Kinky: Three Men, One Collision

  KINKY

  by

  Peter Butler

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations, incidents and events are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 Peter Butler

  All rights reserved

  www.peterbutler.net

  Without limiting the rights under copyright, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author.

  ISBN:978-0-9924417-2-2

  Contact: peterbutlerbooks@outlook.com

  Cover design by Peter Butler.

  Also by Peter Butler

  Womanhood

  Garrett & Sunny

  Buy Me a Dream (Dreams - Book 1)

  Dream On (Dreams - Book 2)

  ONE

  The man fumbled with the drawstring of his cotton pajama pants, muttering a suppressed, Arrgh! through his clenched teeth at this unwanted delay; it was cold, his fingers struggled to differentiate between the end strands and the loops of the bow knot. He eventually succeeded and with a small tug of the correct string gravity took over sending the unwanted item sliding to the floor. He stepped out of the brown pajamas, nearly falling as his right foot got caught in the tangled mess. Goose-bumps instantly began to form on his thighs as the crisp surrounding air closed around them. There was no time to rub to generate warmth, the pajama-top needed to come off now. Quickly.

  More fumbling, today the buttons felt tiny between his thick fingers, pushing them through the button-holes seemed to require the dexterity and skill of a surgeon or a tailor. Finally, the top joined the pants on the floor and he ran naked out of the room. It was a distance of thirty-four feet to his destination and the chilled air activated by his sudden move prickled at his skin, a sensation that became even more intense as he entered the even cooler tiled surfaces of his bathroom. He quickly closed the door behind him, to trap in any soon to be created warmth, and went to the shower-stall.

  Larry Rafferty lived alone in a compact world and, by choice, was a creature of habit, his morning ablution rituals were set in concrete, the only exception being in summertime when he had no need to divest himself of the pajamas, or to shut the bathroom door. Trial and error over thirty-nine years had landed him at this evolutionary stage where pretty much everything in his small world had become repetition, making the re-thinking of life's little hiccups unnecessary. To say Larry was set in his ways would be an understatement. The pajamas, for example, were better left on the bedroom floor than the bathroom floor because accidental flooding never happened where he slept - well, not for the last thirty-six years, anyway. A few years back water had leaked from an unnoticed gap in the stall-door, causing his garments, which had been discarded nearby, to become damp and the resultant disruption to his day and schedule had been catastrophic. Lesson learned. The advantage of having dry pajamas was greater than any comfort gained by not having to run thirty-four feet in the cold.

  Larry reached through the doorway for the taps. The hot tap first, one and a half turns with the top of the little red "H" angled at the 7th. hour of a clock-face. His hand waited patiently for exactly six seconds for the hot water to make the journey from the water-heater to his shower - he counted out loud to help distract from the coldness and shivering. As he said the word six his hand was thrust, sacrificially, into the stream of now hot water to verify his calculation. Verifying was important. In the summer he only needed to wait three seconds. Satisfied that the hot-water was behaving as predicted he turned the cold tap on. This tap only required two-thirds of rotation to add the correct amount of tempering water. In the summer, one and a third turns were required. Satisfied that the little "C" on the cold tap was angled exactly at half past three he stepped into the stall, gasping as the hot water pummeled at his shoulder first and then his chest and other shoulder. He closed the door and quickly turned to give his back a fair share of the delicious warmth. When his surface temperature returned to a satisfactory level he thrust his face and hair into the jet of water then he turned his back to the stream of tiny water droplets and tilted his head down. The water punched into the crown of his healthy crop of hair and cascaded down the sides of his face, missing the entries to his eyes and ears. Cautiously, he pried open his lids and watched, cross-eyed, as a stream of water slid down his nose and created a mini-waterfall, as it always did. The little jet of water projected beyond his feet. He altered the angle of his head to see how far beyond his toes he could make the little stream go. Today's effort was as predicted.

