Episode 6: “The Pursuit of Katie, Part I”

Sarisob sat in his living room on a chilly February night, listening to NPR and considering one of the rarest of Sarisobian pleasures: a post-prandial cigarette. Working in Oncology Social Work for so many years, Sarisob knew better than to use tobacco for anything other than a fine laxative. He winced to hear a panel of three women on "All Things Considered" discussing the upcoming Grammy Awards. Their voices kept leaping over each other like a pack of hares bounding across a field, creating a high, shrill effect. It disturbed Sarisob to hear what he called pussy-talk. Too many women made their way through life by talking through their pussies instead of their mouths. Then again, Sarisob realized it annoyed him even more to hear cock-talk, which was just as perniciously prevalent. People should speak from their hearts and minds, thought Sarisob, not from their genitals. America was suffering a surfeit of genital-talk under Genital W. Bush in the White House, and was in dire need of good de-genitalization. He thought of Illinois Senator Barack Obama, Democratic Presidential candidate, whose well-calibrated orations epitomized a brand of heart/mind integration that made Sarisob feel proud to be an American. Obama's genital-talk is reserved solely for his lovely wife and not sublimated into bellicose posturing, Sarisob thought, and this is one reason he is getting my vote.

The high-pitched symposium continued. One of the women was saying that Amy Winehouse could surpass Etta James if she managed to live long enough, and the others whinnied in disbelief. Sarisob divined that the women were in their late-20s/early-30s due to the chirpy nature of their vaginal vocalese. He changed the channel to A.M. radio 850 WEEI’s "Planet Mikey" show. Mikey Adams’s guest-host that night was Herald sportswriter Steve Bulpett; their relaxed comic rapport, discussing the Clemens/MacNamee imbroglio, was a pleasure to listen to. Occasionally Mikey stooped to cock-talk, especially when bantering with Christina the Email Female, but the veteran radio personality knew how to transcend it with his wit and intelligence, unlike the young ladies on NPR.

NPR should stand for National Pussy Radio, Sarisob chuckled to himself, arising from his Bauhaus chair. He went to the kitchen, fixed a Balvenie on the rocks, cracked open the window, lit a cone of incense, and pulled a pack of organic American Spirits from the drawer under his microwave. Tonight was calling for a smoke, as he had eaten a plate of favas and linguica at his favorite Portuguese spot, O Cantinho, after work. He was a regular there because they made the linguica his special way: sauteed with crushed red pepper and whole garlic cloves. While it was great going down, it was rough getting out: the beans and meat would compact in his colon, and the spices would smoulder there like breathing embers. Savoring the single-malt, he took several slow, deep drags on the cigarette and carefully stubbed it out. Then, like clockwork, the blockage shifted and he made swiftly for the toilet. This one's gonna burn more than usual, he thought, which made him extra glad to have picked up some Aloe Vera gel on the way home from the restaurant. They'll never say I wasn't prepared, Sarisob thought with a grimace as the brown lava scorched his rectum.

Before going to bed he decided to log in and check out his Yahoo! Personals account. Having been single for the past year and a half, he decided to give online dating another try. Still smarting from the sudden, unexplained breakup with Stephanie S. (see episode 2), he was slower than usual to rebound, and only signed up with Yahoo to temporarily placate his longtime friend Larry Macomber. They made a deal: so long as Matt was looking for women online, Larry wouldn't hector him to go out "hunting" with him. Larry, who went to Bishop Stang High School with Sarisob and now lives in a modest Braintree one-bedroom apartment, having happily given his ex-wife Stacey the house as payment for their permanent estrangement four years ago, was tireless in his efforts to snare wife number 2, seemingly to stave off the regret of not having done enough. He often urged Sarisob to accompany him to speed-dating nights in the South End, to the Museum of Fine Arts's "First Fridays" singles night, to the bar in the North End where he had once found success years ago and retells the story whenever they go there, as if a one-night-stand with a per diem court reporter was the crowning achievement of his adult life. Maybe it was, and maybe that's not so bad, he thought. In fact, Sarisob was jealous of his friend's lone conquest at a bar, one more than Sarisob had ever converted, and was jealous of his friend's fearlessness where women are concerned. "Mattie, who cares what they think of me?" he once told his friend. "They say no, and I move on—their loss. They say yes, and we have a great time! But you can't get to the yesses without hearing some noes! For Chrissakes, stop reading all that George Eliot and go out there and grab some ass!"

