A Million Versions of Right

by Matthew Revert

  A MILLION VERSIONS OF RIGHT

  the terribly unusual short fiction

  of

  Matthew Revert

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY

  LegumeMan Books

  Copyright © 2009 by Matthew Revert

  Cover & Design Copyright © 2009 by The Spatchcock

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the express written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law

  ... sudden sleepy movement. The neighbourhood of unseen... jogged his elbow...

  - James Joyce

  CONTENTS:

  A MILLION VERSIONS OF RIGHT

  THE BRICOLAGE SCROTUM

  THE GREAT HEADPHONE WANK

  MEETING MAX

  POWER BLINK

  THE BOOKMARK THAT WOULDN'T WORK

  To the Brothers Gunther, I tip my hat. Jenn shall be thanked for mandatory reasons. Vaughan is to be appreciated like the wind. For those who proofed I give a bucket of my firstborns. And to Brooke who was forced to care, I dribble happy strings of respect

  A MILLION VERSIONS OF RIGHT

  It was certainly no surprise that what I had once referred to lovingly as ‘the gentle little rub’, had eventually become frenetic masturbation, resulting in my first orgasm.

  * * * * *

  Under the bed that one lunch time, hiding from my clockwork father, I was excited and disgusted, my pockets chock full of scabs. My hands were adorned in filthy fingernails, all chewed and torn. I laid there under the bed, cribbed among uncomfortable refuse. The sound of approaching footsteps combined with the sight of a looming shadow panged excited nerves throughout me. I jerked quickly, my breathing heavy as I progressed toward the climax. A distinct sense that this feeling couldn’t elevate any higher overcame me. When that point of no return had been reached, it was nothing but intense pain. My toes curled, my lips were bitten into leaking sores, sweat lathered me. That was the first time I ever ejaculated a moustachioed tiler.

  The moustachioed tiler climbed down my erect shaft and immediately got to work. Retrieving all the tools he needed from a seemingly infinite back pocket, he began to lay miniscule tiles upon my stomach. It wasn’t long before my entire lower torso had been well and truly tiled.

  The tiler extracted a thermos and a sandwich from his pocket, sat down and had a break. With his gruff exertions, sweaty brow and dirty white overalls the tiler was a sight to behold. He chewed upon his tiny sandwich, spitting out chunks he didn’t like.

  When my clockwork father finally vacated the house I squirmed my way out from beneath the bed. The tiler appeared angry at the inconvenience these movements caused.

  “Sorry,” I whispered, as if atonement was necessary.

  He momentarily stopped eating his sandwich and stared hard, right into my eyes. A very awkward silence ensued. I had the distinct impression that I shouldn’t move at all, lest I further irritated this strange little man. I watched as he retrieved a cigarette from his front pocket and started exhaling the filthy smoke into the room. There was little I could do.

  So there I laid, pants around my knees. A good half of my body entombed in miniature tiles. If there was one thing to be said it was that this tiler had a remarkable work ethic. If only he would stop tiling for a while and get off my body.

  Burning with hunger, I remember desperately wanting to get up. Stomach acid was knocking against my insides like waves to a shore. Each stomach grumble forced barely spoken profanity from the tiler. I figured it best to stay where I was. My penis was pathetically exposed and flaccid. My urethra was still recovering from the enormous stretch of the moustachioed ejaculation.

  Hours passed and my clockwork father was due home any minute. My entire body was tiled except for my face and genitals. I assumed this was an attempt by the tiler to maximise the shame and embarrassment I would feel when my father found me in such a peculiar position.

  The sound of the car rumbling up the driveway struck me with fear. The tiler cruelly laughed to himself despite the fact the situation was anything but amusing. No, it wasn’t a laugh as much as a verbalised rictus.

  My father’s footsteps clopped up the front steps. He unlocked the door and entered the house. He gently closed the door behind and began making his way ever closer toward his son’s sheer embarrassment and shame.

