Man to Mandemic (A Topical Gay Novella): Chapter 2
Wednesday 25th March 2020
"Lube, condoms, sexual performance supplements, poppers, GHB..." I muttered as I passed through the fresh produce aisle of the supermarket. A middle-aged man turned, eyebrows raised.
"Are you selling?" he said in an undertone, while his wife and their three small children selected fresh fruit several metres away.
"I wish to buy Lube, condoms, sexual performance supplements, poppers and GHB, not sell them to you, sir," I boomed because I felt like it. The man exhibited signs of great distress, but his wife was distracted by one of their children having soiled themselves.
"Alright, alright. Fucking idiot. I got some at home but I can't find more anywhere, is all," he said. Jackpot! I replied that I too was having trouble locating those items and then, taking inspiration from his children, soiled myself to distract his wife in case she became suspicious of our conversation.
"Gary, I think that bloke you're talking to's shit himself," she said. I cursed her under my breath - there was no throwing her off the scent.
"Fuck, it stinks," she said, as if to prove my point.
After Gary said 'Elaine!' in a raised voice she insisted to her children that they had misheard the word 'fuck' and that she had actually said the word 'fudge', as if to prove to her husband and the other shoppers that she was a good mother.
"Liar, liar, pants on fire," I said. Elaine reasonably pointed out that I was in no position to comment on the condition of other people's pants, having filled my own with poo and wee. I backed down immediately and changed into a fresh pair that I always carry with me in case I see Timothée Chalamet minding his own business. I have a long-held ambition to throw my pants at Timothée Chalamet as an erotic gesture of admiration for his craft and his beautiful face and his acceptable body and what I imagine to be his exceptional genitals.
"Here, you're a bit loopy, but d'you wanna fuck some time? No strings attached. Bet you've got a gorgeous little pussy," grunted Gary, quietly.
I obligingly began to remove my clothes. Gary stopped me.
"Not now you twat! Later. I can say I'm working late or some shit to Elaine."
I turned to Elaine.
"Elaine, if Gary told you he was working late would you believe him?"
Gary's eyes widened. Elaine's narrowed, which I took to mean "yes".
"Great," I said loudly, turning back to Gary, "In that case, let's have sex tonight."
"You fucked up Bender!" roared Gary as Elaine began slapping and kicking Gary and demanding a divorce and yelling that she knew it and calling him a faggot.
"So much for 'no strings attached'," I said, haughtily, sticking my nose in the air and marching off in disappointment at Gary and his inability to keep his personal life and his sex life seperate for my benefit.
I spied an employee of the supermarket placing bottles of milk onto a shelf for some reason. I was annoyed that she was wasting time and the fair, liveable wage that supermarket workers - as key service providers working long hours for customers who are largely indifferent or hostile to their efforts - are entitled to and therefore must obviously receive from their benevolent and generous employers. As such, I decided to give her something to do.
"In which aisle would I find lube, condoms, sexual performance supplements, poppers and GHB?" I asked.
"Pardon?" she replied, looking severe.
"I don't need one; being gay hasn't been illegal for decades. Besides, the posthumous pardon received by Alan Turing was too little, too late in my opinion," I reminded her, or would have done if I'd have known any of that information. Because the only information I knew pertained to current soap opera storylines, I told her what I knew about those instead. Once she'd agreed that a plot hole in Leo King's murder had ruined Whitney's prison storyline on Eastenders, she said:
"Lube and condoms aisle seven. In the 'sanitary products' section."
The particular emphasis she gave to 'sanitary products' suggested that she was sceptical of how sanitary my sex life was. This, along with the fact that she was my Mother, suggested to me that she was a homphobic woman.
"Faggot," said Mother. The goodwill I had bought myself by criticising soap operas - a favourite pastime of my Mother's since the introduction of characters of colour and LGBT+ storylines to mainstream soaps over the past four decades - had clearly evaporated (like lube from my anus after my ex-boyfriend Tommy had applied it to said anus and then subjected it to devastating friction as he pumped and pushed his dick up my shitpipe at a rate of at least 80 ppm (pumps per minute).
Being gay, I would be unwilling to let the sex discontinue after a whole tube of Tommy's lube had sizzled off my red-hot arse into clouds of slippery steam. Ordinarily my concern for the condition of soft furnishings and wallpaper (which greatly exceeds the concern I show for that of my anus) would have caused me great alarm as steam filled the room. However, my parents had triumphantly converted my bedroom into a sauna after having kicked me out of the house for being gay several years earlier. The room was well-equipped to deal with being filled with cloud upon cloud of vapourous material.
Unfortunately, my dry arse was ill-equipped to deal with 80 (Tommy had a hangover) to 120 (Tommy had recovered from his hangover) ppm and the parched opening would be rent asunder. This,, while unbelievably painful, did at least occasion a release of the body's natural lubricants: blood and shit (from what used to be my arse) and vomit (from Tommy's mouth)), easing the completion of our lovemaking.).
"For fuck's sake, dirty poof," Mother sighed.
Taking on board mother's criticism I reached for a shelf of hand sanitiser and found it empty. Odd...
