hoping the birdman would be waiting. I freed my new hat and disposed of the box in one of the many repositories that map our city.

  I was relieved when I found the birdman waiting patiently where I had left it. It seemed nonplussed. I carefully lowered the bell crown topper to my crown and centred myself before I continued my approach.

  “I’m so happy you waited,” I said to the birdman, who didn’t seem to acknowledge what I was saying. “After the assistance you’ve given me, it would have been most inappropriate not to afford you courtesy.”

  With that said, I bowed and titled the bell crown topper ever so slightly.

  “You earned that,” I said.

  Rather than console me, the birdman, once again, beckoned me to follow, and together we made haste. I brushed away the shoots of bamboo blocking my path with sure arms, conscious only of my forward momentum. I could feel a horrifying quantity of urine flooding the antechamber between my bladder and urethra. Had the divine visage of the public restroom not emerged into view, there’s a chance I may have inflicted a great indignity upon a poor shoot of bamboo. I tumbled forward, falling to the forest floor and crawling like a pauper toward my salvation while edging my pants down.

  I clambered into the restroom and exploded into the cubicle. I barely had time to admire the pristine porcelain before I had sullied its perfection with thick, uncomfortable urine. It thundered out of me, merging with the water in a torrential downpour of relief. A moan escaped me that I could not silence. I let it leave me in an echo of unsuppressed satisfaction. The flow extended beyond any length I was familiar with, and as my bladder slowly became more tolerable, I allowed myself to admire the surroundings. Everything was somehow more beautiful than I had remembered. I am accustomed to expecting a certain decrease in lustre whenever something wonderful is re-experienced. This restroom flew in the face of this, revealing only more beauty, like a Parisian hat museum in the spring.

  Of course, it wasn’t long before my eyes once again fell upon the sexual solicitation on the cubicle wall. I didn’t just stare at it – I stared into its very soul. The heart of the man who wrote it beat in every word. I studied each word in isolation before letting them come together in sentences that embodied a rare form of beauty. The totality of these sentences, as they joined into one breathtaking request, overwhelmed my body. With urine still escaping me, I slumped forward on the toilet seat. I turned my head toward the message once more, paying attention to the proposed time this mysterious man wished to meet. That time was today. If I desired, I could meet him… I could solidify this perfect mirage. The only requirement on my part was to ignore my sense of reason.

  When my bladder had forfeited its contents, I slapped my face with confused hands, willing sense to prevail. Meeting this man would be an unthinkable mistake. I wasn’t some form of animal at the mercy to his baser self. I was man for whom decorum was desired above all else. I fastened my belt, flushed the toilet and walked toward the washbasin. I stared at my pathetic reflection in the mirror, wondering who the familiar stranger was that met my gaze. The man certainly looked like me, but his eyes possessed a putrid lasciviousness I had never seen before. His chest was puffed up like some uneducated beach buffoon attempting to attract a bikini-clad member of the opposite sex. I twisted the tap and felt a strong burst of cold-water wash over my hands. I cupped this water and splashed it against my flushed face. I stood hunched over the basin for some time, watching the water drip from the face of this stranger whose reflection was mocking me.

  CHAPTER 4

  That afternoon, I wasn’t the man I had come to expect myself to be. I sat at my desk, staring at my hat, silently apologising to it. There had never been a situation where I had neglected to wear a hat while outside. I had come to learn that within me lurked a primal beast of sickening appetite. It pounded at my mannered exterior, willing it to break. I must have looked out of sorts. Several co-workers attempted to engage me in conversation, but I responded in listless platitudes that sent them on their way. I wasn’t concerned about causing offense. What concerned me was the unstoppable momentum of the clock that marched forward, bringing me closer to the time where this man would be waiting in the toilet block. It seemed reasonable to assume that my weaker self would capitulate to this beast within, ensuring I would be waiting for the arrival of this man I didn’t want to meet, yet wanted to meet more than anything.

  I began to reason with myself that what I was feeling must be akin to the craving an addict must feel. Having read a good amount of literature on the subject, I knew that cravings were a transient sensation that would leave me eventually. It seemed improbable that I possessed the willpower to outlast the sensation, but I could, should I be so bold, place myself in a situation that would physically prevent me from visiting the toilet block. I decided to have myself arrested. All I needed to do was think of a crime weighty enough to ensure my imprisonment for a day or two. Anything else would become a considerable blight upon my record, and anything less would risk succumbing to the craving.

  I settled upon killing a gibbon because the punishment was of a token nature due to their burgeoning presence within the urban environment. Gibbon homicide was essentially a civic service that would, before long, become a lawfully sanctioned act. Taking a life isn’t something that sits comfortably with me – the closest I had previously come was accidentally breaking the beak of a mallard in my youth. But, given the alternative, I felt I had no choice.

  The secret to disposing of a gibbon is relatively simple. They have a naturally occurring lever within the depths of their anus that, once pulled, releases a toxin within their brain. Minutes later, they resemble overcooked gravy. The reality of such an act is somewhat unpleasant, but one does what they must in order to avoid a fate far worse.

  Gibbons are naturally attracted to individuals called ‘Chad’, and being familiar with several prominent Chads in the area, finding the gibbon was never going to be a problem. I excused myself and left the office, making sure, this
time, not to forget my hat, and trying to flush the toilet block from my depraved mind. I found that I was growing increasingly interested in the time, reaching a point where my pocket watch remained pressed into my palm with its cover yawning open. With my free hand, I practiced the way I imagined one grips a gibbon’s anal lever until I had convinced myself I was up to the task.

  The weather outside had taken a rather miserable turn, which had the benefit of clearing the streets somewhat. I squinted against the rain that lashed at my face, desperate for a Chad. I knew of a Chad congregation that occurred daily around the escutcheon district. I made haste, knowing that my sense of morality was at stake. Such was the urgency of my task that I bypassed the hat vendors that usually invigorated my day with fresh headwear. At one point I attempted to run but grew concerned about how foolish such an action may appear to others whereupon I settled on a brisk, but dignified walk.

  Finding the Chad congregation was quite simple. They were huddled beneath an Italian escutcheon storefront seeking refuge from the rain. They were taking turns nuzzling a dead salmon for warmth. While I was familiar with these Chads, it was a chap called Chad Plinkton I was keen on speaking to as he and I had similar demeanours.

  “Well if it isn’t Worthington,” proclaimed one of the more haughty Chads when he saw me approach.

  “Gentlemen,” I replied with a tip of my hat.

  “To what do we owe the pleasure? It’s certainly been a while.”

  “Yes… I apologise for my scarcity, but as you can imagine, things have been quite busy. Now I do apologise for being forward, but I need to speak to Chad Plinkton rather urgently.”

  A short, stocky Chad emerged from the serried pack. “He’s in there,” he said while gesturing toward the window of the escutcheon shop with his thumb. “He’ll be a while.”

  Not willing to disturb a connoisseur in the midst of escutcheonry, I pressed ahead in Plinkton’s absence.