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Man to Mandemic (A Topical Gay Novella): Chapter 1

Man to Mandemic (A Topical Gay Novella): Chapter 1

Tuesday 24th March 2020
Will Dalrymple

CHAPTER ONE

Where Might I Find Gland Sanitizer?

"In which aisle might I find lube, condoms, sexual performance supplements, poppers and GHB?" I asked in a loud voice that carried the length and breadth of the supermarket, consulting my shopping list.
"I don't work here," said the nervous, balding man to whom I addressed this question. He wrinkled his nose, as though he were Time and his nose were Bruce Forsyth's skin and Bruce Forsyth were old and not old and dead.
"That isn't what I asked," I reminded him. Seeing the balding man's stricken face continue to be stricken, I realised what the problem was. I took his head in both of my strong hands and kissed him long and lickingly on the top of his bald head.
"Get off me!" the balding man screamed, flailing and kicking and screaming some more. I sighed. This had not had the effect I was hoping for. On the contrary, it was causing quite a commotion - packets of packed products were being displaced from the shelves by the man's jerking limbs and people were staring. I gripped the balding man's head more tightly and, still kissing his shiny head with supplemental tongueing, I lifted him, by the head, off the ground.
"What are you doing?!" several people yelled as the balding man began to turn red.
(I had observed that the front rows of cinema seats were often completely empty. I made these observations from the back row, where I would be busy unholstering all eleven inches of my smeggy blunderbuss. I would then enoucrage one of my European gay friends -
(preferably Tomek, whose dead-eyed stare created an emotional vaccuum during our sex acts that I was all to happy to figuratively fill with my sexual excitement, a process which literally amounted to me ejaculating into Tomek's dead eyes and then taking him to A&E to get them cleaned out to hold his hand while the doctor explained what 'conjunctivitis' was) to take my awesome staff in all six of their hands (when I said 'one of my European gay friends' I meant 'at least three')
- and exert punishing bursts of downwards pressure. For several seconds I would then groan loudly with pain and/or pleasure - I struggle to distinguish between the two -, during which time the other cinemagoers would hiss with support and bark swear words of encouragement at me.
Eventually my balls would exert considerable amounts of upwards pressure in the form of liquid sperm, which would geezer into my friend's faces and onto the backs of the heads of the people in the row in front. To my great surprise, the previous enthusiasm the cinema's patrons had displayed for my sexual activity would prove itself to be in short supply. My friends and I would appear crestfallen as the audience patted at the affected areas first with confusion, then curiosity, then alarm, then horror, then tissues, wet wipes and hand sanitiser.
"What are you, straight?" I'd scoff at them and Didier would laugh, though his grasp of English is not sufficient to convince me that he understood the joke. More likely, he had picked up the fact that I didn't like him as much as my other friends. This is because, regrettably, my Father's robust dislike of every French person on the planet (besides Audrey Tatou, an actress whose appearance in The Da Vinci Code gave Father a noticeable erection, which in turn gave my Mother plenty of ammunition in her fight for a more expensive fitted kitchen than the one she had fitted in 2007) had rubbed off on me. I laughed aloud at the irony that Didier was unlikely to rub off on me physically and sexually, which Didier frustratingly took as encouragement to continue to be a brown nose. I laughed again at the irony that Didier would never have a brown nose as a result of getting some of my poo on his nose in some sexual context or other, which had the same adverse effect.
The cinemagoers would invariably respond to my quip by taking out their phones ("Life is for living, not instagramming," I'd say for their benefit as Pedro took a selfie of his dripping, gaping, smiling face next to my dripping but not gaping or smiling penis and posted it to instagram. Pedro's addiction to getting between thirteen and twenty-one likes on instagram (seventy-two to one hundred and thirty-eight if he doesn't have his shirt on) is the closest thing he has to a personality so I didn't bother including him in my admonition.), placing phone calls in distress and then getting further and further away until I realised that I was, in fact, being dragged out of the cinema by a security guard, followed by Tomek and/or Pedro and/or Didier and/or Lars and/or Gunther and/or Lorenzo and/or Bogdan.
I would then take Didier aside and suggest that he didn't accompany me to the cinema next time. Later that day I would see news footage of Didier trespassing on a train line or stood at the edge of a very tall building or taking hostages in a pub with a gun or driving very fast in his car towards some precipice or other. With strong encouragement from my friends, the Police and Didier's distraught family, I would reluctantly inform Didier via Facebook messenger that I did desire his presence at our next cinema trip after all. Upon receipt of this message he would always abandon his self-destructive activities - except in one instance in which Didier had neglected to charge his phone because he is French and was uncontactable. Didier successfully drove his car off the White Cliffs of Dover and spent ten months in a coma.
