How to Avoid Sex

by Revert, Matthew

  “Well perhaps you gentlemen can be of assistance,” I said. “Would one of you be so kind as to point me toward the nearest gibbon?”

  The stocky Chad moved further toward me, allowing the rain to fall upon him, clearly more concerned with my question than staying dry.

  “What the heck do want with a gibbon?”

  I inhaled deeply, not sure how much I should reveal about my intentions. I settled upon revealing nothing.

  “It’s a rather uninteresting story, suffice to say that I require one immediately.”

  The Chads were growing perturbed by my imposition, and had my situation not been so urgent, I would have felt a great deal of embarrassment.

  “You know,” said the stocky Chad, “the propensity for us Chads to attract gibbons is a profound source of shame among us. There have been some former Chads who went so far as to change their name to escape this ‘curse’. We remaining Chads were quite put out to discover that upon changing their name, these former Chads ceased to attract gibbons. And now you brazenly approach us looking for a gibbon? I’m sorry, but that strikes me as insensitive.”

  I was growing agitated by this stocky Chad. I had never seen him before this moment and I had an urge to pull the brim of my hat down over my eyes in his presence. Before my dwindling temper could get the better of me, the horrifying screech of a nearby gibbon attracted our attention. The Chads looked downward, kicking their feet against the ground in embarrassment. The stocky one beamed a dismayed look my way then gestured toward the shrieking with his eyes. I tipped my hat and followed the sound.

  I want it noted that had my situation not been so urgent, there’s no way I would have proceeded with the following. I only relay it because I don’t want to withhold information from you. You have to understand that I was in grave danger of succumbing to a lesser part of myself. With that caveat, make of my actions what you will. I can’t stop you from judging me.

  Gibbons are an intimidating beast, and I won’t pretend deliberately seeking one out didn’t fill me with a certain level of fear. The sound was coming from an alley behind the main strip of escutcheon stores. The shrieking was soon joined by the sound of pummelled rubbish bins – a cacophonous affair that was murder on the ears. When I first caught sight of the gibbon, I motioned to turn around, which would have been the sensible decision. Gibbons possess an interminably aged appearance, as if stricken with progeria. Their black marble eyes betray nothing one would associate with emotion, which makes reading their motives difficult.

  The creature caught sight of me and froze, a rubbish bin raised above its head. I continued my approach with an outstretched arm, as if to indicate I meant it no harm. Very gradually, the gibbon began an approach of its own, sniffing the air and contorting its mouth into various puckers. It hurled the bin aside, which landed with a clatter, and extended its arm in response to mine. Together we moved forward until our hands, his like dry leather and mine impeccably smooth, were touching. I was caught unawares when, in one quick leap, the gibbon landed in my arms where I cradled it like a baby. With such close proximity, I could see a certain longing in its eyes that I tried to ignore as I snuck my hand toward its backside. Losing itself in affection toward me, it wrapped its furry arms tightly around my shoulders and nuzzled my neck. With my nose pressed into the gibbon’s wet fur, I could hear from within this beast a heartbeat similar to my own. I began to have second thoughts and contemplated sparing its life. Had the gibbon seen fit to leave my hat alone, I may have followed through with this change of heart. The moment I felt the hat leave the safety of my head, I slid my hand into the wet warmth of the gibbon’s anus. Its eyes, like hardboiled eggs, bulged from the sockets while I fumbled around inside, seeking the naturally occurring lever out. Having, ‘til this point, only possessed theoretical knowledge of the lever, I didn’t quite know what to expect. The tips of my fingers found a bone-like protrusion that I assumed must be what I was searching for. However, I found that pulling at this protrusion only resulted in the gibbon reciting Winston Churchill quotes which, I must admit, wasn’t unpleasant. With the stately words of Churchill caressing my ears, my ever-disappearing hand clasped at something more metallic… more lever-esque. I pulled with a firm hand, feeling it give way. The gibbon unleashed a harrowing cry before slumping forward where it sat, lifeless on my hand. I felt like a perverted puppeteer and shook my arm, trying to loosen the poor beast, but its anus clenched as the brain toxins provoked spasms throughout. Then, with a loud splat, the gibbon was rendered chunky gravy. It clung to my arm but, as unpleasant as this was, I reasoned that this would serve as appropriate evidence when the police came to assess my immediate guilt.