Sarisob's last attempt at online dating back in '04 was a disappointment, largely because he, lacking a digital camera at the time, did not have a good photo of himself. He used a picture that Larry took, one of Sarisob picking apples at Carlson Orchards, and hoped that women would look past the pom-pom on the goofy hat he borrowed in a pinch from the Oncology Clinic's lost-and-found drawer. Apparently they didn't, because he only found one good prospect in several weeks of fishing. He had a few dates with Rebecca J., a music therapist from Arlington who also played piano in a small chamber ensemble. He thought they were getting somewhere, especially after they made out for a while at the close of the third date, but Rebecca never replied to his follow-up email the next morning. Unbeknownst to Sarisob, Rebecca was grossed out by how garlicky his face smelled close up, a smell which she couldn't attribute to their sushi dinner. (His fatal error consisted of eating his leftover stir-fry for lunch that day, and not showering before their date.) This time around, he bought a camera and used a nice pic taken by his boss Sheila at a work function, in which he was smiling and holding up a glass of wine, looking polished and professional.

He was just planning to quickly check his Inbox and go to bed early, but then a newly-posted profile caught his eye. The profile was named "KMJ". KMJ lives in Quincy, was 33 years old, 5'9", and works as a nurse. A vegetarian and yoga enthusiast, KMJ likes rock climbing and has a cat named Imogen. The profile's main picture showed her at the stove, standing in a tight black t-shirt, making a stir-fry in a steaming wok. The photo's caption read "Can you wok the wok?" Her posture was perfect, and her plaited blonde hair shone with health. Her t-shirt highlighted the gentle curve of her back. KMJ's second pic was one of her holding up Imogen, a huggable tabby. This woman is special...I love her as much as I love stir-fries, Sarisob thought—especially shrimp and watercress with chili-garlic sauce! But in her case he would make do with tofu. He was willing to accept the compromise, and planned to google the bland bean-curd in a bid to impress her with his ability to make it taste good.

Her profile also said she was enamored with pop group Belle and Sebastian. "I bow to the Pride of Scotland, the ULTRA-FABULOUS Belle and Sebastian!!!" she wrote. Sarisob hadn't heard of them but vowed to research them online in order to appear informed. Preferring classical to pop music, Sarisob didn't know most of today's pop groups. However, he used to be big into the Scottish band Big Country, whose majestic sound moved him as much as his beloved Vienna Philharmonic. He fondly recalled the night that Big Country performed their top-10 hit, “In A Big Country,” on Saturday Night Live back in ‘82, because that was the very night that Sarisob ejaculated for the first time. A truly historic night. The band rocked with their trademark swing, and 13-year-old Sarisob jumped in fright, pleasuring himself on the blue divan next to the little black-and-white TV his mom let him keep in his room, to discover the milky spoo tentatively issue forth. Exulting in the wetness, Sarisob knew the best was yet to come. “Come up screaming,” indeed!

Sarisob stayed up for a while listening to Belle and Sebastian song samples, and wrote to KMJ. She replied soon thereafter, thus beginning the most significant correspondence in Sarisob's history of online dating. Our hero has agreed to share their emails; we will bring the reader along for the ride as their relationship develops....
________________________________________

From: Sarisob
Sent: Thursday, February 7, 2008, 11:09 PM
To: KMJ
Subject: like your profile (and posture)

Hello KMJ! I was impressed with your profile for many reasons, and wanted to say hi. To be honest, what struck me first—apart from your loveliness of course—was your perfect posture. An elegant woman making a stir-fry will always catch my fancy. I make a stir-fry with brown rice almost every night. (If I ever get a tattoo, it might be the logo from a bottle of Sriracha!) I broke down last year and bought a stylin' Calphalon wok from Amazon, it's one of my all-time best purchases.

