Introducing Chris Brailey’s Dream Peen

TIRED OF TUGGING THE SAME OLD STICK? DOES YOUR DICK MAKE WOMEN SICK? REST EASY, THE PENIS OF YOUR DREAMS IS CURRENTLY BEING DEVELOPED IN A FACTORY WEST OF CHINA*.

Jealously is a Curse, But Stains Are the Worst

I’ve never been good with girls and up until Thursday afternoon––neither was the burrito stain on my t-shirt. There I was standing by the bus stop doing my best to not sweat profusely in front of people when an attractive girl headed my way (which, in turn, made sweat management impossible).

“Oh my God! Is that a burrito stain on your t-shirt?” She squealed, like it was a celebrity or something.

“Um, yeah, it is. I just had one.” I mumbled through her excitement.

“I love burritos!” She gasped. “We should get a drink sometime. Like now!” It was that easy.

Next thing, we’re at the pub across the street sharing a beer. “So, tell me: How did you get the stain on your t-shirt? I’m intrigued.” She blushed, but before I could even answer she was already on to the next question. “Believe it or not, (which I didn’t, at the time) I’ve been wondering ever since I saw you at the bus stop what kind of sauce it is,” She paused, “on your shirt I mean.” Blushing again.

Dumbfounded by her interest, I confessed: “Chilli sauce.” And with that she slowly bit her lower lip. I tried to ask some questions of my own in an attempt to change the subject and make light chatter about work, weather, hobbies, anything really––but soon realised that she was only interested in one thing––the stain.

Several beers later the two were practically eating out of the palm of each other’s hands––the stain and her I mean. Not only did I feel like the unwanted third wheel buying them drinks, but extremely uncomfortable when the stain went in for a French kiss. I made an excuse about having work early in the morning and got the hell of there. She wrote her number down on a napkin, leaving a lipstick imprint along with it. The thing is: I’d had stains on shirts in the past ruin conversations, job interviews and certainly photos, but this was the first stain I’d ever seen pick up a girl.

On the way home the stain dodged my questions, acting completely aloof as though I was over-reacting or something. “This is bullshit.” I said, “You’re going straight into the wash basket when we get home.” The smug punk stain just sat there in silence.

My wash cycle ended on Monday so I had a couple of days to cool down before Napisanning the shit out of my t-shirt. After pulling everything else out I eventually came face to face with the stain again. Admittedly, it had slightly faded since Thursday. Certainly less confident in appearance than how I left it. Deflated even; starved from moisture, it barely resembled the cocky son of a bitch that stuck out like dog’s balls on Thursday. I kind of felt sorry for it, in all honesty.

Regretfully, I pulled the napkin with the girl’s number from my pocket. “One phone call,” I said, shaking my head. “Five minutes and I’m hanging up, not a second longer.” With this, the stain lit-up, blooming in colour once more. The phone rang and rang, eventually going to the girl’s mailbox. “Hey, you’ve reached Annie’s phone. Leave a message after the beep.” Even her voice was attractive. I left a message.

“Hi. Yeah, look, it’s, uh, Chris. Not sure if you’ll remember me, but… We met last Thursday. My stain and I…” With that Annie picked up. “Hey! Sorry, I didn’t recognise the number or your voice. Can you tell the stain that I’ve been waiting for him to call?” I stared down at my shirt in the wash basket. “Yeah, sure. I’ll let him know. Listen, what’s the deal here? I mean, you know, this is kinda weird. The whole thing with you and the stain…” Annie quickly cut me off. “Sorry Cliff,” she pleaded. “Chris.” I said. “It’s Chris. My name is Chris.” She didn’t care. “Right. Um, is the stain around at all? Can I talk to him?” With that, I handed the phone over.

Hours went by while the two of them chatted away. Every so often I’d walk by the laundry to check and see if either had hung up, only to find my phone resting on the side of the stain with Annie’s laughter echoing out through the speaker. That weekend, the two of them went out to lunch, unsurprisingly, for burritos. When the stain got home it looked bigger than ever. In fact, it looked as though half a bottle of chilli sauce had been newly spilt on my shirt. I was furious (it was three o’clock in the morning I might add.) “Where the fuck have you been, and why is my shirt covered in sauce? What have you two been doing?” I screamed. “Not that I’ve been waiting up for you or anything.” I added. I might as well of been talking to a brick wall, because the smug punk stain just sat there in silence. “That’s it.” Motioning towards the cupboard. “I’m getting the Napisan.”

