Eddie Joyce - Small Mercies

He waits a few pained beats and when it’s apparent that no nurse is on the way, he rouses himself and staggers to the bathroom. He takes a long piss — how could his bladder still be holding this much? — and throws back a handful of Advil with some tap water. He looks at himself in the stained mirror above the sink. His eyelids are puffy, his eyes tiny slits of bruised gray. He looks like something that has been dragged from the sea and left to rot on the beach.

He retreats to his bedroom, slides his piss-soaked jeans and underwear onto the floor, takes an unsoiled pillow from his bed, picks an afghan off the floor of the living room, and lies down on his couch, which isn’t terribly comfortable but is dry.

He doesn’t want the buxom nurse anymore. He wants to be lying next to Tina, like he did one night, eight years ago, in what Franky assumed was a prelude to something but which never went anywhere. She needed a night out, that was all, and who better for a night out than Franky? They went to Denino’s for a pie, had a few pitchers of beer at the bar afterward. They ended up back here, half trashed, giggling. He put her on the couch and she asked him to lie with her and he slid in behind her, a platonic cuddle. She was tiny, the littlest thing, and his body nearly engulfed her.

When they woke, his standard morning erection was full and flush against her rear and his right hand was touching her breast and he kissed her neck softly because why shouldn’t that be the way, why shouldn’t he step in for his brother? Isn’t that what they used to do, back when? But she said, “No, Franky, no.”

And then she stood and was gone before another word was spoken and it was never discussed again. She had asked him to lie with her, not the other way around, but it didn’t matter because he felt awful, worse even than usual. Tina had always liked him and he’d fucked that up too, like everything else he’d fucked up, and he knew then that they would never end up lying on his couch together again. Which is all he wants now. To lie on the couch with Tina and shroud her with his body.

He can’t have the things he wants so he’ll take sleep instead. A few hours of it, to escape this brutal stitch of sobriety.

* * *

When Franky wakes up a few hours later, he feels better. His head is still throbbing but less insistently, as though the ironworker has wrapped his head in layers of soft cloth to make up for the all-night spiking. The tiny goblin has abandoned his efforts to relocate Franky’s ears; only the corners of his eyes feel stretched. And most important, the funereal thoughts of his first waking have downshifted to the usual, post-binge blues.

He sits up on the couch and yawns.

He doesn’t understand why he tortures himself by reliving that one stupid night with Tina every time he wakes up lonely and hung over. He woke up with a hard-on. It happens. But nothing happened. That’s the important thing. He’s not a scumbag. He doesn’t even think about Tina in that way the vast majority of the time. She’s great, she’s like a sister, and yeah, if pushed to an answer on the crucial question, that answer would be yes. But that doesn’t mean anything. She’s got a trim, tight ass and cute face and perky tits. Bobby had good taste, can’t fault him for that, but you can’t fault Franky for noticing either.

He shouldn’t be thinking about this, about Tina’s ass or tits. He shouldn’t be thinking about Tina in that way at all. He’s just so goddamn horny, he can’t help it. His thoughts are like this sometimes after a big night and he’s had a few big nights in a row. He needs to clear his head.

There’s only one way. Rub one out. Clean the pipes, cleanse the system. Then shit, shower, and shave. Then get some food into his stomach. He goes into the bedroom to get the moisturizer and returns to the couch. His stomach rumbles as he lies down. Maybe he should eat first? That’s the problem with a hangover: it leaves several body parts in need of immediate attention but renders the head useless in deciding which should be first.

He squeezes some of the white lotion onto his right hand and brings it down to his flaccid penis. He closes his eyes and starts stroking. He fiddles around for a bit, hoping the physical stimulation will spark something in his head, but he can’t think of anything; the constant availability of free porn on the Internet has destroyed his once vivid erotic imagination.

Is there literally no one in his present life who he can envision fucking in some semiplausible manner? He looks down at his unresponsive penis, its drooping head quivering slightly as if to say yes.

Christ, he thinks, this is beyond pathetic.

He reaches into his memory bank for something reliable, a fully conceived scenario already cooked up and ready to go. The Amy Landini bikini fantasy.

He goes to visit Joe, but Joe isn’t home and neither are his parents. Amy’s like seventeen and he’s fourteen. She invites him in and gives him a glass of lemonade. She’s just broken up with her boyfriend. They’re sitting on her couch, the plaid one in the basement. Her black hair is pulled back in a ponytail. He’s wearing swimming trunks and she’s wearing a pink and black bikini, the top of which can barely contain her enormous tits. An erection starts tenting his trunks.

The well-worn fantasy produces the desired effect. His penis thickens and elongates, but the hangover prevents him from reaching a satisfactory stiffness; all he can muster is a droopy facsimile of a proper hard-on. He increases the pace of his strokes but to little effect; he remains stuck at half-mast.

He gets off the couch and walks into the bathroom, bringing the lotion. He splashes some cold water on his face.

C’mon, Franky, relax, he tells his reflection. Relax.

He puts some more lotion on his hand, closes his eyes.

He’s on the couch with Amy Landini. She’s in the black and pink bikini. An erection starts tenting his trunks. She takes her bikini top off and kneels on the floor in front of him. She slides his huge, throbbing cock between her enormous tits.

“ Franky, it’s so big. I never knew.”

He has a proper hard-on now. Feels like he’s stroking solid oak.

“ I can barely get my mouth around it. Ohh, Franky.” She’s overcome with lust.

“I need to fuck you, Franky.”

She slides down her soaked bikini bottom and straddles him. Her tits are in his face and she starts to ride him, moaning, a little in pain.

“Franky, Franky.”

Franky brings his other hand up to a slender, suddenly smallish breast.

“Franky.”

Her voice sounds tender now. They’re not rutting anymore, they’re making love. She holds his face with her tiny fingers. She leans down and kisses him. He can’t see her face, can only feel her soft brown hair on his chest. She’s a sprite on top of him, the littlest thing.

“Tina,” Franky whispers.

He ejaculates and a muted sensation ripples through him, more release than euphoria. The wave loosens his muscles, easing the tension in his neck and shoulders but leaving a hollow feeling — scooped out and shameful — in its wake. He can’t bear to look at himself in the mirror. He runs the faucet and cleans the sperm off the sink basin. He turns on the shower and steps in, even though the water hasn’t warmed yet. The shock of the cold water is punitive, pleasing in its way. He dips his head under the stream, lets it bombard the back of his neck.

He didn’t even feel like drinking yesterday. A few pops to ease the spike in his head and then a nap, maybe watch the night games at home and catch up on some rest. But then he ran into Denny and Tommy and one thing led to another and the day slid away from him.