I, too, work as a caregiver (Oncology Social Work at MGH) and can relate to the challenges of nursing. Suffice to say it takes a unique blend of soft heart and thick skin (thick skull?) to put oneself out there with patients everyday. I think what helps me is that I'm very up front about being a buffoon. It helps relax my patients.

Full disclosure: I'm a few years older than you, 37. I am not a vegetarian, but I am willing to go further in that direction. Sometimes I eat seafood and chicken, and hope that's not a deal-breaker for you. Otherwise I'm very health conscious and avoid all refined sugar/flour products and eat organic whenever possible. And I'm a whiz with tofu! Did you know that if you freeze a cake for 10 minutes you can squeeze the water out of it better?

Your cat has a sweet name and is quite a cutie! I don't have a pet at this point, but have owned both cats and dogs in the past. I probably prefer cats if pressed. (If I was pressed, that is—not the cat! Hee-hee.) Dogs take daily effort, like raising a child. In my opinion it takes two to raise a dog.

You have good taste in music. I listen to all kinds, pop, classical, and jazz, but mostly classical at work. My friend Larry did refer me to the "ULTRA-FABULOUS" B&S some time ago. Did you see their Avalon show last year? I heard it was incredible! Their use of texture and strings sometimes reminds me of the Beach Boys, who I also like. Larry favors the DCW album, but I think TLP is better. What do you think?

BTW, the picture in my profile is from a work event. Please don't judge me by the tie—I'm not really a tie-wearing guy outside work. But I'm good at "wokking the wok" when necessary!

Cheers, Matt Sarisob

________________________________________

From: KMJ
Sent: Saturday, February 9, 2008, 11:20 A.M.
To: Sarisob
Subject: thanks for your sweet note...

Dear Matt,

Thanks for the sweet note and compliment about my posture. I've done yoga twice a week for years, it must be doing something right. Honestly, if not for Yoga, I'd probably be in therapy, or under some barstool. I've been at South Cove Hell Center—I mean, Health Center—too long, and am needing a change. (I guess that's why I posted an ad, why I'm writing to you, why you wrote to me. We all need a change, don't we?)

Sorry to vent about work in my first note to you, I know it's bad form... Yesterday was a particularly bad day. The 6:00 nurse left early, and I was stuck there dictating notes til 8:30. Plus this rainy spell lately is bringing me down. I shouldn't complain though...life is generally way better than I deserve! I have yoga class in a half-hour and that should set me right.

Wow, you must have some stress to bear in your line of work as well. Does it get to you at all, working with so many sick patients? I'm not sure I could ever push chemo, but I'm told Onc. nurses make some big bucks.

My ultra-cuddly cat is named for the British singer Imogen Heap. Ever heard of her? If you like classical music you'd probably love her piano playing and amazing voice. Her recent album "Speak For Yourself" is in heavy rotation on my mp3 player. (Can you tell I love music? :-) ) Yes, you missed a great B&S show at Avalon last year...they were soooo awesone, and Stuart M. is such a dreamboat! (sigh, love that man...) I am a definitely in your friend Larry's camp: Dear Catastrophe Waitress all the way!

I'm the same with classical music as you are with vegetarianism. I am sympathetic to it, and could stand to learn more. Maybe you could tell me about Bach and I could expose you to the wonders of TVP? And BTW, I didn't know that about freezing the tofu. Will try it, thanks!