  Larry was completely warm now, hot even, so he began his soaping ritual. This was as practiced as everything else he did, the plan was to soap areas near the top of his body and then step-by-step move down and in doing so allow only soap-free water to rinse over each newly washed section. Once that had been successfully completed he reached for the shampoo. Larry grimaced as he opened it. This was currently extremely awkward for him as this shampoo wasn't his usual brand and he didn't like it. In fact he hated it. He had inherited this bottle from Jacquelin, a feisty thirty year-old who had blond hair, but as it turned out only on her head. Jacquelin thought she could see potential in Larry, if he received the right coaching. She had spent exactly nineteen days and eight hours attempting to sculpt Larry, at which point she had decided that rather than being putty in her hands, Larry had already set and was as rigid as chunk of rock and almost as useful to her. In her haste to move-on Jacquelin missed packing her bottle of Kerastase Bain Miroir shampoo and a pair of lacy black panties that had managed to get mixed up inside Larry's things in the laundry basket. Both items cost her more than she could readily afford to sacrifice.

  But she did... she wasn't going back to get them.

  The curt note that Larry found in his kitchen lying under a large knife, left little area for him to doubt that Jacquelin was no longer part of his life. He assumed the knife was a metaphor as she could more easily have used a salt shaker or a glass to pin the note down. He had little desire to "set up shop" with her anyway, in fact, he still had no idea how she had come to be living with him, so he initially took the news well. But, after reading the note numerous times he decided the line that read: your head is so far up your own ass all you can see is shit... was too much. Apart from being anatomically impossible, it was simply untrue. What was true was that Larry had opinions that were so different from mainstream thinking that they had earned him a nickname; a name that, ironically, may have had some bearing on Jaquelin's bold decision to move in with him. Larry, was proud of where his head was and someone like her was simply incapable of realizing he had evolved to a level that she did not even know existed. As evolved as Larry's thinking was he could never get a grip on why people called him Kinky. He had straight hair

  One day after Jacquelin's departure he happened upon the two items she had overlooked. He initially threw them in the trash in a mini-tantrum, but Larry is, above all, a frugal man and wastage was even more repugnant to him than any lingering memories of her stinging note and brusque exit that the items might hold. He retrieved them both from the trash.

  Larry had no idea what he could use the black lacy panties for; he had tried them on and wore them for a full day to see if they were useful to him as underwear, but the front section was far to small to accommodate what he had in that area and the thin line of fabric that ran between his legs and connected the front triangle to the back one bisected his testicles forcing them to jut out on either side. Uncomfortable did no
t begin to cover it. And the thin line of lacy cloth also tickled his anus which had caused him to spend the day almost constantly attending to that itch. He could still remember the looks he received and the vague muttered comments behind his back, about worms. He ruled out ever wearing the panties again, but still could not bring himself to throw them out. Then it occurred to him - his next girlfriend would certainly appreciate them as a gift. Problem solved - they now sat neatly folded in the top draw of his bedside table, awaiting a new grateful owner.

  As he massaged the thick shampoo into his scalp a smell a little like watermelon wafted into his nostrils. He had decided on synthetic watermelon as the smell, but cantaloupe was still an option. Ironically, he hated both fruits and always made sure he rinsed very thoroughly to avoid smelling like a plant, in-case a wayward bee took an uninvited interest in him. Sadly, the bottle still contained enough shampoo to last at least another month. Maybe, as the contents became less and less, he might reach a point where he would become comfortable with the idea of throwing the shampoo out. He subconsciously shook his head as that thought passed through his brain. Waste not, want not, it reminded him. By now Larry had evenly distributed the shampoo through his hair and was right on schedule, it was now necessary to leave it untouched for exactly ten seconds. This allowed the chemicals to break down any residual microscopic fats that might otherwise remain attached to his follicles and scalp. He counted out-loud to guarantee the correct time had elapsed. He was up to number seven when disaster struck.

