Chapter 43 Eve

Andorra had complained to me that the Donor Service, which supplied hospitals, was suffering a bit of a blood drain because former donors were choosing to sell rather than donate, but luckily altruism and generosity still prevailed on society, not to mention donations by way of the vampire churches as part of their safe sex campaign. At this point I consulted Andorra and she made me an offer . . . . . . To smuggle blood from the Donor Service – providing that I let her use the penis of my Beloved privately one evening each week, say every Friday. I was astonished and disconcerted. “I’m your best friend,” she pointed out. “It won’t respond to you,” I said. She pouted at me, full-lipped. “I’ll find a way.” I should have refused. Yet if I refused, I might embitter Andorra. It must have cost her dear to make this request, this admission of craving for the real thing – or at least for the cloned and partial thing. Refusal might seem like a slap in the face. But also, of a sudden, I was curious as to whether my Beloved would respond to the touch of a stranger. * * * According to Andorra, the penis did react to her, and very satisfyingly, too. She might be fibbing so as to salve her pride, and I could hardly ask to be present while Andorra writhed on her bed. Besides, I wouldn’t have wished to behold this personally. Consequently every Friday evening Andorra would carefully carry the pump and the penis along to her apartment and bring them back to me a couple of hours later. During this interval I would watch TV and try not to think about what might be happening. Once the penis was mine again, I would wash it, irrespective of whether Andorra had already done so. Washing excited the penis as much as caresses, since the actions were very similar. The penis seemed to be wishing to make up to me for what had occurred, even though it was I who owed the penis an apology. I would kiss it. “Forgive me, my Beloved. You earned your blood, that’s the main thing.” After some weeks I made a terrible discovery. When Andorra brought the penis back, Coochie was with her, pawing at her thigh and sniffing. “Stay!” ordered Andorra, but Coochie pushed his way into my apartment. The dog’s gaze was fixed on the now-floppy penis. He seemed to want it not for a snack, which was my first fear, soon dispelled by a much worse realization: Coochie wanted the penis as a penis. When I stared accusingly at Andorra, she broke down in tears of remorse. “He’s become addicted,” she confessed. “Do you mean . . . do you mean . . . you’ve been giving your dog bestiality treats with the penis of my Beloved?” “He’s an unusual dog! I love Coochie, and Coochie loves me, but I knew he was gay!” “Gay? How did you know that?” Andorra remained silent. “Did Coochie bugger some other male dog while out walkies with you?” More silence. My best friend couldn’t tell me an outright lie. Suddenly I realized that if Andorra’s discovery had not occurred during walkies then only one possibility remained . . . “You used to try to get Coochie to fuck you! But no matter how you went about it, Coochie couldn’t get it up because—” “– Because Coochie’s gay. It’s the only explanation.” I felt sorry for Andorra. Yet I also had a persistent image in my mind . . . of Coochie, who was gallumphing around, his anus frequently visible. How degrading for the penis of my Beloved! While performing that canine service, Oliver’s penis must have been stiff! Was the penis utterly undiscriminating? “Look,” I told Andorra, “you must promise me, don’t do it with Coochie again.