Friday, July 10, 2015


That morning i woke up and found a lump on my inner thigh. Or rather i discovered it, not knowing how long it had gestated or incubated. I was bathing and soaping my groin region when i felt an extrusion, a round, dark pink and rather hard lump that sent shivers of electric pain coursing through my body, pain which felt pleasurable too, as though a concurrent rivulet of desire accompanied this pain, the desire to take the discovery of the lump to its logical conclusion, whatever that may be.

I tilted my leg, trying to fix a position of fixity where i could see the lump. Earlier a few drops of urine, trickling down, through my rather maladroit squatting while peeing burned the skin that concentered the lump, a sharp,astringent ,pungent pain like the jab of a needle. As i fingered the lump i smelt my fingers. An amalgam of rancid sweat, urine and stale powder permeated my nostrils. I could not place my leg in a position of comfort wherein the lump could be inspected with all the gleeful tumult it contained .When i touched it i felt a curious sensation of orgasmic joy and post coital soreness. My fingers were cool ,soothing the lump even as the touch of the forefinger sent shafts of pain traversing through me.

I don't know what i thought about the implications of the lump. I was thinking of my legs wrapped around his lower back as he fucked me. What would he feel if he saw the lump? Would he worry or furrow his forehead with repulsion at this excrescence. The lump exudes a stale rubbery smell and i dread to think how , mingled with the scent of sex a malodorous concoction would emerge. Or would he , unmindful of the lump hurt it  irrecoverably.

Meanwhile here is this lump. I want to squeeze it firmly between my forefinger and thumb, squeeze it into nullity, like a bubble burst leaving only a pop of empty air behind, soundless. But it is not a boil nor had it been a boil would i welcome the oozing pus such an act would actualize. Pus is the more stinkier cousin of semen and its unctuousity is more abhorrent. Semen when dried, flakes off the fingers while pus sticks and emanates a rotten odour. The lump is gravid and i don't know what will come out of its lymphomatic chrysalis. Perhaps pus, or blood or extracted cells that seal my fate or set me free.

I want to take a safety pin and stab this lump into a state of lumplessness. Even if the detritus is an attenuated , congealed plastering of its innards i am okay with that. Or to bunch up my hand into a fist and pummel it , pugilistically numb it so that like a defeated loser it slinks off, truculent but ineffectual. What i do instead is, given the heat, take some skin cream and apply it around that area. I close my eyes, savouring the cooling, soothing  relief from heat . If i could apply this cream forever i wouldn't mind having this lump as a fetish or a aphrodisiac. But soon cotton pyjamas will be at  work, the cream will stick and spread and mingle with the perspiration and alternately materialize the fire and ice effect which, for me, is quite like the aftermath of sex.

I'll probably see a surgeon. But already this lump, a recent discovery seems to contain within itself the experience of a lifetime. It both encompasses my bodily nebulousness and psychic foreboding, a landscape i have oscillated throughout.

I lie in bed stroking it, as one nestles into and strokes the pectorals of one's lover . Coruscations of desire still percolate amid immense pain. The layer of skin enclosing the lump throbs and susurrates while the cartilage within pulsates with energy. That night i don't dream of him. I have the lump instead. 

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