  Suddenly, the water pressure dropped and the diminishing stream of water that fell onto his chest instantly became unbearably hot. He instinctively stepped back to prevent it burning him, as he did it momentarily scalded his penis before the water diminished to a thin trickle, and then dwindled even further to just a few infrequent drops.

  Larry stared wide-eyed and watched the drips splash near his feet, and serious panic began to take hold. He still had another forty seconds of washing to complete his daily shower routine, not to mention shaving which was scheduled to happen exactly fifty seconds after stepping out of the shower-stall. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the shower rose. It stared back at him with it's one big multi-holed eye from the tiled wall, a few drops of water dribbled tauntingly from it's rim. Threatening looks were clearly not enough to make it work again. He frantically twisted and turned both taps in a stupid effort to make the water reappear. Even as he was doing it he was thinking of the fools who repeatedly push the buttons on an elevator or a pedestrian crossing believing that the mechanical device will somehow detect that the person waiting is important and in a hurry. In Larry's case his actions were even more stupid because he sold taps for a living. Larry's morning routine was in a shambles, he was no longer just in a hurry, he was desperate, his head had a large white foamy crown on top of it, and it was just about ready to slide down his face and neck. He had to repress the nasty thoughts that kept reminding him his scheduled time in the shower had expired, he needed to concentrate on his big problem. But I'm late.. I'm late.. kept echoing through his head.

  'Oh, not now... Go away..' he chastised the voice that was sneering at him somewhere inside his head. 'Leave me alone!' The last words came out more like a shouted cry for help than a plea for mercy.

  He bent forward and used his hands to squeeze and flick off the largest part of the shampoo. Some of it fell onto his feet which was also undesirable, but given the choices available, acceptable. He spread his legs wider and continued using his hands as squeegees. Having removed a large amount of the foam he placed his head under the shower to catch the few drops it offered, but soon gave up on this as it only made it easier for the bubbles to run down his face.

  His towel hung over the top of the glass door and he grabbed it and began drying his body even though it had not been properly rinsed, all the time thinking through his options. Clearly his water had been turned off. But, why? Was it only his water that had been terminated? Maybe some neighborhood vandal had turned it off at the mains connection at the front of his house to disrupt his day. Possible - but unlikely. He was about to wrap the towel around his waist and go and check when he realized he was shivering. He quickly finished drying his body and then used the towel to rub out as much of the excess gunk in his hair as was possible. In his bedroom he put on a pair of thick track-pants and a heavy jacket, then a pair of sneakers.

  Larry made his way across the grass to his water meter. The temperature outside was much colder and he walked as quickly as he could. The shut-off tap at the meter was wide open. No vandalism. Just no water, which ruled out his second idea: asking his next door neighbor, Boris Kuroska, if he could finish his shower in his bathroom, as everyone in the street was served by the same main water-pipe. With nothing to be gained outside Larry headed back into his own home. He reasoned if the authorities had shut down the entire area something pretty big must have gone down. That made it unlikely the water would come back anytime soon. He couldn't sit around all day and wait, he had business to attend to. He was hyper-aware of his hair, it felt like someone had glued it to his head and the synthetic watermelon smell was making him feel nauseous. Larry knew both of these reactions were the beginning of another anxiety attack, they always happened when he had too many problems with no answers. He needed to calm down and think. Concentrate on just one problem, that's what his analyst, Dr Bohen, always advised: Find a solution to that one problem, or at least a plan of action... then implement.

  Think Larry! Think.

  His watermelon shampoo infused hair was his biggest concern, if he dealt with that he would be able to cope with his other disappointments; definitely - well, maybe... No, probably not...

  'Oh! What a disaster,' he said to himself, as self pity erupted.

  The shutting down of the tap-water was out of his hands, so there was no point in even thinking about that. But he needed water.

  Where in the house could he find water?