  I lay prone, tiled to the hilt. That tiny bastard was eating a sandwich that never seemed to end. An alarming quantity of crumbs had accumulated in his moustache. I could clearly make them out despite their microscopic nature.

  The words of my father upon entering my bedroom still ring in my ears to this day. In a screeching falsetto he exerted the words, “Now fuck me if you ain’t all covered up in tiny tiles!”

  My father moved closer, eyeing the moustachioed tiler as he ate his sandwich. “One thing you should know, son, is that when faced with a situation such as yours, when you ejaculate something untoward, you should respond in a manner that is at least equally as untoward as the ejaculate.”

  In fascination, I stared at my father. Without the slightest hesitation, he picked up the tiler in a pinch of his fingers. The tiler dangled ever so awkwardly in my father’s grip but remained as apathetic as ever. Once my father nabbed the little sandwich right from the tiler’s tight grasp the apathy turned into a miniaturised rage. My father just laughed in a self-assured way as he inserted the tiler into his hefty anus.

  “I’m just going to keep him there,” he said to me with a pleasant wink.

  He turned around and walked toward the lounge room. Moments later I heard the sound of the television coming to life.

  Still laying flat and covered in tiles, I pondered what my father had said. He was undoubtedly right, as the tiler certainly wasn’t a problem anymore. It was as if my father had demonstrated the positive nature of fighting fire with fire. Birthed from the cock but destroyed up the arse. It was an understandable conclusion to his little life. That it was demonstrated with such ease still dazzled me and filled me with an admiration for my father that I’d never previously experienced. My father was somehow a little less clockwork.

  I remember the mild sensation of pain as I peeled the tiny tiles from my ravaged body. Each tile cluster stung my skin as if tearing off a bandaid. With the deed finally complete, I stood straight up and examined my naked body in the mirror. I was covered head to toe, excluding face and genitals, in a red, itchy rash. Tile rash, I thought to myself, what a peculiar development.

  I lay in bed, covered in itch and absorbed in deep contemplation. Looking back on it now, I feel as if I was robbed of my first orgasmic experience. Where I should have been reflecting on the strange physical sensations that shot through my body, all I could see was the gruff face of the apathetic tiler as he munched on his bloody sandwich. This would eventually affect my sexual in a most profound manner. Suffice to say, during moments of sexual intimacy, the tilers’ face continues to invade my fragile thoughts. It has ruined many a promising night. To this day I call it ‘the flaccidity of the tiler’s curse’.

  * * * * *

  My first ejaculatory experience may have been my first visit from the moustachioed tiler but it certainly didn’t prove to be the last. As you may imagine, the outcome of my first act of self-love filled me with trepidation. The situation I found myself in was unfortunate. As a pubescent teen, I was in a near constant state of intense arousal which was perpetually at odds with my fear of masturbation. I would go to bed at night and pray to a higher power I didn’t quite believe in, to ward off the potentiality of a wet dream. I may have been able to reject the masturbatory temptation in the waking hours, but I had little control over
myself when in a state of sleep. Wags at school would boast of the sticky mess they awoke to on a constant basis. I would have loved to wake in a sticky mess. My concern however, was that I would awake covered head to toe in tiles and tiny breadcrumbs, unable to move.

  The pretty young things in my class would invade my dream state regularly and it was only a matter of time before this translated into an unconscious eruption in my lower regions. This eventuality did indeed occur. It had been nearly three agitated years since my first and only orgasm.

  That night, in my dreams, the girls pranced about in their short little dresses, winding me up like a toy, willing me to snap like a faulty twig.

  The next morning I awoke, and like I did every morning, patted my sleepy chest, feeling for tiles. I breathed a sigh of relief as my chest was still naked as the day I was born. I threw back the blankets ready to start the day, but the sticky, wet sensation in my pants became apparent. I couldn’t quite believe it. By all accounts, it appeared I had successfully orgasmed without the appearance of a tiler. It aroused me instantly and masturbatory thoughts entered my head immediately. Wary of the time however, I had to shelve them.