First & Last

I’ve never beaten anybody in a race. Well, post-birth that is. And if I hadn’t have won that race, I wouldn’t be here today. The first race any of us are ever in, and it could of (perhaps, should of) been my last. I managed to win the right to be born. I beat millions of other sperm in a race to the egg; which probably says more about the quality of the competition than it does anything else. I can only assume my one and only victory came down to a mix-up. Perhaps I jumped the gun and got off to a good start. I don’t know, but it doesn’t feel right that I’m here, especially after being defeated by a kid almost half my age at the swimming carnival earlier today. My high school P.E teacher seems to share the same assumption. She once lost her cool with me and blurted out in front of the whole class, ‘How fucking slow and stupid must the other sperm have been for you to be born?’ She’s no longer teaching at my school, which isn’t to say she was wrong.

That initial race must have really taken it out of me. Maybe I put so much energy into winning, that I’ve completely exerted myself. It would explain why I’ve felt drowsy and fatigued ever since birth. My mother had me on a variety of vitamins and tablets to combat iron and energy deficiencies as a child, however, none if it ever made a difference. It’s as though my body is still catching its breath. Or maybe it’s just resting on its laurels, content with that one taste of victory. And It’s not as though the victory of being born is something one can cling to, either. Life is like one giant green room filled with 6 billion others who’ve all won the same race. Everyone’s a winner, so it doesn’t even count anymore. It’s like defecating or breathing, we’ve all done it. So you can’t bring it up in conversation and brag about it, or put down the other sperm who lost and died doing so. Nobody living even remembers winning that race. That’s how many other fucking races they’ve won. Is it really impossible to recall life as a semen? Or have people deleted it from their memory bank to make room for all of the other victories they’ve had since birth?

Sometimes I sit alone for hours trying to think back to that race. I try and recall the feeling of making it into the egg first, but it never works. Occasionally I’ll have a nightmare about it; I trip and fall allowing another sperm to get there at the very last second. Other times I’ll dream about the doctor telling my mum that there was a mistake, “The wrong sperm won.” He frowns. “You’ve got a loser on your hands, the rightful winner has been robbed.” The nurse adds. Unhappy with the result, my father applies to have the race rescheduled. The doctor apologises, informing my parents that unfortunately none of the other sperm survived. “You’ll have to start over and try again from scratch.” This news brings a smile to my father’s face. “No,” my mother says, “we’ll keep the baby, for now.”

I wake up in a cold sweat and out of breath, as if I’ve just finished the race. I wonder if it was it worth it? Being born, I mean. What’s the point of winning if you’re doomed to lose forever. I sometimes wish I would have let another sperm win. That way I wouldn’t be getting laughed at by this kid at the swimming carnival. Did I mention that he’s almost half my age! “It’s nothing to be proud of,” I blurt out, “I’ve lost to kids a lot younger than you.” What kind of comeback is that? I’ve only made it worse for myself, he’s laughing even louder. I’m drowning. I try and focus on the comfort of my ergonomic desk chair, my high-speed internet connection, and the release of Call of Duty Advanced Warfare waiting for me at home.

Y-MEN: Steve

No, not all mutants join the X-MEN. Some of us have desk jobs you know.

@therapist

My therapist moved his practice online. From now on I have to vent my problems in 140 characters or less.

Nobody Ever Wants to Rest in a Restroom

Relic in Waiting

My wallet is overcrowded. It’s my fault, I treat it like the second bedroom of my single bedroom apartment. It’s full of junk. In fact, up until September 1, 2014 nothing inside my wallet was of any real value. But thanks to Opal Card my stash of old train tickets will eventually become collector’s items in the distant, distant future. They’ll be kept in those glass cabinets you see in antique stores. The ones that require a series of rusted minuscule keys to unlock. Keys that can only be turned by weathered and wrinkled hands. Simply asking to view an old train ticket will instantly raise eyebrows and attract muttered whispers of jealousy like… ‘They must have a fair bit of bob’.  

