Nathan left the cinema a broken man. As he had laid on the sticky foyer floor covered in semen and thrashing about trying to cover his still fairly monstrous erection, Scott had sweetly attended to him. Looking up Scott’s immense nostrils whilst the young man tried to help him to his feet proved too much for Nathan, triggering a second, almost fatal ejaculation. Nathan lost consciousness as a crowd formed around him, jeering and whooping with laughter, their phones in hand recording this disastrous moment of his life.
A few blocks from the cinema Nathan began to force back tears, but it was no use. They flowed from him like a fontanal of mucus from a nose slight with flu; soft tissues leaving a gentle rash ever so slightly
As Winter’s first snow fell from the sky and delicately wafted past his… face, Nathan made a vow to put a stop to his silly predilections and to move on with his life. The road ahead would be cruel – this annex to his soul would only add to his lonely and tortured existence, his only comfort and solace would be the support group for obscure fetishists that met trimonthly at the community hall in his neighbourhood.
There he would meet Helga, the woman with an insufferable affliction for armpits and Bernie, who couldn’t get off unless someone was crushing his testicles with a rolling pin. He would sit and listen to their stories, spoken candidly and unabashed yet would always be too afraid to contribute to the groups discussion.
The long, cold nights were cruel and when he was at his worst he would go through the strange ritual of plugging both his nostrils with wax and putting a hessian bag over his nose to deprive himself of his debaucherous disposition, to smother his sexual snare for sniffers. He longed to watch Gerard Depardieu perform Cyrano de Bergerac once more, or to watch Steve Martin’s hilarious antics in Roxanne, or even childhood favourites Pinocchio and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (for Robert Helpman’s role as the Child Catcher) or anything with Groucho Marx in it. Instead he would commit to a form of self-flagellation, viciously punching himself in the nose repeatedly until he would sleep; His nose eventually losing all sense of smell and resembling the hideous nair of a heavyweight boxer.
For now though he decided, as he trudged through the bitter frost, he was going to go to the nearest bar and drink himself into oblivion, drink until the night’s events were a vague memory and he could somehow find the humour in it all. A car pulled over from the road and slowed down next to Nathan, then, the mellifluous sound of a woman’s voice:
“Hey, can I give you a ride somewhere.”
It was the chick with the big tits from the cinema.