Don't tell anyone about this
After closing time I went to see Marlene on the industrial estate where I suckled her breasts behind the skips. I do this about twice a month and it costs me a tenner. It’s how I get my jollies. But on this particular night it wasn’t right. Her breasts tasted foul. Marlene had forgotten to tell me she had put Vaseline on her nipples to protect them from the cold.
Two days later I knew something was wrong. I was breathless when I climbed the stairs and twice in the night I’d woken up shaking. Worse, something was amiss with my stomach. I’m not one to worry much about my health. Like most people I tend to know the cause of say, sudden diarrhoea or the exact time and place where I had contacted a cold. I knew instinctively that the cause of my symptoms had been my encounter with Marlene.
Throughout the day the condition of my stomach grew worse. There was a definite soft lump moving about in there. I tried drinking whiskey to kill it off and when that didn’t work I drank lots of iced-water. Nothing. It worried me. So I went to the doctor. He said he couldn’t detect anything at all but took some blood tests. That night the movements kept me awake. I didn’t sleep at all. I went to the doctor again. He spent more time palpating my stomach. Nothing abnormal and the tests proved negative.
Despite this the movements continued. I hadn’t told the doctor my fears of the cause of my condition. A man feels ashamed to confess he visits prostitutes. But a nagging explanation kept me awake for a further night. I know it sounds strange but that’s not my fault. Somehow I had swallowed a seed from Marlene’s breast and it had hatched and a breast was growing in my stomach.
To me the movements in my stomach seemed obvious. I could even see them in the mirror. The next morning I rang BUPA and asked for an emergency check up. £480 was a lot of money but I was desperate. The young doctor appeared to be very thorough. I didn’t tell him of my worries but I kept asking him to check my stomach. He slid some sort of video tube down my throat and said things look just fine down there. I got cross when he said he would pass on his findings to my GP. He said he was obliged to do this. I knew then that these doctors were deliberately keeping information from me. I vowed not to see them again.
So I retired to my bed. Hour after hour, day after day I was compelled to watch the breast dance in my stomach. Eventually I knew what I had to do. I gathered lots of bags of ice by my bed. I drank a large tumbler of whiskey then placed the bags of the ice on my stomach until the pain became unbearable. I rubbed a swab of whiskey across my middle and with one determined stroke I made a deep lateral incision across my stomach with a cutting blade.
My God! My God! It wasn't a breast at all! It was a small jackdaw. Its glistening feathers and eyes stuck together with my gastric juices. The bird made a few clumsy hops on my bed. I was amazed. Using Swafega and a few strips of duct tape I quickly closed up my stomach. Later I dabbed the bird down with warm soapy water and placed into a cardboard box. By the next morning we both felt well. I let the bird fly off. I don’t tend to talk about this in social circles.
Page(s) 51
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