I get a call. It’s another babysitting job. The man’s voice sounds creaky over the phone, and breathy. He probably has a cold. It’s a mindless job, but it’s not like there’s anything better out there. Freelance babysitting is easier for me, between my insomnia and discontent.
I arrive at the place early. I knock, the door opens, and there’s the man standing in front of me wearing a suit. His head is a small house. “You’re early.” the double-door entrance flaps when he speaks.
“Sometimes I am.” I say.
He leads me to what looks like a living room, and I notice that the back of his head is broken, with shattered windows and pulverized walls. He notices me noticing it and covers it with his hand, embarrassed. “I haven’t found the money to renovate. The storm really did a number on it.”
I nod. Why would a man wear a nice, clean suit but not at least cover up his damage? He steps over to a brick wall and slides a panel open. Behind the panel is a strange translucent jelly. “That’s it.” he says. “We keep it behind the wall so that the nutrients can circulate well. You know how it is when they’re that size.”
I nod again. I gently poke the pinkish blob behind the wall with my finger: it’s slimy. I lick the slime off my finger. There is a strange bitter detail in the flavor profile, but it’s within the limits of acceptability. “You’re doing a good job. Your stem cell is quite healthy.” I say.
“Thank you. It cost us quite a lot.” he says. “So are you going to uh-”
“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” I say, and he nods back at me, giving me confirmation. I smile back at him and touch the membrane of the stem cell once more. It wobbles when I do so, and soon, it starts sticking to my finger. The man watches me with his unlit second-floor windows. It isn’t long before it’s glued to my finger. I try to pull away from the wall, taking several steps back. The membrane stretches all the way back with me, and I pull harder. The man decides to help. He grabs me from behind, and pulls. Finally, the membrane snaps from my finger, bouncing all the way back to the wall, taking a very thin layer of my skin with it. The man lets go of me and nods, returning to his original spectator position.
There is a finger of jelly hanging from the cell where I had pulled it. It’s slick with slime, and warm. I grab a chair nearby and stand on it, facing the wall. I unzip my pants and take out my cock. It’s already hard. I wrap the jelly finger around my member, coiling it, rubbing the slime all over. Then, I start thrusting, frotting, making it service me. I fuck the finger for hours, but I can’t seem to bring myself to orgasm.
A day passes. The man just watches me and the stem cell, stuck in our own private ritual. I continue.
On the second night, during a moment of lucidity, I look down at my dick. I can no longer tell the head from the shaft. It seems that the fluids of the stem cell have somehow fused and melted the two into an indistinguishable whole. It would make a good Descartes joke, but I can’t think of anything. I’m just tired. And I still have a job to finish.
On the third night, A cuckoo pops out of the man’s forehead. I take that as a sign to stop. I never really reach orgasm. When I do stop, I notice that my penis had hollowed out into a fine cylinder. I look up at the man wearily. I can’t tell if he’s smiling or not. Doors just don’t move that way.
“I’m done.” I detach the tube of flesh from my crotch and hand it to the man. “It’s a chimney. It should help with the…” I tap the back of my head and move my eyebrows.
“Thank you, very much.” he says, putting it on a table. “Hey, listen.” He comes over and pats my shoulder. “I know it’s illegal, but we paid a lot of money for it. Do you want to go?” He tilts his head towards the wall.
I pretend like I don’t understand. “Go?”
“Yeah. I mean, into the wall. I can take you behind the wall.” He says. “I’ll hide the evidence. It’s the least I can do.”
“I uh…” A sudden rush of elation grips me. To go behind a preservation wall. Whether this man is truly going to help me or not, it’s a chance I could definitely take.
“I can’t.” I say.
“Are you sure?” The man tilts his head. “I won’t ask again.”
I take a deep breath. “I just-” I rub my temples. “Maybe it’s just not for everybody.”
“Maybe.” says the man. We both stare at the gelatinous form in the wall.