you'll just bitch things up (short fiction? by kasai)

the truth is, you don't pay much attention to the news if it doesn't pertain directly to your immediate experience. we're just selfish that way i guess, can't really absorb it all. i pay attention this time though. jesus christ. radio says a fucking panther escaped from the brooklyn zoo, and it's 3,000 miles yeah, but i still get the chills, start to sweat a little. i pull over and collect myself for a bit, deep breaths, then back on the road. i wipe my eyes and hope that the people in the cars around me don't notice, don't stare. especially the kids. they love to fucking stare.

it seems like an eternity ago, really does, but it wasn't quite long enough that any of this could be excluded entirely from memory, could be made hazy, harder to grasp with each lunge. oh no, it's all really quite fresh, but i'm moving past that day by day i guess.

all quite horrible, quite embarrassing really, so much so that none of the affiliates even reported the niceties of the attack, just the vague outline of the escape and the consequent putting down of that cougar. it was just one of those things so unspeakable and graphic that in the interest of the city's morale, in the interest of the children, the visceral details of the "attack" were left to the imagination and rumor.

but whatever, this is me, my fucking life, i fucking belong to this shitshow, this "attack." i mean i'm sure as hell not sitting on the couch thinking 'oh that is just so bizarre and unlikely and extraordinarily terrible that there's no way my life could ever take a turn like that.'

i wasn't even outside very long, to be honest.

doing one of those mundane things that completes our existences, nothing of any worth whatsoever, which for what it's worth, makes that day even more painful.

i hadn't been inside to hear the all points bulletin on the cougar. i remember how perfect the weather was that day, everybody out on their motorcycles, kids playing kid games and nothing but tits, and shoulders, and necklines on the streets of san diego.

work had been a bitch, but nature's atmospheric comfort was making all this okay. by the time i heard the screams, i was on my back.

i'm not a large person, by any means, but this thing, this cat out of hell, this 1000 megaton bomb, all fangs and fur and fury and confusion, kind of nullified the difference that increased physical size might have made.

i hit the ground at about 100mph and my head slammed against the browned grass of my so-called lawn. the sensation of skull to earth was without a doubt the most intense and malevolent, persistent pain i'd ever been in. but i knew with an angered killing machine on my chest biting and scratching and hissing, things would only get worse. somehow, in some sort of reptilian survival thrust, i was able to get my forearm up, which of course allowed the cougar to latch on, to anchor itself as he jockeyed for position in the quest for my jugular.

now, i can easily admit, much more easily than i can tell this story all the way through without tearing up, that though i considered myself an atheist at the time, i was praying, out loud, calling out to that dead mystic that so many had put their chips on for so long. i mean really wailing. if He just got me out of this alive, I would devote my life to him or stop drinking or stop looking at porn or whatever specific thing he asked for at that moment of grace and mercy. i mean, God works in mysterious ways.

as the muscular beast's strength started to fade away, motivated by my Jesus Power, I kind of warded off the big cat and somehow made it to my feet, only to find a moderately-sized crowd standing on my lawn, watching in horror, like fucking idiots. tears filled my eyes as i begged them to call for help. no one did anything. i had never done anything to these people to warrant this. still no takers. the fucking excitement, the fascination with weakness and humiliation, the pleasure in the grotesque i guess, all coming together to form some sort of horrible sideshow. they didn't know what they were in for exactly.

in one of those moments when i reared back my arm to swing at the puma's dense head, it lunged at me with that last bit of power left in its powerful haunches, grabbing me by the waist with its powerful front legs.

to this day, i don't remember the actual-i don't remember the actual event itself, only its aftermath. i'd never seen so much blood in my life, not even on television.

it was like the damn thing was a set up, some sort of fucking cosmic punishment for something so terrible that maybe i'd completely blanked it from memory. cougar runs off, gets shot by an off duty cop minutes later, medical help is called for, loose ends are tied. i guess it wasn't really punishment though, because i did go into shock pretty much right away. but i guess when a fucking cougar bites your cock and balls off, your body isn't really left with a choice. God works in mysterious ways.

all that stuff about god working in mysterious ways. yeah, well, that day, i could see my pubic bone or my pelvis, i mean all that flesh and the cotton of my chinos and most importantly, my identifying genitals were fucking gone. gone! all the boys and girls could do was stare, and there might have been a chuckle (nervous, sadistic?) among that crowd of sub-urban fuckwits. there was a lot of diffusion of responsibility that day, everyone hoping that someone else would come along and save the poor bastard with his dick missing. try as i might i'll never forget the sensation of the rivulets of blood snaking down my inner thigh, bloodying up my trousers, a draft coming through the open window in my midsection. mysterious ways.

having blacked out on my lawn from the bleeding, in the ER, i could tell immediately that even the doctors were haunted by the chunk missing from my midsection. fucking bloody crater smiling up at them from the gurney, like fucking triage in khe sahn, the calm and cocksure swagger of the hotshot m.d. instantly deflated at the sight of a half-skull bubbling blood as the g.i. tries in vain to prolong his life for a few more seconds. or in my case, the crotch void spurting streams of oxygenated blood in every which way onto the floor as the writhing accountant tries to sprout an erection that just isn't coming, severed muscles and tendons failing to contract like they had on a daily basis for the past three decades.