I’m saving this one to put my great great great great great grandson through University. You’ll see. It’ll happen.

The Bump Into

We met inside Joe’s Coffee House. Well, technically, in the doorway of Joe’s Coffee House. She wore a bright blue dress with a decorative floral print (which, by the way, still looks amazing to this day). That morning, I was on my way out, and she was on her way in. I was still jittery after indulging in my second cup of coffee; she was flustered, and struggled to balance her awkward combination of urgency and clumsiness that I too saw in myself. Then it happened. We bumped into one another. She stepped right, and so did I. We both giggled. I smiled and she blushed. Then I went left, and she went left! I made the first move, and nervously apologised. She blushed some more, brushing the hair away from her face and said, softly – ‘It’s okay.’ Not wanting to hold her up (although, secretly hoping to) I stepped left once more, but coincidentally, so did she. We both excused ourselves simultaneously, stammering over the top of one another (which was cute… then) It was as if it was our destiny to bump into each other. Fate had brought us together, in it’s own romantically clumsy way. But after twenty thousand-odd left and right footsteps later, we’re still caught in the same doorway, unable to get out of each other’s way, not unlike an animated GIF.

As time went on Joe’s Coffee House eventually closed down and became a laundry mat, then a beauty spa, followed by a Thai massage parlour, a tattoo parlour, a Starbucks, a KFC, a tax agent, an adult store, and eventually another coffee shop. It didn’t seem to matter what happened either side of the doorway, we remained permanently stuck in our clumsy collision. She grew cold, irritable and sarcastically sinister, while I exchanged my smiles and charming mannerisms for demeaning mumbling slurs (directed mostly at myself). 

As unhappy as we were, our timing remained impeccable. She still shuffled left when I shuffled left. And when I went right, she wearily stepped right as well. Gradually, our apologies subsided to a mere sigh or grunt, then inevitably ceased to exist. Each time she brushed the hair away from her face, I quivered inside with rage. The awkward little nuisances we originally fancied in one another became one gigantic pain in the arse.

Still today, our doorway predicament often draws an audience of onlookers who sigh ‘awww’ in unison. Over the years we’ve featured on multiple news programs and even signed a book deal. The publisher thinks our story could be turned into a movie one day. She calls it ‘Hollywood’s first ‘Doorway Romance’. Together we’ve witnessed all types of things in the doorway. A couple of years ago when the cafe was still a KFC there was a robbery. They managed to escape through the open doorway with the safe and four hostages by walking right between us, without breaking our bind. KFC were so livid they attempted to sue us for neglecting our duty of rescue. The court hearing took place right there in the doorway, where we were forced to demonstrate our bind to the jury, as if we had a choice.

The latest coffee shop is currently undergoing renovations, the owner’s concerned that we’re going to get in his way. How ironic. ‘It’s nothing builders haven’t worked around before’ I told him. If something was to change and either she or I made an unexpected move and broke free, I don’t know what I would do with myself, to be honest. It’s been so long that I’ve grown comfortable, content even. My parents have been married 45 years and they can’t stand each other, but they persist. I guess it’s easier staying together sometimes, even when you have a choice.

When we’re alone at night we often talk about missed opportunities to travel abroad or the fact that we’ve never been intimate. As we grow old the chance that one of us may become too weak to stand is kind of exciting, thrilling even. We’ve even started placing bets on who will go first. She thinks it will be me, because of my arthritis. Hopefully, whoever goes first will still be young and healthy enough to travel, heck, even meet somebody else. As long as it’s not in a doorway that is. 

Our timing is so impeccable that we’ll probably go at the same time: dying in each other’s way. Come to think of it, that would be a fitting way to go. Romantic. A real Hollywood ending, the publisher would say. Like Romeo and Juliet, but nothing like that at all.

Little Like The Fly

I return to the table from a short bathroom break and our eyes meet. My date smiles at me as she elegantly brushes the hair away from her face, while sipping her green tea. I sit down and do the same hoping it will calm my nerves. I don’t have any hair so it doesn’t quite come off. As I’m about to take a sip of my tea I happen to notice a small dark blur floating around in my cup. I catch it in the bottoms of my eyes as it passes beneath my nose and hurries into my mouth.

