“Horseshit. Little man.” The botched-Botox one talking like he got problems on the breathing front – like his lungs are letting in liquid. Some stateside accent mixed in with the liquid. “Nobody’s been following you anywhere, kid. Matter of fact, I think you’ll find that you’ve been following us.” Dude coughs into my space to respond, before hitting me with: “We were even contemplating calling the cops. Tell them how you’ve been stalking us. The whole day long. In fact, we even thought about calling the cops.” And again with that combo of old-school aftershave and old-man flatulence.
“Nah, you must be mistaken, old man. I weren’t following you nowhere. I study here. Well, not here in King’s, I mean at LSE.”
Younger-looking old man now starts up with his own OTT coughing routine, like they having some sorta bronchial congestion contest. “Oh, you study.” He turns to talk to the man who looks like his older self: “He studies.” And then back to me: “You’re a student.”
Botched-Botox man raises his shot-sized pint glass – fingers so obese they entering proper obscenity territor. “Good for you, kid. Good to get educated. Challenge your own thinking. That way you won’t get duped into cutting off your own face as an anti-wrinkle remedy. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course – about voters and consumers and so on.” Touches his botched-Botoxed forehead. Upturned eyebrows and swollen thoughts. “I mean, I’m speaking metaphorically, not literally.”
Start telling them they already gave me their pro-educational public-service sermon when they was trolling me during lectures this morning, but the younger-looking man cuts me off. “And now here you are with us once again. What are the chances, eh? What a coincidence. What a small and fucking wonderful world.”
Can’t puzzle out whether all this fuckery calls for angstipating and adrenal-gland action, so what I do is, I end up angstipating about whether or not I should be angstipating. That kinda dicklessness actually happens to me on the regular – even when it just comes to feeling up or down. Ain’t gonna go all open-process here or nothing, but apparently it’s cos I’ve spent way too long “mirroring my mother’s feelings” instead of growing my own. Turns out this is why some dogs end up looking like their owner – all them years of aping their owner’s moods, vibes and facial expressions. Fuck knows if I look like my mum, though, cos even Mum don’t look like Mum.
I tell the men ain’t no effing way I coulda been following them – whether to lectures or the library or any other obligationary day-in-the-life-of-a-student destination. For starts, wherever the men had gone, my ass had been sat there way before they showed. While the botched-Botox man hears me out, his right eye starts twitching. White lashes that match his stubble. He scratches his stubble and it’s like as if salt is falling from his face – this neat line of it across their table. They carry on listening from behind the salt. Meantime, the other man – Mister Clean-Shaven Blankpage-Botox man – is some perfect picture of airline-pilot healthiness, fixed up and double-filtered on Instagram. Skin so shiny and silky smooth, my focus keeps slipping off his face and onto the noticeboard beside them. Ads seeking co-founders for student tech start-ups instead of lead guitarists. And all those Student Union slogans: A short dress is not a yes. A yes is not a yes if she’s intoxicated. Consent means asking every time.
“So tell me something,” goes the botched-Botox one. “Your withdrawal in the library today – that was because of us, yes?”
Tell them I didn’t withdraw diddly jack from the library – that I already bossed this term’s reading list.
“Oh, for the sake of your own self-respect, don’t play all geek and innocent. I’m talking about the withdrawal of your fingers from the soft and warming flesh of that fetching young girl. Because, you know, you could have just ignored us and continued – honestly, we wouldn’t have minded.”
“Yeh, and you won’t mind if I report you to the feds for being a pair of dirty old pervs.”
“Though I gotta say, kid, it was damn decent of you to clip and scrub your fingernails in the bathroom beforehand. I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed such creepy considerateness before. Presume that means you intended to progress further up her legs than her feet?”
Fuck’s sake. Now I’ll probly spend the next three hours wondering why every guy doesn’t clean their fingernails beforehand. That shit’s just basic hygiene, right? Like dressing a woman’s wound. Or rubbing iodine into her surgical scars. Surely you can’t just use antibac handgel – the alcohol would sting her.