  I emerged from the alley a deeply conflicted, yet relieved man. The Chads approached carefully, tip-toeing through the stubborn rain with the synchronicity of a dance troupe.

  “Gentlemen,” I said. “I believe a police officer is required.”

  “Good god, Worthington! What have you done?” asked one of the Chads.

  I held my soiled arm up, as if to celebrate an ambiguous victory.

  “Gentlemen,” I replied. “I have disposed of a gibbon.”

  Rather than oblige my request for police intervention, the Chads merely responded with a polite round of applause. This was an irritation.

  “I must insist, please alert a police officer of my wrongdoing immediately.”

  “Why would we do that?” asked a Chad. “As far as I’m concerned you’ve provided a valuable service.”

  “A valuable service it may be, but it is still an unlawful one. I’m afraid if you don’t call for a police officer, I’ll be forced to do so myself.”

  “Be our guest,” replied a Chad. “You shan’t find us obliging such a preposterous request.”

  I huffed indignantly and pushed through the serried Chads. The gibbon gravy on my arm was kicking up a wretched stench that was beginning to alter my mood for the worse. I surveyed the immediate street, seeking out an officer. After several minutes of agitated searching, I finally came across one trying to coax a frozen ball of mayonnaise from a tree. He wore his police garb with a sense of pride that instilled confidence within me. I tapped him politely on the shoulder with my unsoiled hand.

  “Excuse me, officer,” I said.

  The officer swivelled to face me. He wore a monocle, the chain of which glinted gold, even in the drab weather. He brought his face close to mine until I could see the reflection of my eye in the monocle’s polished lens. He pulled back to study me.

  “Yes… yes, you’ll do,” he said, placing a hand on either shoulder. “Your shoulders seem firm. Your posture is really rather good. It’s not perfect, understand… but it is good.”

  I was briefly side-tracked by the unexpected compliment and felt my face burn hot with an impending blush. When the officer asked me to get down on my knees, I found myself obliging immediately. He began to straddle my shoulders crotch-first, contorting my hat unthinkably. I thought it wise to speak up, but my voice muffled within his nether regions. I felt his weight shifting about above me and I moved to even him out. I felt secure literally wedged in the lap of the law like this and silently implored for the activity to continue. This desire seemed to only hasten the officer and he was off my shoulders far quicker than I would have liked and nursing the ball of frozen mayonnaise in his arms.

  “Just look at it,” said the officer. “These things are always climbing trees, seemingly oblivious to fact they can’t get back down.”

  I stared at the mayonnaise ball while correcting the brim of my hat. It was scuffed and had several leaves stuck to its circumference. It was a rather sad looking spectacle – one that nearly distracted me from my mission. I pushed on.

  “Excuse me officer. I must report a crime.”

  The officer glanced up from the mayonnaise ball and cocked an eyebrow in interest.

  “A crime, hey? Perhaps I should be the judge of that, don’t you think? Let me have it. Report away.”

  “Well, off
icer, the crime in question is one committed by myself. The guilt is an unbearable weight upon my shoulders and I must purge myself, fully aware that punishment will be my fate.”

  Following this revelation, the officer produced a flintlock pistol, which he trained between my eyes. My internal organs felt as though they were freefalling and the urge to faint tugged at my eyelids.

  “I am listening,” said the officer.

  “I regret to report that I have killed a gibbon,” I said after swallowing an accumulation of fear.