Well, gotta get ready for Yoga. Oh, and since you mentioned not having a tattoo...it happens that I do have a tattoo, but it is of a personal nature. Maybe one day I'll tell you about it. ;-)

Regards, Katie

Episode 5: “Big Brother”

If the reader is not yet convinced that Sarisob is a well-respected member of mainstream society, let it be known that the Mass. General caregiving community he has belonged to for the past eight years is not the only outlet for his ameliorative energy. Sarisob has volunteered with Literacy Volunteers of Massachusetts, Recording for the Blind and Dyslexic, and participates in street- and park-cleanings on weekends in the Summer months. Sarisob is presently a Big Brother to an 11-year old from East Boston named Ricky Peña. He was drawn to Big Brother/Big Sister of Boston thanks to MGH’s ReachOut Boston! Campaign, which hosts and publicizes events for and between MGH and a variety of Boston organizations.

One early-Spring morning in 2006 Sarisob was walking briskly through the Yawkey Center lobby, in a hurry to get to his office and beat off before his 9 a.m. patient, Steve Iannelli, arrived characteristically early and sat waiting outside his office. He was lost in the time-honored reverie, imagining Mrs. Silvia wiping chalk dust from her sensual hands, saying “Matthew Sarisob! I need you to stay after class for a few minutes”—when his right thigh collided sharply with the edge of a heavy table, whose metal legs scraped a few shrill inches across the marble tiles. It was one of several tables set up by ReachOut Boston! staff to promote local non-profit and community-building organizations. There were two people seated at the table: a scrubby-haired man of around Sarisob’s age, and a preteen Asian boy. Both were well-dressed, sporting Big Brother/Big Sister pins on their Oxford shirts.

“Ow—Aw, sorry!” exclaimed Sarisob as the contact caused a stack of brochures to fall and scatter. He bent down to pick them up, and the man, whom Sarisob took to be Cape Verdean due to his striking green eyes, came around to help him.

“Hey, you don’t need to do that. I’ll take care of it,” he said. He was a handsome man with a mellifluous voice and perfect skin, inspiring in Sarisob the vague discomfort occasioned by the few and select men he found physically attractive.

“No, it’s OK. I’m the stupid one.” Sarisob looked down to conceal the blush rising into his face.

“You’re not alone.” He took the brochures Sarisob offered in the motion of their standing, and Sarisob noted a “Livestrong” bracelet around his wrist. “You’re the third person this morning to do this. We’ve already moved the table back twice, I don't know what else to do. The first woman tripped and fell down.” He turned toward the boy, who was squaring the stacks of brochures. “Luckily she was OK. Right, Hung?”

“Yes! That nurse, she dropped her water bottle, she was a meanie—no joke. All we want to do is tell people about Big Brother/Big Sister,” Hung replied to Sarisob. “Everyone here in a mad rush,” he added, and loudly sipped the remainder of his orange juice through a flexi-straw.

“Gee, I guess I’m guilty of that myself! Getting to work on time is a challenge.” Sarisob wondered how many other MGH employees were in a hurry to get to their offices and bring themselves to orgasm.

“That’s OK man--at least you’re friendly. That nurse, she ran away like we were DSS!”

“Most people who work here are friendly. I’ll bet you give out a ton of these brochures today. I’ll take one.” Sarisob tousled his hair in the way kids can’t stand.

“Do you know much about Big Brother/Big Sister?” asked the good-looking Cape Verdean.

“No, not really. But I can relate to your mission: I was an only child, and appreciated every role model I could get.”

“Well, maybe you’ll be able to return the favor for someone else? Being a Big requires less time than you think, and is pretty rewarding. If you're interested our website has more info on the application process. If you have questions feel free to email me through the site. I’m the Program Director; my name’s Anilton.” He offered his hand for a shake. I'm not gay, thought Sarisob, matching Anilton’s firm handshake and maintaining eye contact.

“Nice to meet you, Anilton. I'm Matt. Is Hung your Little Bro?” Is your little bro Hung? Sarisob thought, and knew then he'd be laughing over that change in word order for weeks, maybe months to come.

“He sure is! And he gets to go to the Museum of Science later in exchange for working the table this morning.” He and Hung shared a smile and the boy began hitting the table with his forearms in pleasure.

“Yeah booooy!! We gonna see the Great White Sharks in 3-D!” Hung enthused to Sarisob.

“That’s great, the Omni-Theater is the bomb! Are you going to the planetarium also?”

