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the thrill of the chaste

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					                      The Thrill of the Chaste


Mother Superior flung the door open to witness a cloister-full of new
recruits frolicking gaily in the nude. Some lay on the grass putting
flowers in their hair, the hot sun reflecting off their pale white
bosoms. Others danced in circles, chanting schoolgirl rhymes,
teasing and giggling. Their ripened bodies were all that gave away
their years, for their actions were those of an innocent yesteryear.
They were a group possessed by some childhood spirit, a benevolent
sprite that had whisked away all their inhibitions. But, with those
inhibitions, so too had gone the interest in all matters sexual. In
collapsing the barriers of humility the means for fornication was
provided, but the desire withdrawn. And so their ecstasy was
indicative of a huge release of sexual tension, without the pre-
requisite of sex itself. They bathed in immaculate post-coital
bliss.

Mother Superior spazzed out. Incorrectly interpreting the sight
before her as an utter collapse of decency and descent into sexual
depravity, she collapsed to the ground and gasped for breath. One of
the nymphet nuns skipped up to her to help. Gently caressing her
hair until she came to, and realizing hitherto unseen beauty in the
face of her instructor. Smiling softly into her eyes she bent closer
and oh what was the fucking point. Diccon‟s erotic writing was going
down the pan. Increasingly short on ideas, and bored with his
stories he jerked the pages from his typewriter and then went next
door to jerk himself off. The interference of his own sexual tension
in his writing was a constant irritant. He was at best when
hormonally drained; then he could approach his task methodically and
without undue emotion. Recently he was finding himself more and more
distracted. He was becoming under the thumb of his testosterone and
it was choking his „art‟. Why now? What was the cause of this new
frustration? It was a growing concern, an acute awareness of the
truth, the very truth he hoped to escape from in his writing, the
simple truth that at 27, Diccon was still a virgin.

When he finished next door he lay back on his bed and went through
the usual post-masturbatory pangs of guilt and denial. Once again he
decided this was to be his last… for at least a week. He pulled
himself up and sat on the edge of the mattress and gazed lazily into
his multicoloured wallpaper. As his eyes lost focus in the swirling
patterns, a 3D rendering of his mother appeared there before him.
Magic-eye Mum was back. Her voice was even clearer; “When are you
going to get a job Diccon, a real job? When are you going to get a
wife Diccon? Where are my grandchildren…?”. What had once been
light-hearted and off-hand had become earnest and aggravated.
Shuddering he turned away and the image dissolved. He fumbled for
his notepad. Finding it in his back pocket he flipped it open and
scribbled down on his to-do list: No. 458 Change wallpaper. Plain
colour essential. He put the notebook back in his pocket, got up,
sat back down and got it out again. No. 459 See Analyst. It was
long overdue.

Diccon always thought that analysts were overpaid and under-
qualified. They hardly knew you, although they pretended to know
everything. There was no real incentive for them to cure you as that
would only mean you stopped paying them. Their own families were
always disasters. When Diccon thought back to the most screwed up
kids he once knew, their parents were invariably analysts. It was a
blinding truth. This self-righteous brotherhood of Freud would screw
up their own houses and then attend to those of others, charging by
the hour. However, the more adamant he became that he was not going
to get hooked on shrinks, the more he became aware of his need. All
this changed when he chanced upon an excellent analyst. A qualified
expert that was always willing to listen and, though her suggestions
were scarce, they were always truly valued. They hadn‟t met in over
a week, and Diccon was looking forward to a good long chat. He threw
open the curtains, made the bed, and quickly tidied the room. The
sessions took place in the bedroom and he wanted the place to be
decent. Tidy room, tidy mind and all that, as his analyst would say.
He then lay back on his bed-cum-analyst‟s couch and waited for the
session to begin. “Good afternoon, and how have we been this week?”,
the analyst began, or so Diccon might have imagined, as teddy bears
can‟t really talk.