I try to convince myself that I’ve only swallowed a loose tea leaf that somehow managed to slip through the tight security of the strainer. Then paranoia sets in. Could there have been a fly swimming around in my tea cup? What if I have swallowed a fly? I hate flies; I have a phobia of them, they call it – Pteronarcophobia. It all happened so fast I can’t be sure what I saw. I’m starting to sweat. My date excuses herself from the table and I’m convinced that my least favourite thing in the world is now inside me.

I imagine the fly must have landed in my English breakfast whilst I was in the bathroom earlier. Perhaps it attempted to drink its way out at first, eventually swallowing more tea than it could stomach. Is it possible that the fly was lactose intolerant? Did it drown, or was it still breathing? Meanwhile, the back of my shirt is now completely soaked.

Should I say something? Do I ask the waiter for a new cup? By asking and explaining the situation am I going to embarrass myself? Even if I didn’t swallow the fly, she’s still going to think I did because I mentioned it and made a whole big deal over nothing. She’s going to wish she swiped left rather than right. Tinder hasn’t been kind to me, I need this. I don’t have to tell her, and I won’t. Still, I’m worried about the fly that’s now nesting inside me. My date returns to the table and looks uncomfortable; did she see me swallow the fly? Perhaps she noticed that it was in my tea and didn’t say anything, or tried to, but it was already too late. She starts staring at me, swiping left with her eyes.

We talk about a range of topics, but not the fly. She’s amused that we share the same taste in films, music and food, but not so in our choice of tea; I avoid the topic of tea altogether and steer the conversation elsewhere. She seems to have forgotten what happened and entertains me with her quirky tales of adventures abroad, but all I can think about is this disgusting fly. ‘It’s possible he swam out.’ Says a voice coming from within me. ‘What? No! What did he do? Swim to the side and climb out using the ladder?’ I mutter to myself, earning an odd look from my date. ‘Flies shit wherever they land’ Says another voice. Great, now the voices are back. How common is it to suffer from both Schizophrenia and Pteronarcophobia? I’m not thinking clearly, my body’s having a reaction to the fly. I’ve gotta keep it together.

The voice continues ‘I’ve heard if you swallow a fly it’s like swallowing gum. It clings to your insides for eight years and you’re unable to digest it.’ The other voice butts in. ‘No, that’s ridiculous. Gum stays wherever it lands; it hugs the streets, hides under school desks and resides on the backs of cafeteria seats. I’ve never seen a fly stay anywhere for too long, they can’t sit still.’ I cover my mouth and whisper back ‘When it’s alive that is.’

 The date may as well be over, she waves her finger in the air to signal the waiter for the bill. ‘I strongly believe if the fly is in there, he will fly out and everything will be okay.’ Says the voice. ‘She was the only girl who swiped right! We need this!’ Adds the other voice. I wonder what the chances are that he will fly out of my stomach, up through my throat and out of my mouth? Can a fly escape from an ear? Or nose? Or? Oh no. This is bothering me a little, little like the fly.

Down in Smoke: Passive Beginings

I’ve been a passive smoker since I was 7 years old. At least, that’s as far back as I can remember. I’ve never paid for a cigarette, not once, but I have paid for my fair share in cover charges just so I could stand in the smoker’s lounge of a nightclub. I’m pretty much a 2nd hand smoker of the first degree. My addiction has made me a regular at most pubs; and I hate pubs: beer, whisky and bourbon all sicken me to death. Even so, I persist with pubs, and the stench of pub carpet that wishes that it wasn’t. Because, for me, nothing is more satisfying than walking into a clouded room full of cigarette smoke. It’s like taking in a breath of fresh air. Actually it’s nothing like that at all. People often complain about the smell it leaves on their clothes, but that’s what I savour the most.

