Of Dildo, Masturbation, Jason, and Death-2

Continue from part 1

 Jason was the last explosive missile that had finally blown apart my hardened heart. Or we could say I was the reason that Jason would be falling apart in less than a year, not able to swallow the ocean of form around his sore mouth, his great smile fading across his sunken cheeks. To him, I would be the time-bomb waiting to explode on his face. And the last seconds of the time-out was at the abyss as soon as his call would off in the middle of this night.

In a flash of a second, I reviewed hell a lot of stuff that had brought us here.

I remember how it all happened, like it is all fixed at the tips of my fingers. My friendship with Jason began at the basketball pitch in the August of 2016, a time of the year when the cold weather across the country was unforgiving. I was a finalist, studying a course my parents had conspired I would pursue long before I was even conceived, while he was a third-year, pursuing an engineering course that he said he loved like Jesus loved the church.

Jason was the bright guy with the longest pair of shorts with green stripes and a pair of black and white baseball shoes, almost every day. He was unusually talkative, essentially outgoing, and almost always, cutely smiling. He smiled to the orange basketball, to the opposite team, to the rude and as dark as my grandmother’s pot coach, and even to space. His smile was the kind that found me uneasy, freely smiling back without authorization from my hard-to-get ego. The type of smile that is bright enough to light up the darkest souls. He was fast, a little skinny compared to other players, with a light skin complexion that made the smile more irresistible.

He did not style his hair like other campus dudes did. Nor did he show off his growing muscles through the sleeves of an unbuttoned shirt. He did not argue with the captain even when he was blamed for missing the score. When I asked him why he never justified himself, he said that while his team was learning how to shoot without missing, he learned how to fly without perching.

I never understood what exactly he meant by that phrase. But there was no way I would admit that I had no idea of what he meant. I would wait for the right time to ask the connection between a shooter and a flier. As the old saying goes, when the moon is shining, the cripple becomes hungry for a walk.

My cute Jason was composed, a little funny, and, as I would find out, very intelligent. He never missed practice both on weekdays and on weekends. Even though he missed many matches because the coach thought he was short and not as strong, he never missed practice. And as long as I can remember, I never missed practice too. Only that I never touched the basketball with my hands or let my shoes pet the concrete of the pitch.

I only sat on the side bench, cheering and shouting Jason’s name like a shot hornbill. And true to that, I would later become Jason’s hornbill, only that this time I would not be making loud noises into his tender ears or buzzing into his face like a hornet. I would be staring at him die, listening to him whiz the last gulp of his life, unable to curl his delicate flesh underneath my weakling wings. Poor Jason.

We fell in a sporadic kind of love that knows not knocking of doors or ringing of bells. I baked him cakes on his birthdays, and as bad as I was at baking, he always enjoyed them. He would wait for me outside the bathroom, playing Motor Combat or Need for Speed, oblivious of the need to live. I would go over to his place, and he would come to my place. Sometimes, he would come for a sleepover to my place as I stayed alone only to leave a week later. He was my mantra; I recited him every day.

Suddenly, it dawned on me that the call was almost ending. I led out a forced-relaxing breathe, my heart beating thunderously like a Yamaha motorbike, my mind racing like an Aston Martin. I swiped across the phone screen to receive the call. And like a mechanical machine that had not seen a lubricant for ages, I dragged the phone to my ears, the pulse on my arms too loud to ignore, the race in my mind so endearing, the blood in my veins too heavy to lift.

“Hello Jason,” I stammered.

“Hello Coll,” said the voice on the other side.

“How is it?” I enquired, pushing the dildo away.

“Good, they are taking me in to the buzzing machine in a few,” Jason struggled.

“Are you like, scared?” I asked. He never sounded afraid, not even a single day.

“Naah, but I have something to tell you,” he punched my heart, like I anticipated, clearly struggling to say it between two loud coughs. You could feel the pain in them, the pain of a human soul slipping out of the human flesh.

“What is it? Jason,” I sat down on the edge of the bed, my shoulders collapsing to myself momentarily.

“Sometimes, distance is the only way to heal and find peace. I hope we get enough of it to heal our wounds.”

“What do you mean?” I said to the hanged up call, the beeping sound of an ended need blaring to my ears.

What is your body count? Yes, you am asking you.

Allan

Author Allan

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