  The officer remained silent long enough for me to regret my admission. Had the laws suddenly increased in severity for such an offense? Would I find myself imprisoned for an indefinite period of time? The officer’s body began to shake. He lowered his flintlock-wielding arm to his side and lost his grip on the frozen mayonnaise ball, which rolled away without so much as a ‘thank you’ before climbing another tree. Deep laughter erupted from the officer’s mouth. Unable to continue standing of his own volition, he flopped against the tree, clutching at his stomach.

  “You killed a gibbon? A gibbon?”

  I nodded, unsure what was happening.

  “You are an evil one, aren’t you?” he mocked. “I should call for backup!”

  I slid my fingers beneath my hat and rubbed my head in frustration. “It is illegal to dispose of a gibbon, is it not?” I enquired.

  The officer erupted with laughter once more. “Holy wow! If you followed every law to the letter, you wouldn’t be allowed to eat bacon! Most laws continue in name only and exist merely as a cultural relic. I dare you to find an officer willing to arrest you for such a crime.”

  I stood slack-jawed as the officer walked away. I had degraded myself for nothing. A sense of defeat unlike any I had experienced spread throughout my body. The gibbon gravy had dried into a crust on my hand and was kicking up a stench akin to rotten fruit. My act of self-protection had yielded nothing and I was left facing the horrible reality of the situation. My fate was sealed. I had avoided nothing.

  CHAPTER 5

  At this point in the story, any respect I may have garnered from those reading my curious words will likely plummet. But I can assure you, it pales in comparison to the respect I lost for myself. I was a man convinced of his own superiority when it came to thwarting the baser instincts. So much so that I was under the impression baser instincts no longer applied to me. The feelings wrought by the solicitation on the cubicle wall had taken over. Having failed so miserably to avoid confronting myself, I simply gave in.

  It’s difficult to reconcile the relinquishment of everything you believed yourself to be. Perhaps I had simply been lucky up ‘til now, and my mettle had never been tested. Perhaps all this strength of character was an illusion wrought by lack of genuine confrontation. After all, isn’t it easier to avoid something that has never been placed before you? It is those moments of crisis that determine your true worth, and ladies and gentlemen… this was a crisis that sent my stocks plummeting.

  …

  I was seated on the toilet, alternating my gaze from the solicitation to the hands on my pocket watch. It was creeping ever closer to 8pm, at which time I could expect the arrival of the mysterious individual responsible for this whole mess. I read over his solicitation again and again, until each cursive curl became a permanent imprint within me. My heart was beating in chaotic frenzies that my nervous feet attempted to tap along to. As the second hand embarked upon its final circuit, I held my breath. With each mechanical jolt forward my anxiety increased and then, at precisely 8pm, I became aware of a scraping sound, faint at first, but growing louder with each passing second. My eyes widened in a stew of excitement, fear and disgust. Realising that by not breathing, I was doing myself a disservice, I sucked desperately on some much-needed oxygen. A gasp escaped my mouth that caught the attention of my mysterious guest.

  “Hello,” said the stranger.

  I didn’t respond right away. I was caught up in trying to attribute a gender to the voice I had just heard. It was the very definition of androgyny, possessing nothing overtly feminine nor masculine.

  “Hello,” repeated the stranger. “Is anyone there? Please tell me someone is finally here.”

  I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. My social graces wouldn’t allow it. “Good day,” I mumbled.

  The scraping sound became frenzied, stopping short of the cubicle in which I was seated.

  “Hello!” said the stranger with palpable excitement. “I don’t mean to sound forward, but are you here as a result of my invitation?”

  This was my point of no return. I had a chance to claim no affiliation with the invitation and end this whole charade. Every modicum of reason I possessed screamed to do just that. I wanted to obey this reason, but it was losing its power. The beast within me barked its desire, drowning out all else.

  “Yes… the invitation brought me here,” I said.

  “Oh! I can’t believe it. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long. Why don’t you come out and introduce yourself?”

  This wasn’t a step I was quite ready for. What if this stranger meant me harm? I hadn’t thought of it prior to now, but the act I was engaging in was reckless and very likely dangerous. What was I to do? Short of swimming down the toilet, I was trapped in this cubicle and at this individual’s mercy. My only recourse was to use my good senses (if I had any left) to assess the situation.

