THE HUNDRED

“100 orgasms left and then you’re done,” said my doctor. He sat beneath a dumbed down version of an M.C. Escher painting. The stairs all led somewhere that made sense, and I thought to myself, the world doesn't work that way. That is, of course, contrary to the statistics.

“A hundred women?” I asked with dismay. 

“No. I didn’t say that," said Dr. Kozen. "I said a hundred orgasms. However you spread them out, is up to you,” he said. 

“A hundred per would be ideal. From a procreative standpoint,” I stated, arms crossed. Petulant.

“That’s your prerogative, and it's very ambitious, albeit unrealistic. If I were you, I would spend every last one fostering and strengthening a substantial relationship. It can happen sooner, or it could happen later. But, at some point, you’re going to need it. I'm really sorry to have to tell you this.” 

This was bad news. One hundred climaxes before idiopathic fibrosis would make its way down my corpora cavernosa, making erections and ejaculations impossible. A hundred rounds. “What about nocturnal penile tumescence? Or, nocturnal emissions?” I asked. 

“We have medications to stifle those mechanisms. Dulling desire.” 

"An anti-viagra," I snarked.

"Not quite, but that would be the ancillary benefit if it," he said. His hands were clasped on his lap. "There may be side-effects."

“Like what?" I asked. 

“Well, an incredible sense of," he paused for a moment.  "Density.”

* * *

I'd like to tell you, that at my baseline, my social life for a man in his thirties, was quite ordinary. I have a few friends whom I've kept close since college. I exercised regularly. I rarely drank. Was a non smoker. I had a close and loving family back in St Louis. Have had a number of long term relationships, and although they ended, they ended amicably, and for different reasons. On weekends, I did mentorship workshops for upstart entrepreneurs, advising them on their business plans, and teaching them methods for assessing demand for their endeavors. 

That week, after I left Dr. Kozen's office, everything changed. I left horrified, and walked carefully as if every step sent a crystalizing burst of blood into my pelvic region. When I got home I popped the pill with a beer — a nice IPA — and did, as promised, feel pretty dense.

Over time, I withdrew from all circles of life. Within next few weeks I concocted a few ill-conceived homespun remedies. I created and sprayed on a biological odor that kept me in a perpetual state of disgust. I kept my eyes to the sidewalk and wore dimming glasses to prevent me from seeing the alluring details of people. I later had them modified to warp the shapes of them as well. I ate poorly. Became sedentary. Went to work in a fog and returned home in a haze. People avoided me, which was all the better.

I hid in my office where I worked as a data analyst at a research company, and spent much of my day at my desk mired in the intricacies of automotive fuel inefficiencies for a small company developing a new kind of conduit for electronic vehicles. I was analyzing the competition, pitting them against each other scenario after scenario. In the end, these endless spreadsheets will be mulled over by bored marketing executives as irrelevant peripherals.

In the coming weeks I would also be knee deep in statistics involving the production grid of a new kind of genetically modified meat substitute while tracking weather systems in the North West. Donut charts abound. And in the end this data will be mulled over by bored executives who were only expecting a line chart that started low on the left and climbed it's way to the top right corner of wall-mounted flat screen monitor.  

So you see, in light of my recent development, information from two different planes began colliding into each other, and tabulations weren't presented correctly. My report for Le Beef concluded that rainfall in 2014 hinged on whether or not an ignition lock cylinder was properly coated. My colleagues and I shared a laugh at that one. The saying goes, I laugh so that I will not cry.

Then one day I met a woman. I was having an off day at awfulness, having lunch alone. She was sweet. Saw something sad. But sweet as well. Very beautiful. Had ten bracelets on one wrist and none on the other. A tiny birthmark kissed her cheek. Huge chunky jewelry was doing its best to keep her weighed down among the corporeal. She said she was a grant writer and had secured a big one for an upstart animal welfare group. We talked for a bit and I finally asked her out. She laughed a lot. Gave me her number and I wrote it down wistfully on my soft taco tortilla.

That very night, I called her.

"Hullo!" I said.

"Hey!" she sounded surprised. "Well, I'm glad that tortilla didn't fall apart," she laughed.

"You knew it was me?"

"Well, I recognized your voice. It's only been a few hours."

She was right. I should have waited a few days. I should have remembered that a three day wait period increases receptivity by 20 percent as presented by a recent social model used by the new APEX software. And also, a greeting such as "There she is" was met with more openness on social media sites as opposed to something like "Hullo!" Luckily, I was still within the margins. Having called too early made things unpredictable again, and leveled the playing field. So we made some small talk. I told her that fifty-three percent of automobile owners under the age of 30 would be making modifications to their cars in the next two years.

Then I asked her out.  

"So, how's the weekend shaping up?" I asked. "Any plans? Wanna do something?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I have family coming in over the weekend. I'll be running around a lot. I really want to though. How about… Ummm."

"Well, how about next Wednesday?" I interjected. 

"Ouch. I have a work project due on Thursday morning. I'll be really behind from my family being here. So I feel I may be playing catch up, and workin' late."

