FICTION: The Moral of the Story

The Moral of the Story

At first, he did it to prevent himself climaxing too early.  Like most men his age, he wanted to be seen by his romantic partners as an unselfish lover – indeed, much of his self-identification as a “manly” man was tied up with his ability to bring his partners to climax in a sensual-type situation.  Sure, he had many of the other mainstreamer-type privileges – he was fully employed in a well-paying job, was physically-abled, felt relatively well catered for in terms of opportunity and social support, and was not under-bestowed with what passed for broadly-recognised facial and physical attractiveness in his culture, etc – but despite the relative ease with which he slotted into life, his self-diagnosed lack of stamina in the bedroom left him feeling less than optimal.  Indeed, the relative ease with which he “picked up” didn’t help ease his inner turmoil whatsoever, more often than not actually “rubbing his face in it” when it eventually came time to turn off the lights and get down to business in the heteronormative boudoir.  A man who never “picked up” at all (he reasoned, ruefully) would never so thoroughly have to face his own ineptness as a lover; a man who never “picked up” could go on without having his masculinity so often tested and found so desperately wanting.

To be honest, it was in the heteronormative boudoir (with its decadent mirror-tiled en-suite spa-bath and all) that he really wanted to shine.  His job and privilege and easy navigation of the mainstream world seemed to mean less to him every time he found himself unable to bring ladies to fulfilment in a sensual-type scenario; what he really wanted was to be a master lover, a craftsman of the sheets, a rugged macho machine-man of almost dangerously powerful proportions.  He wanted his erotic partners to be delightedly surprised at his prowess, lip-bitingly incredulous at the dizzying heights to which he was taking them.  He wanted the heteronormative boudoir to be his domain, his princely estate, over which he had absolute dominion.  Attractiveness - pah!  Wealth – phooey!  He wanted to be a damn good root.

However, life being the contrary thing it is, he wasn’t a damn good root at all.  He was pedestrian at best, at worst embarrassingly short-lived.  He went into the physical act of love-making with passion and fervour, but would all too often find this very passion and fervour being his undoing, as, with only a handful of thrusts under his belt, he’d come to fruition while his partner was still just getting warmed up.  It was through no selfishness that he was quick to orgasm, it must be said, but through a lack of staying power that he blamed squarely on gusto – if anything he was too enthusiastic, too present, giving it too much of a red-hot go.  If he could somehow become more detached from the process (he reasoned), he’d be able to keep it up for longer; if he could reduce his own fiery gusto (he suspected), he’d be able to become a better lover, and prince of his domain.  And life would be good.

And that’s why he first started to imagine the old obese man shitting.

(He wasn’t particularly ageist, nor was he particularly interested in fat-shaming: it was just an image that, to his own personal tastes, was conducive to not blowing his load inopportunely.  In all honesty, many of his closer friends were on the larger side, and he certainly had no qualms with the elderly: he just found that, personally-speaking, imagining a very old, very fat man straining to expel faeces from his rectum helped somewhat diminish his ardour.)

The first time he pictured the old obese man shitting, he swore that the image gave him a good two minutes extra: that perspiring, grimacing man astride the obscured porcelain throne, laying thick cable with audible groans and splashes, helped defocus his own sweaty thrustings just enough to curtail his rising passions, prolonging his love-making by that extra one hundred and twenty seconds or so, and thus making him, in his own estimation, a better lover.  (Not that his partner had mentioned anything at the time – but had that glance been a little more satisfied-seeming than was the norm?  Impossible to tell for certain – but deep inside, he knew that he was on to something.  Something good.)

The second time, he really tried to focus.  As his outsides were busy with all the normal required sexually-centric activities, his insides were conjuring up vivid detail: the beads of perspiration that ran down the shitting man’s jowls; the red flush to the large man’s forehead as he strained at stool; the laboured breathing; the shuddering of the rolls of fat as the warm cargo was finally ejected into the hidden recesses of the bowl.  From this distracting mental picture, he gained several precious minutes extra, and when he finally reached orgasmic release, his collapse onto the bedsheets was triumphant.  (And he couldn’t be sure, but he thought – he felt – that his intimate partner displayed a contentment that he’d hitherto been unable to deliver.  Given he was too scared to ask about such things, that would have to do.)