  The next day at school was full of braggadocio on my part. Sure, I had bragged about my wet dream prowess before but this was the first time I had actually experienced a wet dream to back it up. I boasted loudly and proudly to all and sundry. Quizzical stares assailed me from the chums and wags as my enthusiasm was in direct contrast to my previous, untrue boasts. I’m still not sure whether two and two was ever successfully put together, but that is by the by.

  I was determined to masturbate myself into a gooey stupor upon my arrival home. My erection had been a barely tamed beast all day. I felt it could sense the possibilities. Tentatively, yet excitedly, I threw myself on the bed and went to work. I clung to myself ever so tightly as I jerked and pulled the last three years of repression away. The moment of climax was a terrifying yet brilliant one. There was that split second where I feared the worst but the worst simply didn’t come. Instead I erupted all over myself in pure ecstasy. The tiler, for whatever reason, had been vanquished from my loins.

  This was my ticket to pubescent paradise. My life became a dizzy blur of climax and seminal fluid. No tiler, no problems. It wasn’t until my first real sexual encounter some years later that the tiler reappeared and caused all manner of problems for me and my ill-fated sexual partner.

  * * * * *

  I met her in crying class. She was struggling with the basic methodology involved in the use of crying ribbons. I approached her with pure intentions, failing at the time to notice her exquisite beauty. She sat pathetically with a second generation beginners ribbon hanging lifeless from her right eye. I asked her if she needed help. She accepted. Her acceptance revealed a shame in her voice. I found the display of shame endearing.

  I gently tugged on the ribbon, being careful not to irritate her eyeball. The ribbon slipped out and her eyes blinked frantically, as if shaking out the cobwebs. ‘Ribbon Jitters’ they were called according to the literature. We got to talking. There was a mutual affection and it wasn’t long before we were what the other wags called an ‘item’.

  Sexual intercourse was the inevitable conclusion of our trajectory. Our affection had grown rather deep and the ‘love’ word had been used on more than one occasion. As it happened, the intercourse was a result of passionate spontaneity. My clockwork father was out for the night at a ‘dreary old function.’ We were alone in my room discussing matters of interest. The conversation arrived at the topic of nipple wheeze. We lost ourselves in passion.

  I was blissfully inside her before I could fully comprehend my actions. Our awkward movements had a resonance of innocence that was purity embodied. As is common during one’s first sexual encounter, it was all over relatively quickly. The moment of climax was problematic. For the first time in years, I felt the familiar discomfort as my urethra stretched beyond reasonable limits. My deposit was a treacherous one. It quickly became apparent that I had just ejaculated another moustachioed tiler, only this time into my sweetheart.

  * * * * *

  I had pulled out too late. It was post-coital devastation of a most unusual kind. I could detect the look of concerned confusion in my sweetheart’s eyes. I owned up almost immediately. I explained in detail about the tiler and the high probability that he was now residing somewhere in her vaginal tunnel. Her tears flowed endlessly. Between sobs I was implored get it out at any cost. My efforts to calm her down via Rastafarian impersonation were an instant failure. I asked her to wait while I sought out a torch to shine directly up her region. Although I was gone mere seconds, I’m sure it felt like hours to my poor little sweetheart, as she sobbed wretchedly. Coils of smoke were floating from between her legs, filling the room with the scent of tobacco. I requested my sweetheart remain deathly still, as it appeared the tiler inside her was smoking a cigarette. She fanned at the smoke as it attacked her pretty face. I asked her to part her vaginal walls, which she did in a surprisingly ladylike way. I shone my torch deep within her, searching out the moist crevasses. I could just make out what appeared to be a little hand, waving about a cigarette like some form of diva. I informed my sweetheart that I could see him and she again implored me to hurry. With a long-handled spoon, I scraped about inside her, trying to ensnare the tiler. He was definitely privy to my intrusion as he dodged about, attempting to find sanctuary within the limited space available. Above me, my sweetheart squealed in a discomfort that I’m sure she viewed as pain. The real pain - unfortunately - was soon to come. As if the tiler was aware of the love I felt for my sweetheart he began to stab at her insides. I felt every little stab and slash. Her squeals of agony were intensified. I felt helpless as I desperately reached for the horrid little man. I did eventually manage to get his kicking body out but I tore my sweetheart up rather badly in the process.