"I understand," I said, taking in a deep breath. "Well… How's about that following Friday?"

"Ooooh my gosh, I'm sorry. I leave on a short trip. Damn it! Please don't get the wrong idea. I'm not just making up excuses."

"Strike three," I said. 

"I know. I'm sorry. Look, how about Tuesday evening?"

"I can't. Darn! I'm working that night." I said. There was a new shipment of peas coming in for one of my clients. Peas were used as a protein source and made for a more fibrous texture when pressed into faux chicken patties for La Beef, and the crop figures would be in with them on this year's yield from Oklahoma. A new resource. I'd use this for another prediction model I was working on in conjunction with a co-worker. Two birds with one stone, and all that. I wasn't about to call in sick for that. "I'm free two weeks from now. Thursday?"

"Can't. Visiting my mother."

"When do you get back?"

"That Friday. But there's a fundraiser I'm helping to organize. Saturday?"

"I have a few appointments. Sunday?"

"I promised a friend I would babysit for her. Monday?"

This went on for a while — the two of us carrying on an act of nonlinear estimation before reverting to  the basest of nonparametrics. Then:

"September 21, Saturday night," she said triumphantly. "I have a good feeling about this date." 

"Works for me. I'm free that night," I answered, relieved. Excited. Although September 21 was ten months away. 

"It's a date," she said. "Can't wait to see you!"

"I can't wait to see you too!"

And we hung up.

* * *

Weeks later, I had began to feel really, really dense and began having strange dreams of collecting data as a lower life form — a crab on the bottom of the ocean, an earthworm in the soil, a snail in the moss, a mollusk on a rock — projecting my human consciousness and contorting it into unfathomable postures and swirling it around in sensory disarray. My mind was an octopus making it's way through a drinking straw. I felt these contortions as a result of the cross fire between my condition and my medication. I was subhuman.

But I continued taking the pills. Dr. Kozen was right about the density being unbearable. It was as if I had my own event horizon. As if crossing the street would warp the street around. Cars would hit me, and fold in around my body. 

So one day I decided to expend a few rounds, deciding right there to be human again. To fire some off. I got up and made sure my arms were still there. My legs. I got dressed and went to a bar and began hitting on women. But speaking proved futile. My mind was too slow. The pills! A woman looked at me with concern. Took my hand and asked me if I was alright.

"What does the data show?" I asked, densely. 

She laughed and walked away. I walked home. Expelled another round.

* * *

Time drifted. Clouds slid over a mountain. Contrails of tiny planes formed like cuts over the sky. The sun rose and set behind a vertical bar graph. 

One morning, I took a shower and felt as if I were about to shed my skin and fall out of it limbless and lidless, coiled up and liquified into a gelatinous mucoid. This had become my morning routine — the shedding of skin, becoming a gelatinous mucoid. It had gotten that bad. I even created a line graph for it. The days after I had consumed carrots were particularly heavy.

Then one day I was cured. An emerald pill shaped like a pyramid came sailing at me cradled in a palm.

"Experimental," said Dr. Kozen. "You can appreciate that, can't you? In your line of work? You'd become a part of valuable study." He smiled weakly.

The M.C. Escher knock-off had been replaced by a framed poster of Vladimir Malevich's supremacist painting, Black Circle. It was merely a black circle sitting slightly off center on a white plane. There was something anonymous about it, yet defiant in it's placement. It was either empty, or full. Universal, or remote. The more I stared at it, the more it refused to be categorized. It upset me. 

I plucked the pyramid-shaped pill from his hand and held it between my thumb and my index finger. “Wouldn’t it be easier to swallow if it were an ovoid capsule?” I asked him. 

“Well that's the pill. Specific delivery mechanism,” he said. 

So I popped the pill and within minutes the fog and darkness lifted right off of my lap like a poodle waking from a nap.

“Wow. What a great feeling, let me tell you,” I said. 

“There’s only one side effect,” he said. 

“Oh no,” I said. “What is it?” 

“You…" he rubbed his left temple with his thumb, "you, may develop an attraction to yakelopes.” 

“What’s a yakelope?” I asked. 

“It's a hybrid between a yak and an antelope.” 

“Where do they exist. If at all?” I asked. The word shimmered with exoticism. "Yak—Uh—Lope."

“Oh, they’re very rare. I know a few breeders. Not that you’d want to…” 

“What are their names?” I asked.

“John, and his wife Martha.” 

“No, the yakelopes,” I said. “What are the yakelopes' names?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Can I have their contact information?"

“No.” He stood up.

“It's a joke,” I said. "I'm kidding. Yakkity yak! Ha ha."

"Come on, let's get you set up," he said as he opened the door. "These pills, you only take once a day."

I walked out of the clinic filled with a new kind of longing. Yaaaakelopes.

* * *

I had achieved a small amount of success in my company. Research had shown that people who needed their medication the most were more likely than others to actually forget to take them. It had been a year-long study, and in its fruition, a new product and service was created. 1) beeping medication vials and 2) automated phone calls and text messages. Another study helped to tailor those messages to sound non-judgmental and caring. I was very pleased. 