As his sexual confidence increased, so did his goals.  He didn’t simply want to avoid premature ejaculation, he wanted to become a regular Casanova.  And, as his heteronormative goalposts shifted further and further away from their humble beginnings, so did the level of detail required to stem his libidinous tide.  Soon enough, he was spending most, if not all, of his sensual congresses with his head filled with close-up scenes of faecal matter gliding wetly downwards between cellulite-pocked buttocks, of grunts and sighs and facial contortions, of stubborn excrement being slowly forced through puckered apertures distending, of dark brown heads of obstinate waste inching towards him with all the tension and inevitability of a horror movie.   As he became (in his own estimation) a finer and finer lover, an imaginary army of enormous elderly naked men soiled toilet bowl after toilet bowl, while he prodded and arced in the very opposite of arousal.

Finally, he was content with his activities in the heteronormative boudoir.   Finally, he was a magnificent lover. (Yes, he did spend an awful lot more of his time imagining elderly corpulent gentlemen backing out brownies than he’d like to, but: priorities.)

When he went swaggering through the laser-lit dance-floors of the night-club underworld, he knew he was king, and that any lady who was lucky enough to be going home with him that night was going to be boned by a master.

Then came the tipping point, the threshold:  

One day, he found that, at the mention of sex, his mind was not filled (as it once had been) with images of bouncing bosoms and labial filigree, but man-boobs and the hairy winking of sphincters.  Instead of pleasing images of fellatio in his mind’s eye, he saw aged chaps dislodging brown loads from wrinkled rectums.  Instead of the womanly moan of passion, he heard wheezing and cold kerplops.  Even worse (in a practical sense), he soon found that the images that now flooded his mind served no longer to prolong his love-making, but to prevent it entirely.  As his partner had looked down at his unstirrable member, asking what was wrong, he realised too late that his libido was now so thoroughly enmeshed with the images of a naked shitting fat man, that what had once given him the sex life he’d craved had now rendered him limp and useless.

He’d never cried in front of a partner before, but that night, he sobbed (inarticulately, it must be noted – there was no way in all seven levels of heck that he was ever going to admit any of this stuff to anyone).

Ashamed, defeated, he’d left the dating game entirely.  Unable to cope, he’d left his job, let his social circles atrophy.  Eventually, he became a recluse.  But the images wouldn’t leave him.  Somewhere in the back of mind there was always the difficult defecation of the pendulous elderly.

The years dragged on.  Most days, he barely left the house.  Some days, he barely left the room. 

Until the day came.  Going to the toilet one day, he paused and looked at his reflection.  The mirrored en-suite which had once seen so many acts of one-sided sexual pleasure now saw nothing but a sad, broken, crushed old man.  Age had not been kind to him (and, let’s face it, like many recluses he’d let himself down in the personal grooming department).  Years of inactivity had piled onto him layers of sadness and fat.  As he gazed at himself in the en-suite’s ubiquitous mirror-tile, he saw an old, overweight man, who, just at this moment, needed sorely to defecate.  Sitting himself on the matte plastic seat of the toilet, he suddenly felt a tingling sensation in his groin he’d not felt for years.  As his excrement departed his ballooning anus and the cold backsplash from the water below tickled his perineum, his eyes widened.  His hands eagerly pushed and pulled at his abdominal rolls until his glory was revealed: there, the erection of all erections!  Good god, how it stood proudly against his old-man sags, turgid with enthusiasm!  It was like seeing an old friend, or discovering a treasured childhood memory.  With his excrement still cooling beneath him, he tugged on his long-lost todger: and in a matter of seconds, all three of his eyes were gushing.

Tears streaming down his liver-spotted cheeks, his hand sticky with seed, he leaned back on the white throne and breathed in his pungent collection of bodily odours.  His old lips curved upwards in a smile.

He was back.  And finally, finally, he was filled with self-love.

He wiped his face, wiped his hands, wiped his arse, and flushed.