Anyway, I had deduced that the front two rows of seats in cinemas were often empty because people did not enjoy craning their necks upwards to see the adverts and then the film and then crane them back again to leave before the credits rolled, unless they had a friend, loved one or were themselves named in the credits as having participated in the film.
I applied this explanation to my present situation:) I had hoped the assembled shoppers would be disinclined to crane their necks to see the struggling man, now that I had elevated him by lifting him up by the head. However, once I had finished explaining all of the above (especially my sexual habits in cinemas in great detail) through a mouthful of the balding man's skull to the horrified onlookers, they continued to stare at him.
"The blood's rushing to his head!" said a woman. The crowd rolled their eyes, sighed and muttered "Say what you see, love".
"The blood's rushing to his cranium," said a man. The crowd applauded and spent several minutes giving the man credit for the woman's observation because he had added two syllables to it. Once the man had signed a seven figure book deal and had sold the film rights to the woman's observation to Paramount Pictures, retaining the merchandising rights for himself, the crowd returned their attention to me and the balding man, who was limp in my hands, like an erect penis would be if it weren't erect - the word for which I have deleted from my internal vocabulary to make way for words I use more often (all other words).
"The blood is rushing to his head," I said, avoiding using the word 'cranium' because the man had successfully trademarked it and I was financially ill-prepared for a lawsuit, "because he's embarrassed about being bald. Why else would I be french kissing his head? To show how attractive I'm pretending to find it, of course! I hate seeing men self-conscious about the way they look. There's so much pressure on men to look a certain way these days." I explained, taking one hand off the mans head to renew my gym membership online and taking my other hand off the man's head in order to take out my phone and block a man on Grindr who asked me how my day was going because his body fat index appeared to exceed one percent by between zero and one percent. The man yelled as, unsupported by my hands, he hit the hard floor head-first. His head split open and began bleeding, which I thought was a bit of an overreaction.
"Besides, there's nothing wrong with being bald," I continued non-verbally, by exposing my penis, scrotum and anus to the other shoppers. A bawdy female shelf-stacker made a comment about wanting those unexpected items in her bagging area. This remark was overheard by her line manager and she was dismissed. All of these body parts were and are completely hairless because the men I sleep with demand that I shave them. Unsure of why so many men were so keen to deny the existence of my pubic hair, I quizzed my parents on this peculiar preference over dinner a few weeks into my single Gay life. Once they had stopped oppressing me by politely asking that we discuss something else over dinner, they both agreed that, like all gay men, my sexual partners were paedophiles. I felt deeply sorry for these men, who were reduced to pretending that I was a child, presumably due to being overly coy around actual children because they fancy them. I kindly put out an advert on their behalf calling all horny local children to visit their respective addresses and have sex with them. I haven't seen any of these men since, so can only assume they are leading sexually fulfilling lives as proud paedophiles.
"I'm not embarrassed about being bald anymore," said the balding man non verbally, by going very pale and still and declining to have a pulse, in an inspiring display of what I was delighted to assume was serenity.
"Job done," I said proudly as I pushed through the crowd who were clawing at me admiringly and yelling statements of awe and congratulation such as "murderer!" and "citizen's arrest!"
While I had been happy to help the balding man overcome his shame, being a hero quickly became tiresome. I initially approached my newfound celebrity status with grace and humility - smiling and waving at the mob-like crowd as they furiously mobbed me, acquiescing to fans' requests to meet and chat to their Police Officer friends, signing autographs on witness statements and a confession for these Police Officer friends, wearing their handcuffs in front of the whole supermarket ('celebrity' and 'influencer' are interchangeable these days) and agreeing to go with some additional Police Officer fans who were very keen that I be seen in their Police Station, which they must have thought would be good PR.
By the time I had administered oral sex to a senior Police commissioner superfan who repeatedly refused to let me out of his prison until I did so, I was wearied by fame and adoration and desperate to be able to do my shopping, unnoticed, like normal people.
Thankfully, the six months I had spent in prison had altered my appearance dramatically. This is because I spent a good deal of it being beaten up by the former sexual partners whom I had announced to the internet were looking for children to have sex with. Indeed, apart from the hysterical widow of the balding man who had apparently died on the very day I had lifted him roughly by the head and then dropped him, I passed through the supermarket unnoticed.
It had been over six months since I had left my house to purchase the essentials on my shopping list, and as I looked around at the frantically scurrying shoppers - scared by some unseen threat, divided by some invisible wedge, driven by an unaccountable fear - I began to worry that today might be my last chance to purchase them.