All the Rage

It didn’t look — thank you — very much like a penis at all. Mandy had judged me — thanks — over to my left were obsessively anatomical offerings — thanks — Mandy had judged I would favour something impressionistic. Vague. Elegant lines. Inhuman.

I had the air, then, of someone who might wish to redesign their partner.

Thank you.

To love and despise simultaneously — Mandy assumed I was capable of that.

Thanks.

Clever Mandy.

Thank you — trying to — really, thanks — get rid of her with gratitude and taking the package — mainly a clear plastic bubble for ease of inspection — thanks now, yes — and my aim was to shift off to the back of the place, ditch the thing and leave.

Actually, not-so-clever Mandy.

I don’t love and despise. That wouldn’t be clear in my face, not to someone who knew me, because it isn’t factual.

Mandy is a bad judge of character.

I love and resent.

Everyone does that, it’s impossible to avoid. The real experience of love is of having unreasonably lost all shelter. There are wonderful additional elements in love apart from that, factors and truths which demand more than affection, which require worship of sorts, but there is, there really is, that initial loss. Sudden. And you cling to whoever is with you for sheer safety, beyond anything else. You cling to whoever has robbed you and they cling back because they are equally naked — you have stripped them to their blood. They are your responsibility, frail and skinless. It can’t be helped.

I hurried from Mandy.

I rushed to the extent that I could rush without suggesting unseemly desire to acquire some further contraption with which to astonish my privacy.

The far wall of the shop offered objects that weren’t coat hooks, that wouldn’t enable arthritic hands to open tricky jars, that couldn’t be used for games of hoopla, even though they were unwieldy, even though they were unlikely, even though the human pelvis could never accommodate them as an internal feature and they were therefore unfit for their stated purpose.

All these wild attempts at satisfaction, these declarations of absurd need.

Chocolate-flavoured condoms. They had chocolate-flavoured condoms.

You like penises, you like chocolate, why not both?

There were many whys for not both. For many reasons, my opinion was in favour of not both.

If I like penises, might I not be assumed to hope the flavour of a penis will be penis, which is to say not too much of a flavour, ideally just this subtle, unflavoured pleasantness and that isn’t a problem, how could that be a problem? I don’t feel my experience of oral sex is intended to be primarily culinary.

Unless is it? Have I got this wrong? Is it not about love, about knowing and being known? Is it — I can get confused — perfectly reasonable in that, or any other, context to insist, to appear to insist, to act in such a way that I’d be insisting your penis is inadequate and ought at least to taste of chocolate to compensate, so here you go and roll on one of these?

Am I being over-sensitive? Am I mistaken in thinking that when I touch the man I love, no matter where I touch the man I love, in no matter what way I touch the man I love, then the point is that I’m touching him and it’s love and the whole of him is him and I am happy with the whole of him and my aim is to produce an increase of happiness in both parties and where he is tender I will be tender because that would be only right and the best and finest thing and sweet to my soul and lips in tender places can be tender. Even in the rush and stroke of the moment, it’s only simple, only tenderness.

Nothing else would be required.

Something else would be an insult.

I wanted to explain this, because it was important, but nobody I’d want to hear me was there to listen.

I peered from behind the hoopla section until Mandy had pounced on another woman and led her away. They were chatting back and forth as I supposed they were intended to, taking advantage of a female-friendly emporium and an informative and unembarrassed ethos and I didn’t care about my position per se, but it still made me angry, nevertheless.

Although this was a setting unsuitable for rage.

And anger is always the second emotion, something else having always been there first.

I wish I’d never learned that.

Fear and pain being the most usual precursors.

I would rather not notice the signals that prove I’ve been hurt or frightened.

Nothing else for you today? — I couldn’t quite understand how Mandy had ambushed me again. I’d been heading to the penis area to abandon mine — it was not mine, but was burdensome enough by then to be taken personally — and I’d hoped to be free soon, but there she was — Ready? — the pert and relentlessly outgoing and dreadfully helpful Mandy. I’ll take you across to the cash desk. As if I was an invalid, imbecile, had never visited a shop.

I could see the cash desk. I did not wish to visit the cash desk. I did very much wish to leave.

The easiest option was simply to buy the thing.

Buy it and get out.

We’re a Canadian company. I don’t know why I had to be told this. We do things the Canadian Way. Inexplicable. The young man at the till — I am now of an age, apparently, when the men at tills in sex shops will seem perceptibly young — created some kind of merry personal tension with Mandy. His name badge announced John. Mandy and John eyed each other across me as if they were a remarkably blasé couple, looking forward to an evening of not sex.

John — We like you to be happy — dextrously unpacked the penis and — I’ll pop these in — did indeed pop batteries — several — inside it before scooping one of my hands off the counter and setting the already-thrumming thing across my palm. Mandy smiled and took over — There we go — adjusted the settings up up up and down down down. This being of no use to me.

I had not intended to stand in public holding an electric penis while it performed keenly, then gently, then sluggishly, then not.

This way you know it works and is what you want.

John repacked it — More batteries? — Mandy was meanwhile incredibly — in the sense of being unbelievably — pleased by this whole turn of events — We have a deal on batteries.

I threw everything away once I got outside.

And the entire palaver didn’t matter, was unimportant.

I know.

There may be no Canadian Way and perhaps they were only a couple with a kink working through it together in a ludicrously ideal location. Or they were making a joke of me. I don’t care about them.

Except that they were more strangers intruding and I am tired of that.

I am so tired. Contributing factor.

I go to bed and hope for fifteen hours uninterrupted and they don’t arrive in the same way that there is no snow, or no fun in snow, or no miracle about it.

I get so angry.

Uninterrupted fury is a constant.

It flickers near and far, but stays with me beneath superficial variations.

Which is why this preposterous shop — this preposterous story about this preposterous shop, preposterous strangers — it’s why I hold them tight.