This lead to my own personal development. After some of my own research, I signed up at invisiblemate.com, an online, crowd-sourced service that sent you text messages masquerading as messages from your significant other in order to deceive your doting loved ones who worried too much about your overlong tenure at bachelorhood. I had found a new use for it. 

I registered and created an account. On the dashboard, I named my invisible mate, Yakelope, and then I uploaded my own profile image of a yakelope in a field. I selected "kinky", from a list of personality traits and submitted my request. After a few minutes, I got my first greeting text.

HER: "Hi! It's Yakelope. How's my sexy guy?"

ME: "Good. How's your tail?"

HER:"Oh, it's a little cold." 

ME: "Oh is it? How's your coat?"

HER: "I'm not wearing it. And you want to know something else?"

ME: "That's impossible. Stop right there."

HER: "What's up?"

ME: "Look. I know that you are actually a composite of separate freelance writers who get paid for each text but remember I need you to come at me from the perspective of a kinky yakelope. This is a performance I'm requesting. I'm sure as writers you'll appreciate the creative aspect of it." 

HER: "Oh my poor hooves. They need massaging." 

ME: "Yes. Yes."

I expelled two more rounds.

* * *

I spent another round when I met a very beautiful woman named Janet. She had short, blond hair. Six inch heels that made her taller than me. And, to cut to the chase, after a few drinks, we ended up in bed together. I could taste the ginger and hibiscus on her tongue, and even tasted the faint aromatic of cinnamon dancing on her lips, but all I could think was Yakelope. It took some fantasizing and some role playing but it worked.

"That was different," she said the next morning, giggling. "You, Mantelope, you."

* * * 

I have to admit. At times I felt myself slipping away from myself. I would be standing in a fixed position, and another me would take a step forward. I would see the back of my own head. This other me, which is me, or a part of me, would take another step and another until he walked out of the room. Then another me would step outside of myself and soon there would be ten of me all queued up, walking away. I had become like a slow release pill version of myself, dissolving into the ether. 

So I stopped taking the pyramid pills and resumed my life. Time passed again. Rain fell on a sidewalk. The moon slid beneath the skyline as if descending down an escalator. It was all handled very tastefully. Then I remembered my date!

I called her.

"There she is."

"Hello?"

"Myra? Mara? How do you say it?" I asked.

"Oh, it's you! Hi!"

"You remember me?"

"Of course."

"Mira? Was it?"

"Myrah. Like the wine, shiraz. We talked about this the first time. Ten months ago."  

"Ah, very nice. So… Uh… are you still free tonight?

"You know, I've been wondering if you'd call. I mean, would've called sooner. Just because our date was set for today doesn't mean we couldn't have called each other."

"I suppose I was just following what I thought was protocol. Also, things have just been crazy for me."

"Do you still live in town?"

"Yes!"

"Well, I had to move to another building but it's a long story. A long, strange story, actually. You'll find humor in it!"

"I have strange story as well," I said. "But you can go first."

"Well, are you hungry?"

* * * 

You see, we had both lost someone. Someone very close. And we both remarked during that conversation, that all your life, you have tethers anchored out all around you. They can be right next to you in bed. They can be in the next room. They can be across the globe. You may have spoken a day ago, or it could have been years. None the less, in the back of your mind this tether exists. And over time, as you lose some, you feel adrift, you snap loose a little, but you live on. But then one day you lose a big one, and you feel like you've died along with them, and only your sensory perceptions remain. You see, you smell, taste, hear, touch — your body works, but you yourself have died. We said this to each other, rain on our noses, wind in our ears. Your body is your ghost. It's been abandoned. A damp hand to the chest. A melted ice cream cone. Images. Nothing more. Your mind works, but only in the way a computer works. It's doing its job. Reacting, perceiving images, sounds, interacting dutifully with the living, but you are no longer among them. You're not really there, we said this to each other. A wave crashes. We had walked all the way to the beach. Salt in the air. Somewhre along the way we procure two coffees for 2 dollars. 99 percent of you is gone, we continue the diatribe. But then time does it's job. And you limp along, all 1 percent of you, until it feels like this 1 percent of you is 100 again. You know its not. This remaining 1 percent of you just carries a heavier burden. It feels more. It aches more. It loves more. It needs more.We're on a jetty. City lights behind us. Teflon horizon before us. She takes a sip of her coffee. Plain. Black. No Cream no sugar. Who has the time? she asks, hair whipping wildly in the dark. I take a sip of mine, black, no nothing. Who has time, I agree. Life will always deal another blow.

I am not the first and will not be the last to suffer this affliction. And for many who lose something, life's strange, cosmic immune system floods in to heal and cover and alter things. Scarrification, prosthetics, phantom limbs, synaptic rewiring, adaptation, and then life again.  Sharp left turn, after sharp right turn. Curve ball, after fast ball. Emotional baggage being thrown out the window only to come crashing back in through the ceiling. That night, I watched a three-legged dog run by joyfully untethered along the shore before disappearing into shadow. They say there is no real soul, unless you include your body.

What's left to express? That hundredth was the best one.