“Although, I suppose you could always first cleanse your fingers with antibacterial handgel,” goes the older-looking old man. “But then of course that would dry her out. Bad, bad, skanky and crusty. Because you did intend to move your fingers further up her legs, didn’t you? Please don’t tell us you were just planning on fumbling at the foot of the garden. I mean this metaphorically, of course.” His smile flexing a vein across his temples like he got some extra blood supply for his eyes. “Trouble is, it isn’t just diversion or distraction for you, is it, kid? No. And nor is it a plain and simple pain reliever to block out all those years of icky feelings.”
I look to the other man to help clue me in a little here, but his blankpage-Botox face is completely cleaned out of everything – no smirk action, no frown action, not even them tiny changes in expression that anyone with a pain-managed mum learns to trust more than what she says.
“No, you just do it to feel independent, don’t you? Reclaim your body for yourself. You see the irony in this, don’t you? That the act of coupling should make you feel autonomous. I mean, you see the irony in this?”
Tell him I dunno what he’s talking about.
That I don’t give a fuck what he’s talking about.
Then I ask him what he’s talking about.
“Of course you know. You know everything there is to know. You have a smartphone with Google access, don’t you? In fact, it seems you have several. So you know. Just tap in the entry passcode on the keypad and, hey sesame, open presto: all the world’s knowledge on tap. Anticipating your every informational need. But let me help you scroll straight through the bullshit: I’m talking about antiperspirant. Disinfectant. Latex barrier protection. I’m talking about boundaries. Hard border controls. I’m trying to tell you that it isn’t about all that fingering and sucking and fake fucking, it’s just about that thrilling hit of independence. And do you know what this means?”
“Means y’all a pair of dirty old men who need serious psychiatric help, is what it means.”
“It means that you’d do a lot less damage all round if you just played with yourself, kiddo. Buff your own banana. I mean this metaphorically, of course. Don’t go around breaking young girls’ hearts, hymens and shoe heels – just burp your worm by yourself. Revert back to a ten-year-old boy who barricades himself in his bedroom with a box of Kleenex and a copy of the Sun. Use Vaseline if your dick chafes, take ibuprofen for tennis elbow. And one, two, three: wank yourself free.”
Before I can even think how the fuck to respond, the old man nods towards the men’s room. “In fact, why not beat off in the bathroom right now? Go on – go in there and choke the chicken. Don’t worry, we’ll still be here when you return.”
“Er, no thanks. I’m fine.”
“But you’re a teenager – you’re supposed to masturbate. Go on, go squirt out a cupful of boy milk.”
Man carries on like this for another three minutes, but problem is I’m too weirded-out by this whole concept of officially sanctioned wanking to just get up and walk. Every time he offers a practical pro tip (his pun, not mine), I just sit there giving it: “No thanks, I’m fine.”
“You sure?” The veins bulging across his temples finally shrink back into his Botox. “Okay then, well maybe later. Maybe you’ll sauté your sausage in the shower this evening – with one of your brochures for underfloor heating solutions. All those naked and splayed and stockinged feet.”
That feeling when your mum walks in on you.
How th
e fuck did you forget to lock the door?
That feeling when you walk in on your mum.
Older man puckers his lips and blows like he’s trying to wolf whistle. “If only you could have stuck with all those underfloor heating brochures, heh? Instead of moving on to harder stuff. But as with all the extremities, it’s an easy slope to slip down. I’m speaking metaphorically, of course – you don’t literally slip down a slope. Otherwise there’d be a helluva lot of perverts and terrorists and far-right neo-Nazis walking around with twisted ankles. But you know how it is, kid: once you’ve clicked on one link, you keep stumbling into others. The way they just keep magically appearing on your screens. Your search results. Your social media feeds. Up next on YouTube. One minute you’re googling strappy stilettos and then sooner or later you’re looking at pink furry ankle cuffs. Next, a sponsored story about how to safely use manacles and shackles. Autoplay. A targeted Facebook post. And before you know it, nothing can save you from the bright-red rope. In fact, it’s an easy slope to slip down. Of course, I mean this metaphorically.”