a nurse had to leave the room after a doctor slipped in her vomit and struck his head on a cart of medical supplies. and of course there was a lot of reconstruction to fuss over, where parts were going to come from. donors? other sections of the patient's body? worries about aesthetics, about anaesthetics. arguments about functionality. they basically kept me on morphine the whole time, sorting it out strictly amongst themselves, i guess. fine by me. more opiates please.

with the battle over, looking down my body, all i could see was a mountain of interlocking bandages where my cock used to be. they released me from that place with their shoulders shrugged, shoving me off into the world to face the remainder of my life in shameful and emasculating impotence. mysterious ways.

i got a call about a week after i was shipped off to duty in the real world. of course i hadn't been to work in all that time, just lying in bed, miserable, catatonic. i had no doubt it was one of my managers calling to feign concern and understanding while a gaggle of my co-workers cackled in the background. but this was an out of state area code. texas?

a specialist.

this hero, this champion of the human spirit came to me with a question that day. "how would you like to fuck again?" not exactly coy to be sure, but i did want to fuck again, and though i knew that there was no way in hell that any of this could ever work out, i still trusted him, still flew to texas to shake hands with my hero that thursday. still laid down the cash. an experimental medical procedure that would require an opening of the mind, as well as an even further opening of the checkbook. i wasn't worried about money. my uncle remus had died in the oklahoma city bombing and the winfall brought about by the inheritance (seeing as how i'd survived all other possible proprietors of his ill-gotten, medium-sized fortune) allowed for this radical undertaking.

brace yourself kids, because like i said, god works in mysterious ways. fucking real wacky, fucked up, in your face, hate to say i told you so, ass backwards ways. but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.

the surgery would go down in a plastic surgeon's office in beverly hills. dr. kateyian. arab.

"how would you like to fuck again?" was his question, the way i recall it, one that would of course imply some sort of phallic instrument (i supposed a prosthetic, plastic cock while riding on the plane, mind racing as i approached austin) enetrating plump, wet pussy to the heart's content. the american way, fucking for freedom. but. he had something else in mind.

as he explained the procedure with the aid of an intricate PowerPoint presentation and props (those creepy hard rubber models that doctor's and scientists love so much), i was in shock, dissociative shock, looking down on myself as i listened to his pitch. something about solenoids and servo motors and a microprocessor and RealFlesh technology and 90% success in trials and electrodes and daily hormone (male and female) injections and accomodating partners and frequent lubrication and an extended warranty, yes, a fucking warranty.

i floated back down into myself momentarily. "a vagina?"

"not a vagina," he quickly replied. "a new lease on life, and, might i add, a chance to not only have a meaningful sex life again, but to actually stand at the precipice of what is humanly possible in the field of modern medicine." he had a twinkle in his eye as he stood to speak, that vein in his forehead more pronounced than it had been during the not a vagina nonsense. nobility, duty, like this was WWII. he adjusted his sport coat, clearing his throat. "a chance to be a real pioneer. let me ask you, how many people, how many people get the chance in their lifetimes to be at the forefront of something this big."

i was once again outside of myself by that point in his speech, and emotion was truly overwhelming logic. fucking was a significant part of my life, i guess. actually, to say i was, addicted to sex would be wholly accurate. but this, this is fucking nuts, right? asking no one in particular for counsel, trying to float back down into my body to stop my shell from signing off on this shit. a pioneer. that shit just rang in my ears over and over again, right alongside the talk of having (meaningful?) sex again. i mean, i'm an ordinary dude, always have been, with nothing extraordinary to report, save for a cougar mangling my genitals, so maybe this was a brilliant opportunity. yeah, but a question first.

"why a vagina? i mean, why not a prosthetic penis, more traditional you know, i mean larry flynt has one right, and i read that he bangs girls all the time, three at a time sometimes." my shell was rambling on like a fucking idiot without my help. the good doctor responded immediately with a bunch of medical jargon, with talk of how you wouldn't build a house without a foundation.

that was all my shell needed to hear, the whole house without a foundation line.

it was all real transient for me from there, dashing from center to center as specialist after specialist constructed my bionic pussy from the ground up. i was comforted by constant assurances that these men and women had been flown in from all corners of the country, nay the world, to ensure that this went as smoothly as possible. lots of asians on the job. mysterious fucking ways.

after a week with this new contraption, it became perfectly evident that there was something amazing going on here. these asian fucks knew what they were doing. i had my attorney bargain for a contract that would maintain my anonymity, at least at first, while i figured this thing out. maybe a reality show could come later.

the first few weeks were, experimental. i pretty much tried everything i'd always been jealous of women for having the ability to do: the whole showerhead trick, vibrators out the wazoo, putting everything, i mean everything up there, remotes, vegetables, and anything else i could find that reminded me of what used to be between my legs.

i bought books teaching me how to jack off with this new found glory, but eventually the time would come when i would desire penetration, which was tricky, but i needed something to counter the trauma of having to sit down to pee.

i don't like to think about all this stuff, about the past, because if you live in the past, you die in the past. in my case, i had no choice but to discard it. too many questions, and though i moved to san francisco, i'm no faggot, so it didn't even cross my mind to change teams in the name of getting off. fucking mysterious ways.

these days, i mostly just get hookers to go to the sex shop with me and buy strap ons. it's fucked up, but it works, especially when i go nuts with my hormone injections. a good life.

and to answer your question in advance, physiological side effects haven't really been an issue, but there has been one. i mean, standing in this safeway, staring at the women here as they shop, horny as fuck, i have to ask myself, "i wonder if she owns a strap-on?"