“No, it's boring, 'cept for the laser shows.”

“I agree, but I like the Boston Pops laser show. And the staircase near there that's like piano keys.”

“Yeah, that's fun! I run fast up and down those stairs: woo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo!” Hung's excitement was infectious; it was obvious to Sarisob that Anilton had him on his best behavior.

“You guys, I need to get busy, but I gotta hand it to you: you're a great team! It was nice to meet both of you.” Sarisob thanked Anilton, promised to read the brochure, and turned for the elevators, wincing at his thigh’s incipient bruise. While waiting at the elevator he looked back to see Anilton accepting a coffee from the woman at the neighboring table and Hung awkwardly attempting to tie an American flag bandana around his head. The sight of doughy little Hung in his dress shirt and khakis, struggling with the tri-color bandana was just heartwarming enough of an allegory to convince Sarisob there and then that he would peruse the brochure soon after Mrs. Silvia was through draining his meat. His thoughts returned to his old math teacher, and blood returned to his penis. He could almost smell the chalk dust in her hair—and then his Hall-of-Fame fantasy was briefly eclipsed by the image of Sarisob going down on Anilton. An unbidden, unwanted image for sure, Sarisob entertained it briefly before exchanging it for one of Mrs. Silvia spread-eagled across her desk, his face buried in her crotch. As his erection was well on the rise, he was relieved to be unable to determine which fantasy inspired greater bloodflow.

Returning from the bathroom with a smile on his face, Sarisob put the olive-oil-filled alcohol nip back in his desk. He dialled up some Chopin and took the Big Brother/Big Sister brochure from his bag. Looking at the pictures of kids on the cover, Sarisob thought of his own unremarkable childhood in New Bedford. Sarisob was spoiled—as only children are wont to be—by his mother Monique, who was able to be a stay-at-home mom thanks to his father, Roger Sarisob, who supported his family by working two jobs. Sarisob's bond with his dad was forged primarily through helping in Roger's garden, which filled every inch of their small backyard and spilled over into the backyard of their neighbor Mr. Pereira, who allowed the expansion in exchange for all the snap peas he could pick and a few bags of tomatoes. Roger worked nights in the pressroom of the Standard-Times and part-time on Sundays cleaning the Gormley School, which was Sarisob's grammar school. Both Roger and Monique are proud of their Matthew, the first one in the family to graduate college—with a Master's degree to boot! Being devout Christians, they aren't as proud of his adamantly agnostic beliefs, but are pleased that their son has devoted his life to Service.

It was Monique who was Sarisob's best childhood friend. Monique was unable to have any more children due to complications during Sarisob's delivery, and lavished him with more caring tenderness than she thought herself capable. While her husband slept, or tended his plants, she took her Mattie over to Buttonwood Park to feed the ducks or take out a paddleboat, down to the waterfront for a walk and a malasada, or to his favorite place, Lincoln Park in Dartmouth, where he would ride the kiddie coaster and play Skee Ball until she dragged him away in tears. He had a few good friends while attending school at the Gormley and later at Bishop Stang High, but his best childhood friends were books. (To this day he returns home each January to take Monique to a couple-hours worth of the annual reading of “Moby Dick” at the Whaling Museum.) Overall Sarisob was pleased with his childhood years, and seldom felt that he had lost out by not having a sibling thanks to his loving, solicitous mother.

But what about those children who didn't have a Monique to make them their nucleus? he thought. He thought of little Hung, and how fortunate he was to have such a virtuous role model like Anilton in his life. Maybe he could play such a role for another child? I may not be as good-looking, or virtuous, the self-critical Sarisob thought, but I do have something to give. He knew his mother's greatest hope was for a grandchild—he wanted that more than she did—but in the absence of Ms. Right perhaps she'd be pleased to know he was honing his parenting skills. It was then that he decided to look up the Big Brother/Big Sister website and fill out out the application form. But he wasn't able to do so at that time because of the soft thud outside his door, and the sound of the zipper. Steve Iannelli was his usual 15 minutes early for his appointment, and was reading The Economist outside his office. Steve was having a tough time with his prostate cancer, and was still unable to control his urine three weeks after Dr. Howley said he should have regained normal function. Something was wrong, and Dr. Howley's mere implication of a second surgery sent Steve through the roof, and therefore to Sarisob. He smelled of urine, and had serious anger issues which were perfectly reasonable given his situation. OK Sarisob, he thought after printing out the BB/BS application, time to earn your keep. He sprayed M9 odor neutralizer in all corners of his office, and welcomed Steve a few minutes early.

