The following is an excerpt from the 2023 Black Comedy MIXTAPE HYPERBOREA.
Chapter 10
The Hand Raiser
Golden Sierra prides itself on a rigorous dedication to the Socratic Method. Students sit in a circle, speaking electively without having to raise their hands.
Josh looked up from his lap and noticed the faces in front of him. He stared at each girl until they looked back, and then he looked away.
Rachel Small sat across from him, positioning her legs in a revealing manner, unaware she had spread them too distantly. ‘Don’t make it obvious,’ he thought to himself, ‘gaze in her general direction but not for too long.’
In a series of poorly concealed glances, he noticed her purple lace panties under the table. ‘Fuck me I’d like to fuck her dry,’ he thought to himself, trying to calcify the image into his long-term memory.
She rewound her legs and dissolved the mirage.
He found himself deliriously inflamed, tapping his feet in frantic fixation.
He had heard from Jack that flexing your leg was a practical way to redirect blood-flow and extinguish an erection, but try as he might there was zero deflation.
His thoughts were a film festival of pornography.
Each carnal delusion pulled him farther away.
With a huge boner, he raised his hand.
He became The Hand Raiser, an alter-ego of himself deranged enough to beat off at school.
“Can I use the bathroom?”
“Fine,” said Mr. Andrews, “Don’t loiter.”
Conscious of his throbbing unit, he stood up and about-faced towards the door with military precision.
Once outside, he put his backpack on frontways and loosened the straps to cover his crotch.
The campus was mostly empty.
On his way to the bathroom, he noticed Mr. Gilbert tucking in his shirt in the staff parking lot.
He left his backpack outside and entered the unpopulated men’s bathroom with nervous excitement.
Golden Sierra’s bathroom sinks offered regulation hand soap, a tin container of breath mints, and a lotion dispenser for the chronically unmoisturized.
Josh pounded the lotion spout six times before locking himself in the spacious handicapped stall.
He unlatched his belt, unzipped his khakis, and began an isolated consummation.
For a time, he had the entire bathroom to himself.
He considered this good fortune, but knew it couldn’t last.
A movie played in his head. It was after class, and everyone had left the room except him and Rachel Small. She walked up to him, sat on his table desk, and egregiously opened her legs once again.
“I was hoping you could help me with something…” She panted.
“Oh yeah?” Said Josh.
“My pussy’s really wet, and I need to get fucked by your big hard cock.”
“I can do that,” he said casually, like it was no big deal.
The scene cut to him slamming her against the classroom wall, legs wrapped around his back.
Things were going well, so he decided to use both hands at the same time.
As he approached resolution, the bathroom door’s rusty hinges began to creek.
Alien footsteps approached the urinal.
He turned around and sat perfectly still on the toilet.
He looked up at the ceiling and noticed a daddy longlegs looking right back down at him.
His unit had lost some structural integrity, falling asleep in his hand as the stranger flushed and walked to the sink.
‘Fuck this. I’ve come too far, gotta finish up quick and head back to class,’ he thought to himself, standing back up as the bathroom door shut.
Josh returned to the fantasy but found diminishing appeal. He cycled through a few of his greatest hits, his most reliable closers, hoping they would deliver him from this temporary insanity.
Mrs. De Leon’s cleavage in fourth period Spanish.
A porno about a lady who gets stuck fixing her sink.
Sonora Bird, his ex-girlfriend from sophomore year, blowing him before football practice in her Dad’s Toyota Tacoma.
The scene in American Pie when the European girl almost hooks up with that Jewish-looking guy in his bedroom. ‘That movie was so funny, the sequel was kinda shitty though,’ he thought to himself, once again softening as he lost focus.
The lotion was drying, and he began to feel a tingling burn.
The lack of friction grated his member despite its flaccidity.
He spit on his hands to add supplemental moisture, relying on flashes of a Shakira music video seen long ago. Anxious about his return to class, he pounded away in furious rhythm.
Another intruder entered the room.
Another hiatus on the toilet until they finished washing their hands and left the premises.
Another few dabs of lotion.
Another fiction performed in his head.
Another pump.
Another squeeze.
Another deflation.
Another inflation.
Finally, after 19 minutes, freedom.
Half limp, he had managed a pithy and stressful emission.
Thoroughly washing his hands, he considered his reflection in the splash-stained mirror. He had barely enjoyed himself.
Despite the immediate decline in enthusiasm, he feared little more than a full day of unrealized tension eating away at his sanity. He had to finish. If he didn’t, he’d remain in limbo.
Stuck.
Trapped.
Possessed eternally by whatever demons he had failed to exorcise.
Mind disoriented, balls blue.
He felt he had made a decision to raise his hand and leave the room, but now reflected on the almost mindless determinism of the entire morning. The person he was now found it impossible to relate to The Hand Raiser. The person he was now seemed to have been born just seconds after he came. He wasn’t The Hand Raiser; The Hand Raiser wasn’t him. He was someone else, someone disgusted. The Hand Raiser was a pervert, a degenerate.
He was sweaty and vaguely nauseous at 9:42 in the morning.
The Hand Raiser was a vacancy, being operated remotely by some sinister puppeteer.
Or was He the Hand Raiser, temporarily possessed by some fading lucidity? Afterall, this was the second release of the morning. Perhaps these were the thoughts of a liminal being: The Hand Washer, who exists only in the fleeting aftermath of The Hand Raiser’s refractory period. In a half hour or so, when his testicles refilled, The Hand Washer might be banished again. Locked up in his chambers until the next time the floors needed mopping. Tormented by his transient influence, but fooled each time into thinking he would remain in the driver’s seat.
A vicious dread rattled in his spine.
This fear was unfamiliar, intolerable, yet tragically unavoidable by any means lesser than chemical castration.
He panicked at the thought of imminent regression into someone he didn’t want to be. By the time he washed his face and returned to the classroom, he figured he had just a few minutes left.