Then I realised that Mother was referring to the erection I had occasioned by reminising about the serious injuries I sustained during sex with Tommy. Tommy...the erection subsided. Well, it didn't, but I was sad as well as aroused which is as close to not having an erection as I have ever been.
"Good luck getting hand sanitiser, I've snaffled the lot!" said Mother, gesturing to an enormous trolley piled high with bottles of hand sanitiser, tissues, toilet rolls and bread. Odder still...
"Mother, I fear that clearing the shelves of products is contrary to your primary directive as an employee of this major supermarket," I 'man'splained (the quotation marks were an innovation of my Father's, who considered me to be a man in a very loose sense of the word. This consideration held greater sway over him than the concept of mansplaining itself, for which he had previously reserved the use of quotation marks. E.g...
"Oh, sorry, was I 'mansplaining' the workings of the television series Fleabag?" he sneered.
"Yes," replied Phoebe Waller-Bridge, undoubtedly wishing she'd refrained from responding to his pointed staring by smiling politely as they passed in the street).
I declined to name the supermarket in question because the only names I care to remember are those of soap opera characters.
"I don't work here, you stupid fucking bummer. But I'll be damned if I don't get all the essential items." said Mother.
"All the essential items you need, you mean?"
"Whatever. Now come and help me."
Keen to microwave the curried favour I had prepared earlier, I immediately set about following Mother's instruction.
"It was a simple misunderstanding, Julie, but nonetheless I am deeply embarrassed," I said, wiping up puddles of my spunk off of the supermarket floor, its shelves and line manager Julie with one hand and paying for the kitchen roll I was using to do this with another.
"For future reference, when I tell you to come I am almost certainly not asking you to ejaculate, dumb gayboy," said Mother.
"I don't like that 'almost'," said Julie.
"I do," I beamed.
"Hang on, I don't recognise you," said Julie, peering at the name badge Mother was wearing which bore the name 'Graham'.
"Graham!" Julie then gasped, in reference to the body of an unconscious man that somebody had attempted to hide underneath a display of rice-based Pringles crisps.
"Bother, I've been rumbled," said Mother, or rather, this was the subtext to her spraying oven cleaner in Julie's eyes. Mother marched off with her groaning trolley of very specific items, beckoning furiously for me to follow, which I did both in person and on all social media platforms just in case I had misunderstood her.
"Right my lad, we're going to grab and snatch anything we can from anyone who dares get in our way, regardless of whether or not they need it more than we do. This is a free market economy and therefore I've decided it's a free supermarket economy," she said, putting a nasty emphasis on the word 'lad' because I'm gay and she was trying her best/needed an outlet for her homophobia after several laws prevented her from continuing to attempt to murder me with poison and knives.
"Donald, grab every single one of those gluten free cheese biscuits!" Mother hissed. Before I could point out that no one in our family was gluten intolerant, having channeled all of their intolerance towards my sexuality, Mother had shrieked at me to stop those cunts now. I turned to see a young couple sadly place a couple of packets of the disappointing crackers in their basket.
"Excuse me," I said, "My Mother believes that she is entitled to all of those products and would prefer you to let her keep them in her basement until they go out of date."
The female component of the couple laughed and told me to piss off while the male component politely explained that there were plenty of packets left on the shelf. This was an explanation that my mother evidently found unsatisfying because she scratched her tights down to around her ankles, released a small amount of piss onto her middle finger and held it up to the now-terrified young people, who moved away from us.
"Come, Donald!!" mother yelled. I turned to follow her but observed that she had not moved and was looking imploringly at me. What was I to do? Then a word echoed back to me through time from several minutes previously...a word Julie had not liked...a word I liked very much...
"I am almost certainly not asking you to ejaculate," Mother had said. The word that remained, the word that mattered, was 'almost'.
I spun around, my penis already somehow free from the constriction provided by my jean-material jeans. As I turned, it unfurled and swung in a devastating arc like a veiny, erotic medieval flail. The effect was similar to that of the archaic weapon - displays, shelves and pensioners crashed to the ground as they crossed the merciless path of my helicoptering penis. I arrested its motion in line with the disappearing young couple. I then imagined the male component to be hanging out of the back of me, like tin cans trailing from the anus of a newly married man or, more commonly, from the exhaust pipe of his car.
With a couple of precision pumps I sent a crescent of wet slime soaring over the heads of the other shoppers and into the celiac couple's shopping basket. They wailed in distress and dropped their shopping, allowing me the opportunity to take it from them, scrape the sheets of cum from each item with the sleeves of my leather jacket and place them atop Mother's teetering trolley. Unfortunately the crackers had broken into small pieces when they had been dropped by the couple, which rendered them of an unacceptable standard to Mother. She kicked them under some shelves so that no one else could buy them.
"That was a waste of fucking time. We'll never survive this crisis at this rate. If you don't start pulling your weight I shan't allow you an incredibly small share of the provisions and you won't survive this crisis, battyboy." scolded Mother.
I had no idea to what crisis she was referring, why she was intent on buying such vast quantities of everything or where I might find lube, condoms, sexual performance supplements, poppers and GHB. All I could do was help her create an apparently necessary stockpile...
TO BE CONTINUED