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The psychologist got him
on a treatment of sexual reconditioning that included a six-hour
daily regimen of "home exercises." After only a week, he was showing
signs of improvement. He entered Sticky Wicket Video determined
to change his ways: he was going to sort through each pornographic
display until  he
found the one item he felt stood the best chance of ridding him
of his "fixation." Just inside the door, in a wire rack beside
several swanky publications, he spied a pile of grainy packets
and picked one up. It was the most amateurish example of pornography
he had ever seen, yet it was oddly arousing. Each book was nothing
more than a collection of 150 identical black-and-white photos
of a man's penis, cheaply bound. As he perused the book, he realized
that the pictures weren't identical. Picking up other packets,
he noticed each book was a unique piece.
Jim rubbed his thumb and forefinger together,
the tips of which were turning black and smudgy. These weren't
photographs at all — they were photocopies. Taken microseconds
apart, each packet formed a masturbation flip-book; a slo-motion
play-by-play of the fourteen stages of male arousal, shot entirely
in toner, documenting the movement of foreskin, the variations
of blood flow, the obsessive madness of insertion and withdrawal.
All at once, it hit him: these were his genitals. Oh my God, Frank!
After a month of therapy Jim was back to
work. He had been transferred to a Kinko's two miles farther from
his home with a terse letter from the manager testifying to Jim's
"familiarity with the machines."
"Jim! Holy fuck!" Greg shook Jim's hand
ferociously. Greg was a former Kinko's colleague who had been
transferred two months previously. "Fuck that place. This Kinko's
is way more sophisticated. Slide scanners."
Jim pointed at the back of the store.
"What's that?" A slate-gray machine ran the length of the rear
wall.
"Good eye. That's Nikita."
Jim rolled the name around on his tongue.
Nikita . . . so exotic.
"Nice, huh? That baby can copy both sides
— at the same time."
Jim nodded approvingly, his face locked
in a leer.
"It's a color copier, you know."
"Hey, hey!" Jim corrected, adjusting
his trousers. "That's a copier of color." |
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©2000 Steven
Brykman and Nerve.com
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