  The answer came to him almost immediately. The cistern in the toilet contained water. But his elation at finding a solution so soon, ended just as quickly. A triggering pain in his stomach had started; his bowels were demanding attention, right now... That had subconsciously made him think - toilet! Like a spoiled child not getting what it wanted his bowels suddenly increased their demands, they had begun to gurgle and quietly rumble like distant thunder and alarmingly, a cramping pain had also started lower down. That came and went; but was always a signal not to be ignored. It was time to go to the toilet immediately - and for anxiety laden Larry that could frequently be a traumatic event.

  Larry shook his head in dismay as he quickly made his way back to the bathroom, the halves of his backside forcefully clenched together as he went. As he neared the bathroom he contemplated the idea of not flushing the toilet after he had finished - Instead, going with his original idea of using the water in the cistern to rinse his head. But sadly, since Jacquelin had departed, his toilet habits had become somewhat loose, which was a euphemistic way of saying these days he squirted like a frightened duck.

  Flushing would almost certainly be essential.

  He was sure this past few weeks of diarrhea was caused by anxiety. If it continued much longer he would have to concede that it was probably cancer. His list of possible causes also allowed for the idea that Jacquelin had poisoned him before leaving, which would mean his insides were slowly dissolving. This was possible as Jacquelin was clearly upset about something. Either way, his health was a conundrum with an overwhelming conclusion - Larry's time on the surface of planet Earth could be rapidly ending.

  This wasn't a totally unfamiliar thought for Larry, even something as common as a prolonged headache brought about similar conclusions.

  Larry needed a win - a success, to get him out of his current frump. He sat on the toilet trying to force his mind to deal with his major problems. He couldn't fix the water. He couldn't fix the cancer or poisoning. That only left his gooey hair as the problem he could possibly solve. He felt like
a thirsty man in a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean - surrounded by water, but none of it usable. He knew there was bound to be some water in the house, but where? He sat on the toilet mimicking the famous Rodin sculpture, "The Thinker" in the hope that the pose might bring forth something, other than what was splashing into the water beneath him.

  He concentrated his exceptional mind and explored his options. He thought of the fluid in the radiator in his car, but ruled it out as they use chemicals instead water in them these days, besides that would render his van unworkable and he needed to drive to work. He mentally traveled through his house, room by room. Bedrooms were useless. The laundry was out; only chemicals there. He had some alcohol in the living room, but that would also be inappropriate. The pantry in the kitchen had some juice and some beer. No, thank you. The fridge came next and he quickly realized he should have started there. It was probably the added coldness of that big white appliance that kept him from exploring it, but he should have, because there was a bottle of mineral water in the door shelf. Chilled mineral water that Jacquelin had introduced him to drinking with his nightly meal instead of beer, which he had defiantly returned to after she had left. He was grateful for that one remaining bottle, now.

  Ever conscious of his hygiene Larry lifted the ceramic cover off the cistern and carefully washed his hands with soap in the cramped water container. He took a small chunk of skin off his knuckles when his hand scraped against part of the metal apparatus. Cursing silently to himself he pushed the button and flushed his cancerous detritus to oblivion. He made an anxious face as the bowl emptied, wondering if he had made the correct choice. Too late now. He headed off to get a tissue for his bleeding hand then into the kitchen where he examined the bottle of water. Evian, 330ml. Hardly enough for a decent drink let alone what he had in mind, but the decision had been made, no more thinking was required. Back in the bathroom, stripped to the waist, face over the hand basin he tentatively began to pour from just above the back of his head. The shock of the icy cold water on his skull was as compelling as a knife being driven into his brain, some spilled onto his shoulders which brought on an involuntary shake, like a Labrador emerging from a stream. He manned-up and pressed on, pouring carefully with his right hand, squeezing with his left, suppressing the desire to scream as the shampoo bit into his graze, until his hair began to squeak - a sure sign it was clean which surprised him as he had not rinsed for the appropriate amount of time. Just as well as he was out of Evian. Some shampoo bubbles remained on his shoulders which he wiped away with his towel. Not being able to rinse this off left a residual sticky feeling on his skin that would continue to be an issue all day. He just knew it.