I tell him I’m still on strappy stilettos but thanks very much for the Fifty Shades plot spoiler.
And now an ad for an amputee porn app.
“The personalisation of your digital experience”– the botched-Botox man now sounding like some greasy TV ad – “No more coming across any pesky content you find boring or confusing or at odds with your own made-up mind. And the more you click on the links, the more your dirty stinking twistedness is validated rather than challenged. Slowly, you start to feel a little less ashamed. You take strength from seeing like-minded people sharing like-minded content and from the sheer assortment of targeted products.”
The two old men carry on mansplaining how the fucking internet works like as if I don’t already know that shit. Like as if blaming Facebook and Google is the new blaming your mother.
Allow that fuckery. It’s just basicness, standardness business. The websites and apps figured out way back that showing you hardercore versions of stuff you already like or agree with will keep your ass logged on for longer. Meaning more advertising bucks for them. And the more you click and share and scroll, the more custom-tailored the shit that appears on your fone, and so the more you click and share and scroll. Ain’t exactly gonna keep you logged on and clicking/sharing/scrolling if they start sticking stories about green veggies in your feed.
Blankpage-Botox man tags himself back in: “So you see, it’s not your fault, kid.”
I cut him a look like as if to say give me a break – or, actualtruth, more like: don’t give me a break. All them kerb-kicked therapists who wanted me to blame my mother or someshit. And now these two goons telling me to blame Silicon Valley. Bollocks to that – I done all my messed-up fuckery. Me.
“After all, people are biologically hardwired to feel all warm and fuzzy and fired up inside whenever their own inclinations are backed up by what they watch or hear or read. It’s why we like to underline passages in books that we strongly agree with. Makes us feel better about ourselves – shores up our fragile egos. Confirms our good standing within our respective tribes. Underline, highlight, retweet, share …”
“… Click, click, click,” goes the older-looking man, “Slip and slide. Big juicy dopamine hit. Whatever supports your deepest beliefs or triggers your darkest desires.”
Some ashtray appears from a more smoking-friendly decade. Fones laid out like empty coasters. Blankpage-Botox man now giving it some more about people’s inbuilt guidance system for seeking out info that backs up what we already think while dumping any info that contradicts us. I step up and tell them that I already know this – that the technical term for that shit is “confirmation bias”. That I was in the same bloody lecture as them this morning for our Behavioural Economics module. “Or have you two grandpas already forgot?”
“I seem to recall a number of technical terms from that lecture,” goes the botched-Botox man. “I particularly liked the Dunning-Kruger Effect – the dumber you are, the more confident you’ll be that you aren’t actually dumb. Makes people believe that their ignorance is somehow equal to an expert’s actual knowledge. In fact, I lost count of how many design flaws the human mind can hold. All those cognitive biases. But there are things that your lecturer failed to explain, kid. Things that perhaps you should know.”
Other man cuts him off, proper stressed: “So you see, we’re just trying to help you here. Offer you some kind of solution.”
“Exactly, a solution to all your problems, Dylan.”
“Yeh, well my problems ain’t need no solving.”
“Then don’t call it a solution, call it a proposition.”
“Yeh – you want me to go and jerk off so that you can proposition me in the men’s room.”
“Maybe you should hear us out before mocking us,” goes the botched-Botox man. “And, no, we do not intend to follow you to the washroom – we’re quite content to wait here and keep our eyes on our drinks. You may masturbate in private, Dylan. Download your dongle. Milk your own memory stick. But be careful while you back up your hard drive or you might upload all over your clothes. Metaphorically speaking, I mean.” He throws me some paper napkins and like some doughnut-fucker I actually catch them. “Oh, and by the way, did you know you can expand your bandwidth by using a wire to restrict your windpipe? That’s actually one of my favourite tricks. So please, stop dithering and delaying and go and be done with it, kid. Don’t worry, we’ll wait right here and keep our eyeballs on the table – I’m speaking metaphorically, of course. We’re not actually going to gouge our eyes out.”