  With the bastard tiler in my tight grip, I surveyed the scene. Bits of my poor little sweetheart seemed everywhere around the room. Needless to say, my carpet was sodden. My stony gaze returned to the squirming, little tiler in my hand, the source of so much misery in my life. My first sexual experience had concluded with the death of my first true love. I felt worthless.

  My mind began to occupy itself with thoughts of the tiler and what I should do with him. I was at quite a loss, until I remembered the previous actions of my father. That day, laying on the floor, covered in tiles, my father had indeed come to the rescue. His actions were so sure. He did what he did with barely a thought and it had worked. One thing you should know son, is that when faced with a situation such as yours, when you ejaculate something untoward, you should respond in a manner that is at least equally as untoward as the ejaculate. These were the strange words my father had said. With conviction I slid the moustachioed tiler into my tight anus.

  * * * * *

  The tiler’s presence was by no means muted. I could feel every movement as he writhed about my inner workings. A profound sense of discomfort overwhelmed my being, as I contemplated the purpose of my actions. On top of the discomfort was the feeling that my bowel tract was at that very moment being tiled. Just how long the tiler was to remain inside me, I didn't know. The first few minutes had been extremely unpleasant and I shuddered at the possibility that the fate which had befallen me was a permanent one. How was I to defecate or even walk appropriately, given the constant clench required to keep the wretched tiler inside? Clearly I needed to consult my father in the matter, which is precisely what I did.

  I awkwardly walked toward my father in a style that could best be described as a blimey tortoise. He was in his sitting chair watching his stories. I wasn't aware of my father's tele-visual tastes but the show seemed especially unusual. There was a man on the screen among the shrubbery, and the hat he was wearing was clearly incorrect. In a mild panic, I averted my gaze. My father looked up at me, examining my blood spangled body. Rather than a shocked or horrified reaction he simply nodded knowingly with a degr
ee of genuine warmth that momentarily elevated me from my emotional doldrums I had been lost within. Explaining the situation in detail, with several well-timed points of the finger toward my backside the gist was understood completely. He informed me that although he had chosen to dispose of the tiler via his anus, it wasn't necessarily a path that I should take. He looked me square in the eye and repeated something that will resonate within me for the rest of my life:

  "There are a million versions of right, son."

  Those were his exact words. They circulated throughout my mind as I tried to grasp their import.

  I spent a great many weeks with the tiler inside me as I couldn't find any alternative solutions to my woe. My precarious bowel movements were infused with miniature tiles and cigarette butts. On the odd occasions where my mind wasn’t obsessed with the beast inside me, I mourned my sweetheart. I had completely stopped attending classes and accepting guests into my home.

  These were dark days as I retreated more and more within myself, almost shunning the reality of the world around me. My father’s words were still but an unbreakable cipher in my mind. Any efforts made to convince my father to expand upon his statement were met with a solemn shake of the head and inexplicable gesticulation.

  Descending deeper into a private hell I beat upon walls with bare fists and slapped my weeping rump, trying to knock the tiler about. He remained very much alive inside me, assumedly subsisting on a back pocket full of never ending sandwiches and god knows what other edibles.

  When an unfortunate situation removes all vigour from life there comes a time when you must seek a conclusion. It appeared as though having the tiler inside me simply wasn't working out as I’d planned. My bowels were pregnant with a life that irritated me to a completely unreasonable degree. After many sleepless nights, I finally arrived at the decision it was time for the tiler to go. I simply couldn't tolerate his presence anymore. He had ruined all that was worthwhile about my life and if it didn't end soon I feared my life would.