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On behalf of Sarisob and myself, I'd like to wish all our readers a Happy Holidays and share a great holiday lyric from Jackson Browne. -Andrew, Sarisob's authorized biographer...

Jackson Browne - "The Rebel Jesus"
Original recording from the Chieftains's album "The Bells Of Dublin"

All the streets are filled with laughter and light
And the music of the season
And the merchants' windows are all bright
With the faces of the children
And the families hurrying into their homes
As the sky darkens and freezes
Will be gathering around the hearths and tables
Giving thanks for God's graces
And the birth of the rebel Jesus

Well they call him by 'the Prince of Peace'
And they call him by 'the Savior'
And they pray to him upon the seas
And in every bold endeavor
And they fill his churches with their pride and gold
As their faith in him increases
But they've turned the nature that I worship in
From a temple to a robber's den
In the words of the rebel Jesus

We guard our world with locks and guns
And we guard our fine possessions
And once a year when Christmas comes
We give to our relations
And perhaps we give a little to the poor
If the generosity should seize us
But if any one of us should interfere
In the business of why they are poor
They get the same as the rebel Jesus

But pardon me if I have seem
To take the tone of judgement
For I've no wish to come between
This day and your enjoyment
In the life of hardship and of earthly toil
There's a need for anything that frees us
So I bid you pleasure
And I bid you cheer
From a heathen and a pagan
On the side of the rebel Jesus

Episode 4: “The Mind-Body Connection”

One of Sarisob’s fundamental beliefs regarding social work is that patients be as relaxed as possible. Newly-diagnosed cancer patients are bundles of stress; putting them at ease is his top priority. As the last episode stated, Sarisob even encourages certain patients (those who receive the early-PF) to "fart proudly," which invariably makes them laugh and relaxes them further. But to Sarisob relaxation is serious business. He puts the mind-body connection at the forefront of his practice, and this is why he is so much loved by his patients.

Sarisob’s belief in the power of the mind-body connection comes from his early immersion in the works of psychotherapist and natural scientist Wilhelm Reich. He was drawn to Reich not through his writings on stress and repression, however, but the orgasm, which Reich considered of primary importance to a person’s overall health. In his teen years, Sarisob’s mania for chicken-choking led him toward Reich’s, er, seminal work “Function of the Orgasm,” and from there to many of his other books. Much of Sarisob’s understanding of psychotherapy and the detrimental “body armor” people carry around came from his study of the brilliant, controversial Austrian, whose visionary thinking alienated him from his colleague/mentor Sigmund Freud and set him on an odyssey of exploration that culminated in the wilds of Rangeley, Maine, where his estate/laboratory is now a museum that Sarisob has long wished to visit. While Reich did go off the rails in his later years, theorizing about UFOs and Fascist conspiracies designed to tether people’s sexual and psychical freedom via what he termed the “emotional plague,” his ideas on the importance of free sexual expression and emotional states impacting physical wellness were ahead of their time, quietly influencing modern conceptions of bodywork and sex therapy. Alas, Reich’s paranoia proved well-founded in the Spring of 1956, as Federal agents, suspicious of his research, spirited him away in dramatic fashion while his young son Peter looked on. The crime that hastened his demise—Reich died in Federal prison a year later, literally heartbroken—was a petty offense involving the intra-state commercial conveyance of an Orgone Accumulator, a device he invented to harness the power of Orgone energy—a naturally-occurring elan vital also of his own discovery—toward a variety of healing purposes, including curing cancer and rainmaking. Ideas such as these were considered worrisome by the Feds, who burned hundreds of pages of his research.