Men’s room. Vomit in the toilet cubicle. Try not to take too long about it in case the two men actually think I’m actually wanking. When I’m done, wash out my mouth with Red Bull, then paper towel my shirt collar. Normally I’d brush my teeth, pop a breath mint, chase it down with Listerine. Light a match to sulphurise the stench, clean the bowl and basin for the next occupant. Cos you can redecorate your home with sick bowls and commodes, but you should never forget basic bathroom etiquette. Mama was proper specific on this even before she got sick: “Dhilan, don’t sprinkle when you tinkle.” “Be sweet and wipe the seat.” Actualtruth, before they finally split the sheets, she and my dad first tried out separate bathroom sinks, then separate toilets. None of that marriage therapy bullshit – Mama used to say “analysis is paralysis”. Might as well say that cats are fucking hats. Still, when Mum went for chemo in the Nuclear Medicine Unit, I agreed to go get counselled in the Patient and Family Support Unit. Technical term for that shit was “anticipatory grief counselling”, but I prefer calling it pre-bereavement bereavement counselling. Place for me to work through my pre-mourning mourning in a state of pre-calm stormness. Next, I agreed to go for counselling with Mum. Technical term for that shit was family therapy, but we called it mother–son marriage guidance. Place for us to work through our bathroom and bedroom and headspace etiquette. But when that shit broke down, we settled on separate counselling sessions, but at the same time and in side-by-side rooms. Like we was shitting in adjacent toilet cubicles.
“Well, that didn’t take you very long.”
I walk outta the men’s room and into some music. When the fuck did they start playing music?
“Here, have one of these chocolate chip cookies. They’ll help you reload your pistol.”
Before I can clarify that I ain’t been wanking, the younger old man tells me the cookies are mint chocolate chip – “Mint for oral freshness, Dylan.”
Music’s some proper playtime/funtime bullshit – Daft Punk or Beyoncé or Barney the Dinosaur. And also people – there’s now more people. Sound system in the corner; I shoulda stayed in the men’s room.
“You know the other great thing about masturbation?” – older-man has to amp up his voice to level nine – “It’s much more time-efficient. You can masturbate while you check your emails or even while you eat. So, all in all, a perfect addition to all those time-saving strategies
you’ve already deployed to make your life more manageable.”
By this, he means studying in the toilet. He means shaving in the waiting room. He means online grocery shopping during school lessons. Teleconferencing for my tech start-up during lectures. Eating sandwiches for dinner while showering.
“In fact, with enough practice, you can even wank while you puke.”
So, yeh, I shoulda stayed in the friggin men’s room.
“By the way, you can purchase a handy wrist support by clicking on this link.”
Shoulda stayed put in the library.
“Another product we’d recommend for you is a lubricated Fleshlight.”
Shoulda gone to some client’s office.
“It comes in a variety of skin tones, textures and orifice styles.”
Shoulda gone to the library/hospital/necropolis/hospice/ office/library/hospital/temple/chapel/office. I had this place pegged as some quiet Student Union joint, but now it’s morphed into a real-life music promo. Press play for cleavage. Press play for vigour and vitality. Press play for toned-and-waxed six-packs loaded with actual Corona. The two men continue shouting out the benefits of various masturbation aids; I blank them, down a double Red Bull. Pop a Pro-Plus caffeine pill. Pack up my shit. Leave. Everyone getting ready to get frisky, talk bullshit, get more frisky, talk louder bullshit, feel good about themselves. I pack up my shit and leave. And what the hell is with that whole rugby-team recreational vomiting thing? I pack up my shit. And leave.
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