I’m pressed into the very corner of my white room. My whole body’s all shaky and trembly with dull waves of pain. Maybe I’m overdoing it with the workouts. Even breathing hurts, like my chest is flexing too far with each inhale, pulling against something like a body-wide internal sunburn.
To one side of me rests my work laptop. I’m staring at the bottom of my todo list, waiting for the motivation to start crossing off old tasks so I can transfer without leaving my boss with any headaches.
To my other side are plates piled with fries, calamari, watermelon, and a massive hunk from Sallyanne’s birthday cake from a couple days ago. My tender left arm hovers over the food like a machine used to precision-grab something small and valuable. I pack food into my mouth in no particular order.
Maybe sometime soon I’ll get to the diet portion of this get-healthy part of my whole prepare-to-get-laid-so-as-to-make-life-livable resolution. For now, I just need something to take my mind off the aches and pains that have me stuffed against walls like this barely able to move any part of me.
My eyes start to droop as I glare at the end of my work list. I hear Sallyanne down stairs, chirping agreement every now and then as Caylee jumps from topic to topic (I can’t hear Caylee’s words, but I know it’s all about her). But even their grating bird-call voices seem somewhat soothing, like being lulled to sleep by a brass band of kids just barely starting to feel their way around the louder edges of a new piece.
Eyeing the cake, I picture Sallyanne’s cute little tits from the other night when she bent to blow out her candles, the skin revealed from beneath her top somehow both tan and creamy.
My mind runs through the steps of what would have been my sequence . . . (1) set the laptop to covert mode, (2) call up a few known jackpot vids, along with some choice newbies, (3) carefully snake my hard cock from my pants, and (4) explode the way I haven’t in however long before my fucking food even gets cold.
Why not? How stupid is this whole damn nofap thing, anyway? Isn’t it only making me all the more horny and desperate as fuck? I feel like a fucking twelve-year-old getting all quivery and feint at the sight of blossoming coed ass in the cafeteria.
I mean, I wouldn’t stop myself from sneezing if I had to, right? Isn’t this the same fucking thing? My dick’s just allergic, that’s all.
My phone rings. My work phone. I glance over from the screen I long to decorate with porn, and see a number I don’t recognize.
I clear my throat of some calamari crumbs. “LA County, this is X.”
“Hi,” a soft female voice seems to apologize on the other end, “this is Velle. Velle Krizo. I was told to call you. I work for DHHS.” Every word sounds so careful. Maybe regretful.
“DHHS?”
“Department of Health and Human Services.”
Of course. I’m dumb. “Oh, hi,” I manage, and start to wonder why my tone drops in volume and speed almost to match hers. “Nice to meet you.” I say it almost like a question. It’s not that nice to meet her.
“Nice to meet you,” Velle parrots with zero conviction.
We’re both silent for way too long. My imagination wanders back to Sallyanne (with a little Dee thrown in for good measure), and how I might quickly find comparable bodies online engaged in certain actions, and then end this fucking nofap nonsense once and for all.
“What we do,” Velle begins again, audibly expending the conversational energy she must have used our silence to build back up, “is listen and offer resources to callers nationwide who feel they’ve lost the will to live.” Is she reading this off of something? She goes on, “I’ve been on the suicide prevention team for ten years. I’ve been here the longest, and I will be your lead.” She sounds like she’s delivering the worst news imaginable.
“That’s great,” I say. I’m sure she knows how full of shit I am. “Is there a good day . . . or, night . . . I can come meet you and the rest of the team?”
“Yes,” she says like she’s confessing a crime. “We were thinking Friday. That’s our busiest night. You’ll really get to see how our system works, the way the board fills up, and how we work together to make it so callers never have to wait.”
“Ok, good.” I hope I don’t sound like a bossy prick approving of something I’ve had no part in. I hate the idea of being in charge. I don’t think anyone should listen to anything I have to say, ever.
“Good,” she sighs as if she’s already given up on me.
“See you then.”
“See you then.”
Fuck, that was weird. Awkward.
I shovel in a fistfull of fries. Maybe I should go make a milkshake. I know we’ve got that brownie ice cream in the freezer. Hey, if I’m gonna go on a diet soon, I might as well indulge all I can now, right?
A small part of my focus ponders Velle. I’d ask myself, What the fuck is her problem? But how could I answer with anything other than, You/me, asshole, obviously!? So no point dwelling on it.
My restless cock is still a cobra in a basket longing like fuck to be charmed. And Sallyanne’s loud little voice downstairs is still serving as its whirling, tooting snake flute.
Something is a little different though, which feels important to point out: Since I haven’t looked at porn in however long, the specifics I used to hunt for (female tongues grazing along the centers of female asses) hit me as sort of strange and depraved in a way I might have sensed or felt before but never really understood. Buttholes are supposed to be a little gross, right? But when porn fixates and laser-beams your visual and mental focus without the real-life accompanying sensations of taste and smell…
Well, let’s just say it seems nofap has pulled my attention back a degree to soft, round, curvy, delightful outer regions instead of longing to get lost in inner, dark, tangy, salty swells. Interesting.
So, the porn I’d pull up now would be slightly more innocent than what I would have needed to keep my daily+ streak going before I quit.
It seems my robot arm has already received the signal to transition from potatoes and squid to keyboard. Yeah, I’ve given in, and I’m moving ahead with it.
But my non-work phone buzzes, and the message I receive is enough to ward off those plaguing fap demons at least for today. Tapping and scrolling, I see Jeeter’s pointy mug . . . his profile pic somehow worse than what I remember of his actual face at the Starbucks.
I’m shocked. How the fuck did the shithead get my number?
His message reads: Thank you, X. For you have provided me with sufficient motivation to turn my hard-won vision into an experiential reality that you and others shall not escape. Be warned, foe. I am coming for you, and I will destroy you. Jeeter 326.
Holy shit, what a fucking tool!