Those quick to judge might at this point question Diccon‟s sanity,
but though he was many things, he certainly wasn‟t mad. It was to
him a very elegant solution. The bear was a trusted friend that had
known him since childhood, and one with which he had shared countless
experiences. Formative experiences, just perhaps, well, not
formative enough. The bear would never interrupt him, never lecture
him, never patronize him, or just chew his pencil and stare at him.
The bear didn‟t have a room full of degree certificates and diplomas,
didn‟t have a bell that went off after an hour, or a secretary that
gave you a knowing stare as you walked in the office, the first sign
that the „confidential‟ service was not all that it seemed.

“I think the closest I got was with that Indian actress.” Pause.
The bear stared at him reproachfully. He thought back to the night
when he met her in a bar and took her back to his place. How he
hunted all over his place, frantically looking for a condom. How
he‟d used them all up masturbating – not because he was afraid of
catching a contagious disease from his hand but because taking the
thing off afterwards made it feel more like the real thing. How
she‟d giggled and kissed him goodnight and said not to worry, as she
could see him tomorrow. He was so excited he could hardly sleep,
counting the hours until the following evening. He purchased a
industrial supply from Boots that would last him years. Having said
that, looking back, none would have lasted him years. Then in the
bar that night he was chatting. She was laughing. Some old friends
appear, say hello. He introduces the new friend to the old. What
does she do? Acting. Wow. What sort of films? Diccon seized the
chance to make a joke “Oh, you know, the usual stuff. Mostly x-
rated.” The others laughed, but expression on her face gave away the
truth in an instant. Suddenly the laughing stopped. They all knew
now. And she ran out the door. Diccon stared back at the bear.
“Fine, she was a porn star. I didn‟t know it then.”

It was just one in a long list of near misses. He thought back and
remembered the intense frustration. How much it hurt to remember all
this. He shot a look back at the bear. “What do you mean there‟s
more to life than sex!” he screamed. “What does a bear know about
sex? You‟re the only things people take to bed and don‟t screw! You
take love, but you give nothing back. What the hell would you know?”

He continued to stare, watching it. Sitting there in its cute velvet
waistcoat, not speaking. He stared at the light brown fur,
completely flat on its left side because he always, always, lay to
the right of it in bed when he was a child. He stared at the black
bakelite eyes, little beads that had studied him as a boy. Had he
changed in the eyes of the bear? He swore he could see a tear
forming. He blinked, it was his own.

Every boy wants to become a man before his time. At least, they
think they do. Lurking deep in every boy‟s subconscious lie the
tethers that hold him back from his one-way transgression into
manhood. Diccon‟s were still there, weakened over time but still
stubbornly clinging onto his immaturity. He needed to sever those
links decisively and break free. The bear knew all this, and now
Diccon new too. He leapt up and grabbed the bear by his ear, not
looking at it now. He was sure of himself now, no hesitation, and no
notepads. Straight to the kitchen he pulled out the blender, the
cable trailed behind flying around the floor. He slammed the blender
down and pulled up the cord. It was just big enough, and the bear
small enough. He shoved it plug into the socket. It slid in with
ease. It had never done that before. He was shaking a little, but
not smiling. He was excited, and a little bit scared. He hated to
do this, but knew it had to be done. He began stuffing the bear into
the plastic jug. Head first, so that it would be a quick death. The
result would be unrecognizable – less trauma. Just a pile of fur and
it would be over. He slammed on the lid, really shaking now. How
many people had wanted to do this to their shrink he wondered? His
hand wavered over the switch, itching to hit it, itching to dispel
his choking immaturity. “Ah fuck it.” Diccon opened the lid and
tossed the bear out of the window. He didn‟t watch it fall, but
instead imagined it landing safely. Landing perhaps in a baby
carriage. Would it earn the child‟s love and their trust. Would the
child take it to bed every night? Would it take hold of their
subconscious and end up screwing up another life? Who knows? One
thing was certain. The bear was gone from Diccon‟s life, and he was
going out to get laid.

If he felt like it.

				
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