by James W. Lewis
(A little something for the brothas to think about)
He caught the reflection of his head whirling in a convulsive shudder, his eyes swollen, teeth clamping down on each other. His face was crunched with mad intensity, like a man holding his breath for far too long. Great pain made his body become limp, so he pushed his hand against the bathroom mirror to steady himself. He planted one foot against the tub and the other against the bottom of the sink to stifle trembling legs.
"Grrrr!" he growled as urine spurt onto the floor. A scourge of searing discomfort ripped through his torso, causing the skin around his neck to strain as he struggled, revealing swollen bloodlines like small snakes. He squeezed his eyelids shut, forcing a tear from the corner of his eye to slide down his cheek.
His fingers were wrapped around his manhood, but he was unable to direct the stream into the toilet. His stomach tightened with each small gush that seemed to yank flesh from within, causing his knees to buckle. Beads of liquid salt crept down his forehead.
What the hell is going on? he managed to say in his head, somehow forgetting the internal chaos for a second. He squeezed his eyelids tighter and lowered his head, drawing short, rapid breaths, murmuring to himself as he tried to summon the strength to control his inner ravage.
Any ounce of courage he had managed to conjure up vanished when he opened his eyes.
His head shot back. "What the hell!" he screamed. His feet slid on the vinyl slick with urine, forcing him to lose his balance. He grabbed the shower curtain and ripped it off the metal beam. It all collapsed into the bathtub in a plastic heap as he crumpled against the wall. Pain shot up his back when his butt slammed against the floor, his legs sprawled out on each side of the toilet.
He cuffed his hands over his throbbing member, ignoring the warm liquid that leaked into his palm and underwear. Fearful eyes focused on the spots of blood on the toilet lid.
"Wh-what the hell is ... is wrong with me?" he said.
As soon as he spoke, the sultry body of his one-night stand slithering to smooth R&B melodies resurfaced in his head. Her skin was like silk to the touch. Full breasts ... succulent lips ... a clean-shaven canal of hot, moist flesh ... a body of perfection that was ... untainted?
"It can't be!" he cried. "She looked so--"
He cut himself off, realizing his ignorance. He pursed his lips and knocked his head against the wall. "Damn it."
An image of him standing inside the cheap motel lobby bathroom crept in his head. He could see the small vending machine on the wall, just above the urinal. Saw the ribbed kind, the extra-sensitive kind, and the flavored kind-all within reach. Just had to the jiggle the change and twist the knob. But he had brushed it off because he knew the girl he was about to tussle with was "grade A" clean.
Looks are definitely deceiving.
Fifteen minutes of pleasure translated into a lifetime of misery.
If he had only used that fifty cents.