  “If it’s okay with you,” I said, “I’d like to stay in here a little while longer.”

  “Oh, I’m terribly sorry! Are you using the facilities? How rude of me.”

  The shame in his voice was admirable and certainly worked in his favour. Healthy shame is a sign of superior moral fibre.

  “No, no. Nothing like that,” I said. “I just thought it wise that you and I talk for a while first before we see each other. It makes me feel a little more comfortable. What I’m doing at present is most unlike me and I need to regain some modicum, however fanciful, of self-control.”

  I felt good for having finally said something reasonable. It would prove to the stranger that I wasn’t as reckless as my presence in this situation suggested. If I could set the tone of this introductory encounter, I would surely feel a greater sense of security.

  “I completely understand,” replied the stranger. “I won’t pretend that this is a sensible way to approach camaraderie. Were there any other way, I would have surely avoided this altogether. I’ll make a deal with you. You and I can continue this conversation from opposite sides of this door for as long as you feel it necessary. At this time, should you not feel comfortable in any way, just say the word and I’ll be on my way. You shan’t hear from me again.”

  This stranger was certainly an intelligent one. Their words were perfectly chosen to put me at ease and I couldn’t help but appreciate that. On the one hand, I would have appreciated a poorly chosen statement to upset me – some reason to abort the encounter, but the greater part of me was willing perfection.

  “This deal is most agreeable with me,” I admitted. “I should like to return the favour and allow you an easy exit should you not feel comfortable with me.”

  “Thank you,” the stranger replied.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Please do.”

  “What leads one to solicit a meeting in a public restroom?” I asked.

  “It’s a reasonable question. One that doesn’t have an easy answer, I’m afraid. I suppose one expects that only those embodied with a perverted constitution would explore such a thing. I want to make it clear upfront that I don’t believe myself to be of a deviant nature in the slightest. I possess certain qualities that make it difficult to meet others via standard means.”

  These ambiguous words were a cause for concern. I assumed this stranger was alluding to the physical impediments mentioned in the message. I was keen to have a look for myself and see what it was all about, but I wasn’t willing to forfeit any of my precarious power just yet.

 
“I hear what you’re saying,” I said, “and I’m sure that, should we proceed, the appearance issue is something we can overcome. While we’re being upfront with one another, I feel it only appropriate to inform you that I’m not a man of sexual interests. For this reason, your appearance is of minor concern to me. But this does raise a potential problem. Your delectably penned message alluded to sexual encounters, and I regret to inform you that in such matters, I am not the right person. Sex is something I have no interest in and have always made it a point of pride to avoid.”

  The silence that followed this revelation wasn’t a surprise. I was expecting this would be the end of our liaison and we would go about our lives as if this had never happened. While my appetite for sex doesn’t exist, I fully appreciate that I am in the minority. I didn’t begrudge the stranger this, although I will admit, there was a certain disappointment that accompanied the thought.

  “This may actually work out quite well for both of us,” said the stranger.

  With these words, the spark of possibility fired within me. I stared at the cubicle door in astonishment, wondering if perhaps this was all too good to be true.

  “Are you saying,” I began with caution, “that you have no desire for sexual activity either?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  The stranger’s words were a succinct harpoon aimed right for the heart. I slumped forward in defeat, willing the encounter to end so we could forget any of this had ever happened. Sensing my dismay, the stranger continued with a mind toward damage control.

  “Don’t be disheartened. While it’s true that I seek a companion capable of sexually gratifying me, I am not gratified in the typical way. In fact, I doubt you’d find my method of gratification sexual at all. Unless I tell you what it is, I highly doubt you’d even be aware of gratifying me were you to do so.”

  I was growing quite frustrated with these vague allusions and hungered for something concrete. “What is it exactly that sexually gratifies you,” I asked bluntly.