Where does your father do his barnacles? Unedited Fucktion Part 8
The physical took place just like any other and it wasn’t until the doctor lightly cupped my balls that I realized what I had felt when the man touched my chin. It was revulsion, a creepy sense that I was being taken advantage of. Skin hunger is what they call the body’s natural yearning to touch other people. He needed a hug. His skin hunger was strong simply because he suffered a great loss, but was he also one of those crazy-horny mourners you hear rumors about at funerals? He probably just needed to touch someone. Then again, why did he take my picture?
It was over before I knew it and I found myself not wanting to open the door and being even more thankful for the invention of walls. I wanted to tell the doctor what was happening. Hey, Doctor-lady, some Sammy Hagar lookin’ mother fucker just took some pictures of me and touched my face, but he said his son died so I kind of just let him do it, but now I’m uncomfortable and I don’t know how to tell him to fuck off. Can you help me out?
I opened the door and walked straight to the next waiting area without looking at the man whose son had died. After only a minute there they had me sit in this hallway full of little numbered rooms and a single chair in front of each of them. After about ten minutes of throwing words in my head that would never stick another man walked down the hallway and although I kept my eyes on my book, I could tell it was the man whose son had died.
In my peripheral I watched him take a seat in front of the door next to mine. Then he scooted his seat so that it was blocking the door I’d be going through and then he scooted it even closer to me so that we were almost touching. “Hey.” I said puzzled.
“Wanna see how the picture turned out?”
His phone was in front of my face before I could answer.
“Look how happy you look!”
He flipped through a couple of pictures of my face until another person appeared, a young man at the bottom of the scroll.
“Is that your son?”
“No.”
“Do you have any pictures of your son?”
“I do.”
“Can I see one?”
The man whose son had died sat back in his chair with his phone close to his face like he was trying to read small print. “Sure. Just a sec. Let me find it.” The man looked blankly into the phone as if he needed glasses. “You’re gonna kill me though.” He threw that out there like he was telling me I’d get a cramp if I didn’t wait before I took a swim.
He pulled up a picture of someone holding a white, curly-haired terrier, but the photo was zoomed in mostly on the dog. In fact, I could only really make out the son’s hands. “I can’t really see him. Do you have one that’s zoomed out a little more?”
“Nope. That’s him.”
“All I can see are his hands.”
“No, the dog. That’s him.”
“The dog is your son?” What?
“Yes, I raised him, I love him and he’s always been there for me. He’s my son.” What?
Other Posts:
The Best Fuck You Part 1Part 2Part 3Part 4
Invest in Rain Part1Part 2Part 3
Where does your father do his barnacles? Part 1 Part 2Part 3Part 4Part 5Part 6Part 7
Van-life series Part 1
Rushing into a relationship with my unconscious Part1
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