Sarisob never would have conceived of social work as a calling if he hadn’t read Reich. His controversial approach to therapy deeply appealed to Sarisob, even as he disagreed with Reich’s views regarding masturbation. Reich paid close attention to the posture of his therapy patients, going so far as to ask certain patients to strip down to their underwear in order to better determine the extent of their body armor. Of course, Sarisob never went that far with his patients, although he did once witness the efficacy of a controversial Reichian technique in Sophie, an emotionally-repressed 49-year-old undergoing chemotherapy for a brain tumor.

Reich would occasionally request that a patient induce vomiting before a session, so the catharsis would help to soften their armoring. Sophie’s breakthrough session occurred when Sarisob, saddened by the tightness in her face, voice, and posture, slipped some Ipecac into her Diet Coke while she was in the bathroom. He’d kept the Ipecac in his desk for months, waffling over whether to take such a career-threatening chance. “Who feels it, knows it” says the Jamaican proverb posted above Sarisob’s toilet, and Sarisob felt it was the right time the morning after Sophie’d had her head shaved by her friend Jan. She appeared in his office unannounced, and was a complete emotional wreck, shaking and near tears. Luckily he was free at the time and was able to see her. He dosed her soda when she went around the corner to compose herself and wash her face.

Ten minutes and a few sips later, Sophie was profoundly nauseous. She returned to the bathroom and vomited to beat the band. Once back in his office, Sarisob gave her a toothbrush and paste (he kept extras in his desk), replaced her Diet Coke with a Diet Canada Dry, empathized with her for having the side effect so common in patients receiving chemo, and encouraged her to finish their session, which she did. Sarisob was shocked at how relaxed her body and mind were after vomiting, and even more so by her change in attitude. Sophie sat back, settled her shoulders into the chair, and began to speak with the freewheeling candor of an unblocked organism. She spoke about her husband, Jack, a free-lance business writer and consultant who once ran Corporate Communications for Digital and now makes $150 an hour writing annual reports and promotional materials and advising corporations on their branding strategies. They’d been married for 14 dollars—dollars, Sophie said, instead of years, but Sarisob didn’t correct her—14 years in which Jack gradually withdrew emotionally after the birth of Gwen, their only child, and put his energy increasingly into his two passions: his work and his garden, which became more profuse than ever after her brain cancer was diagnosed.

“He gives the garden what he can’t give me!” Sophie sobbed. It was the first time she mentioned any marital difficulties in their seven sessions. She discussed her family, her college, rebelling from her Christian Scientist upbringing, her wonderful support network, her daughter, her knitting group—but never her marriage.

“So he says it with flowers, then?”

“Yeah, but he only talks to himself. He doesn’t know how to be there for me in the way I need the most!” she cried. “He’s afraid to lose me, be on his own with Gwen—I understand all that. But he can’t take it when I’m in pain, or suffering. Last night, when Jan was over—she convinced me to shave my head—I was sick of seeing it stick to the comb, it made me feel like I was dying. Jack tried his best, and it hurt me to see his eyes fluttering. He couldn’t hide his pain, and went out to spread mulch. He loved my hair, Matt, and I loved the pleasure he took in my hair. He used to kiss it when we made love.” Sarisob felt himself hardening. He, too, loved Sophie’s silken blonde mane, and reflected, watching her stretch out with a catlike languor that she never would’ve accessed if not for a cleansing puke, that he would soon be visualizing that gorgeously absent hair while olive-oiling his blood-engorged glans, sitting on the very toilet where she hurled twenty minutes prior. Despite her repression, Sophie was a hot little number, he thought, with or without hair; he considered it a tribute to the woman’s still-vital sexuality, even after several punishing rounds of Taxol, that he was able to bring himself to climax while imagining himself sucking her golden hair, taking her in a sideways position. He hoped to find a trace of her vomit in the toilet bowl. Imagining himself shooting a load upon it, he shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. Listening to Sophie’s liberated monologue, Sarisob marveled at Reich’s insight into the human condition, and pondered how to build upon this session’s gains without relying on emetics. He knew that using Ipecac was an experiment he would never repeat.

