In his
ignorance of reproductive biology he was terrified of his earliest ejaculates:
the queer excitement and arousal, some pain, and the resultant pool of etiolate
glue he initially understood to be some thick and twisted sibling of his piss.
He
masturbated obsessively into small clear plastic food bags perforated from off
a roll found in one of the kitchen cupboards because this seemed to him the
thing to do, and though he likewise understood flushing these ersatz
prophylactics into the toilet to be the most thorough method of their disposal,
this practice would often prove fraught with problems. Trapped air caused the
bags to bloat and remain, defying more flushes than he felt his mother’s
suspicion could possibly withstand until finally, with his arm elbow-deep in
the bowl’s cold water, he would ease them out of sight.
An
eventual application of methodology led to him, his foreskin still angry and
distorted with the pattern of crushed plastic, filling these bags with water at
the bathroom tap (his semen afloat within like a fairground goldfish), each to
be then lowered in the careful grip of both hands down into the toilet where,
after disappearing on the first flush, the young Skunk imagined them adapting
their width accordingly on through the system.
