Hamid Ouyachi: Prostatic Anxieties (A Fragment)

Francis Bacon, ‘Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion’, 1944. Photo: Tate. Source: barnebys.com

Early Morning

Through the shutters, light seeped in bleary and grey, veining the darkness in the room. Early morning wormed into his consciousness with the arrhythmic thud of the daily paper, landing on the doorsteps of the neighboring houses, soft and distant at first, then more resonant as it drew nearer, before receding into the softness of distance again.

His unsteady bare feet shuffled sleepily toward the john, accused with a quickening step the mineral frigidity of the tile floor; he parted his feet a few inches from the bowl, while his clumsy fingers groped, painfully trapping hair against the pulled elastic band of his underwear, for his clammy shriveled prick, nibbled by sleep, its shaft loosely swathed in its slinky sheath; his nose picks up the sharp scent of his crotch—a familiar peppery mixture of mire and rotting leaves wafting from under the scrotal sac; diminutive appendage in hand, skin between thumb and forefinger, he takes awkward aim and waits for the sphincter to relax; despite the pressure, the unpleasant tickling in the urethra, his wait seems long, as piss is slowly shuttled to the meatus in a weak dribble, runs off at left angle past the edge of the bowl onto the floor, and warm on his bare left foot; he quickly pulls right, watches the yellow liquid trickle down into a frothy cluster; with a spasm radiating from the sacral plexus, the last spurt draws a sigh and a shiver punctuates his relief. He stands still in the soft glow of the nightlight, gleaming off the porcelain, the votive candle where the dark shape of a charred moth lay half wedged in the cold wax. He stares at the amber pool–making a mental note: “need to drink more!”–a rippled bronze shadow on an antique mirror slowly dissolving into vertigo with a harsh sucking gurgle; a watery rush of air through twisted pipes.

 

Sometime during the day

The visit to the doctor. Ushered into the dimly lit examination room, he sat on the edge of the pearl-grey vinyl treatment bed, listening to the doctor, who joked about the unavoidable ritual exam of the over 40 club. Belt unbuckled, he slid his pants off, swiveled his legs up onto the bed; following the doctor’s instructions, he lowered his boxers, lying on his side, hiked up his knees to his chest, his face to the wall level with a poster for erectile dysfunction, latexed knuckles pushing against his buttocks, cold lubricant and a vigorous finger thrust up his arse with surgical precision, poking about his rectum walls, massaging his prostate. He feels the finger pull out of his exercised rectum, and a left hand passes him, sideways, a handful of tissues. The door shuts heavy. He stands with his boxers about his ankles and a squishy wet feeling between his cheeks, as he squats slightly to better wipe off the excess lubricant. It was all cold and precise: no fumbling, no pulling apart or feeling around, no unnecessary gestures; stripped off all the clumsiness of intimacy. He felt a little unsettled, and didn’t quite know why.

 

Later that day

He kissed her as if she needed resuscitation, his lips glued to hers, animated with a vole’s fury burrowing into her flesh. He could hear the sibilant backbeat of his labored breath, made coarser by excitement. Her breath smelled of garlic, and her crotch, damp and smeared with KY jelly, gave off the smell of a warm worn shoe. He rushed into her with the borrowed power of the bedpost, clenched knuckle-white and jutting from his fists into the penumbra of the canopy, and he, knees bent, a supplicant, the sweaty frenzy of his disciplined hips a mute invocation to its fetish brawn, as if he secretly wished it a baculum, a prop to his half tumescent manhood. She had nestled the post in the hollow between her neck and shoulder, leaning against it as she pushed back to meet his thrust and pressing her chest into it to absorb what her hips could not still. The measured slap of his pelvis on her fleshy rump softly echoed by the thud of her chest flattened against the post. Her body, a silent accordion. She was caught in the eddy of his agitation, traveling from the motion of his hips through her shuddering bones to the bedpost and back to him through his clenched fists. It rippled through the cleft globe of her seat and dimples stippled the quaking of her buttocks, where the distended skin, thin and easily disturbed, gave sight to the puckering of the fat veining her flesh. In the shallow light, he could still see, pulling out of her, the chocolate colored ring, where a knife had once cut into his immature flesh. Hair matted with sweat and all the secretions now turned cheesy from such hustle, he winced at the briny smell of dry-salted meat rising with a pinch at his nostrils. He came in a succession of dull spasms and imagined more than sensed his cum dribbling inside her vagina, as his thrusts grew both urgent and weak. Flaccidity quickly reclaimed his flesh and feeling his cock sliding out of her, he jerked his hips forward hoping to forestall the outward motion and keep himself wrapped in her warmth a little longer. But both gravity and the angle of the position, now made more slippery by the ambient slop, slowly extruded him from her until the ridge of his glans came to rest at the edge of the crown of her labia. She straightened up, letting him and a trickle of cum mixed fluids fall toward the bedroom floor, and without as much as a peck or even a glance walked past him toward the bathroom for her ritual ablutions. He shifted his feet ​to brace his body against the void her body left behind; the slight motion released the tension in his groin and he felt a dribble of cum snake down his left leg toward his ankle. Unthinkingly, he hobbled after her toward the sound of the running faucet.