Simply catching the scent of a stranger lighting up will set me off on their smoke trail. Which brings me to one of my current dire predicaments: people are quitting. Or at the very least, less likely to light up socially. For years I’ve kept pretty close tabs on every known smoker in my office, and numbers are dropping. My strategy for soaking up other people’s smoke is well-worn, nevertheless, effortlessly effective. My process for fuelling my addiction was this: whenever somebody motioned towards the door for a ‘smoko’ break, I would tail closely behind to join them. Most of the time this would mean forcing pointless conversation about weather, sport, or worse, the uneventful coming weekend. Even the most painfully pointless conversations were worth every second of 2nd hand smoke that blew in my direction. Margaret from accounts was a double-edged sword. She was terribly boring on one hand, while blessed with exquisite taste in branded nicotine on the other. She bought the best ciggies, my absolute favourites – Port Royal. Like inhaling gold; so smooth; so good. The combination of the smoke and her perfume was strangely exquisite. Down right intoxicating.

Margaret’s daughter had just married a Jehovah’s Witness. As a devout Roman Catholic, this worried her. So she had plenty of stress to smoke her way through. The more she stressed, the more she smoked. And the more she smoked and choked, the happier I was. By the end of the day she had gone through a whole pack, and so had I. Her daughter’s marriage was turning her into a pack-a-day smoker, upping my intake in the process. If this kept up, I could avoid spending my passive smoking ciggie breaks with Ian, Arthur and Brody. To me, their conversation was just as deadly as their Winfield Reds and Peter Stuyvesant Blues. By 6pm, I was pretty much all smoked out on a daily basis. So satisfied, in fact, I could probably bypass my usual trip to the pub on the way home.

Just like a regular smoker, I tried to quit passive smoking several times. My personal best was 8 days clear, way back in 2006. It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried things: from patches to gum, quit hotlines to meditation, and hypnosis to lozenges. Eventually I decided to just go it cold turkey, which is especially hard when you’ve purposely aligned yourself with heavy smokers. So I took a trip to the countryside to be on my own, away from the nicotine society I had wedged my way into. It was fantastic for about two seconds.

When I got back things had changed. The smoke was clearing as the ban on smoking indoors at pubs and clubs finally hit in 2007. I knew it would, which is why I escaped to the countryside in the first place. Far far away from Ian, Arthur, Brody and most importantly Margaret. I thought I’d be clean by the time I got back, and the smoker’s ban would only help me break free from passive smoking for good. After all, who really wants to stand out in the cold with terrible company. To my surprise, there was no rioting in the streets. Nobody seemed to kick up too much of a stink about the anti-smoking laws. The idea of standing up to the law and fighting back had sort of petered off. Maybe because the pubs had done such an incredible job of transforming outdoor areas with couches that begged for the stench of cigarettes, and portable heaters that the made the inside of the pub feel Antarctically icy. Prior to the law change, many of these pubs were barely standing in their original decor. The idea of a renovation was laughable. Now the term ‘reno’ was on everybody’s lips. In a way the ban on smoking was the culprit which spearheaded the current landscape of made-over pubs, even the office balcony got a few pot plants. Unfortunately, Margaret was also attempting a make-over. She’d quit smoking, first with patches (unsuccessfully) then with prayer.

On my first day back I stood out on the balcony with Ian, Arthur and Brody as they banged on about the same-old shit that I won’t bore you with here. I kept my eye on Margaret through the window, hoping she’d fall back into temptation and join us outside. I was longing to see her face red with rage come storming through the doors and onto the balcony, Port Royals burning like a motherfucker one after the other. Instead, her face remained calm, creamy even. She was barely recognisable as she stared at her computer screen, neck veins intact. Prayer was working for her, and working against me. Religion had finally found a way to pay me back for all the years of gags I’d enjoyed at it’s expense. God does work in mysterious ways. Rather than strike me down (which he could) he simply takes away my chain smoking supplier of the good stuff.

There was only so much more I could take from the likes of Ian, Arthur and Brody. Fuck. I hadn’t come across the scent of a Port Royal in weeks. That day I complained of stomach pains and got out of the office early – that’s when it happened. While standing by the bus stop, my overly sensitive and desperate nostrils caught a faint scent of Port Royal. As the puff of smoke passed over me it revived my morale and gave my cravings an incentive to follow its trail down a dark alley, which, like any alley in a story, was poorly lit. My experience has taught me to keep a safe distance from smokers; enough space to avoid alerting them of my immediate presence, while remaining close enough to take it in. When I eventually caught up to the guy connected to the end of the cigarette butt I became just like the pub carpet that wished that it wasn’t, and witness to a crime. Cold-blooded murder. That’s what it was.