He reads slowly, “I/d like to explore your hot body and all its parts.” He is awash with emptiness—no words can stir his loins. He sits motionless in front of his computer.  He stares at the nude photograph of himself.  He wants to believe that it was disgraceful to go onto this website, to post this photograph and to read this comment.  But he feels nothing, except maybe disappointment.

He is only twenty-one years old, yet he has already lost respect for himself.  He sees no future for himself, and even his past has become hazy.  How long had he been on this website? (Four years.)  When did he post this picture? (Last year.)  When did someone leave this comment for him to read? (Yesterday.) How many years has it taken him to reach this level of fatigue, self-abandonment, and inaction? (–?)

If anything, he feels disappointed.  He looks at the nude photograph of himself again; he reads the comment again.  He looks down at his naked body—he cannot see the resemblance on the screen.  He does not think that he has a ‘hot body’.  He now feels betrayed by this anonymous user; why can the man not reveal himself?  The man posted in a moment of self-indulgence, in haste, and with no intentions of upholding his desires if given the opportunity.  The image of his nude body had been used.  He had been used and discarded, not even worthy of correct punctuation.

But he would not let the man explore his body.  When he thinks of his own body, he thinks of curly patches of dirty hair.  He is repulsed by his oddly shaped frame, by his protruding collarbone, by his wide feet, by his yellowing toenails, and by his earwax.  He cannot imagine inviting someone into his apartment and allowing him to explore such a defected form.

Twenty minutes pass.  He navigates away from the website.  He turns off his computer.  He goes into the kitchen, where he makes coffee.  He returns to his computer.  In the monitor he watches himself drink coffee.  He is still naked.  He thinks of the emptiness inside of him.  He thinks of a desert with black sand and of sweat.

His apartment is small—walking into the kitchen from his desk means taking three steps to the right.  There are two windows on two walls.  His bed is in a corner opposite the kitchen.  The bathroom is small; it is the same size as his closet. The walls are thin.  A neighbor is urinating into a toilet—the sound enters into his apartment as he sits, still motionless except for his left arm, which brings the glass of coffee to his mouth.  He wonders what his neighbor looks like while he’s urinating.  In which hand does his neighbor hold his penis?  Is it oddly shaped?  Is his neighbor circumcised?

He then imagines his neighbor in a full array of bodily fluids—urine, sweat, semen, blood, mucus, saliva, tears.  Does his neighbor have a girlfriend?  Does his neighbor share these fluids with her?  If so, could he hear the exchange through the thin walls of his apartment?  If so, would the chance of arousal temporarily distract him from the feeling of emptiness, which has consumed him so completely over the last (–?) years?

All photos are copyright, My Little Dead Dick

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