“Jack goes out of his way for me so much, it makes me feel guilty. He buys all the organic food and green juice I need, he brings Gwen to soccer and yoga and to her friends. But emotionally...he’s absent from me, and I’m at wits end over it. Is it me, Matt? Have I failed him?”

“Sophie, you know that’s not true! Cancer is a challenge for the entire family, and brings up tons of issues. The simple stuff is no longer simple, and the complicated stuff is overwhelming. I’m honored and so pleased, Sophie, that you’ve been so open with me today. You have a courage today that you haven’t shown in our past sessions.” Sophie responded with the fullest smile she’d granted him yet in their collaboration.

“Thanks, Matt. And to think I wanted to go home after throwing up! Thank you for convincing me to stay; I must confess it feels real good to get this off my chest. I usually don’t talk this freely about personal stuff—is this what you mean by cancer bringing up issues?”

“Sort of, yes. Cancer is like a centrifuge, you know? It may seem like it destroys your life in the way it breaks everything down—but just as often people come through it stronger than when they started. You stand a good chance of being cancer-free one day, and I’ll bet that you and Jack will have a stronger marriage when all is said and done.”

“You think? Yeah, he and I are going to have a little talk tonight. He needs to feel my shaved head—he wouldn’t last night.” She removed her multi-colored fez for the first time in the session, and Sarisob beamed with pleasure to see her gleaming pate.

“Wow, Sophie, you look great bald! It brings out your hazel eyes, and your cheekbones! And I’m not just saying that! If someone is beautiful with hair, they’ll be beautiful without it—don’t ever doubt it.”

“Oh, Matt, you are kind to say that. They say hair grows back differently after chemo; I hope mine doesn’t come back curly. Damn—isn’t it shallow of me to worry that Jack won’t like my hair as much when it grows back? He used to drive me nuts quoting that Yeats poem to me about the lady with the yellow hair, but stopped when I started worrying about losing it.”

“It’s not at all shallow to worry. It’s a real part of marriage. People have a basic need for validation, especially from their spouses. You know, I remember that Yeats poem from college. Such chauvinist nonsense!”

“Thank you!” Sophie said, clasping her hands toward Sarisob in gratitude. “Jack still has some residual chauvinism thanks to his jerk of a father. I’m working on it.”

“That’s great! And once you get through this, I guarantee he’ll love your yellow hair even more. But you mustn’t hold back with him, Sophie. Do you think you can show him the same courage and clarity that you’ve shown me today?”

“Yes, I think so—and I won’t let him go out and pull weeds either. Thank you so much, Matt: you helped me finally feel like I can face my husband and make him listen. It’s funny, I came to you for my cancer, but it turns out you’re just as good at marriage counseling.”

“Thanks for saying! One reason I love my job is that it continually reminds me how interconnected everything is. From the cells in our bodies, to our families, friends, neighborhoods...all the way out to the solar system and the Universe! On the surface I am here to help you through your cancer, but I tend to think beyond that. And soon enough, so will you and your family.”

“You know, I think Jack would like you. He loves Irish literature, and has a way with words like you do.”

“I’d like to meet him sometime. I told you before, Sophie, about the support group I run for family members of our patients. I think Jack would be a perfect candidate. If he wouldn’t feel comfortable in a group I’d be willing to meet with him solo. And I know my way around a garden, too: a green thumb runs in my family.” Sarisob smiled, and noted on his desk-clock that the session was soon to be over.

“I’ll mention it again to him, and also that I’m not the only one who finds the poem chauvinist. Stupid Yeats! Gosh, I can’t tell you when I’ve more looked forward to going home! He may not be interested in your group, but he’ll certainly hear all about this tonight.”

“After he feels your head.”

“Yes, after he feels my head.”

“If you don’t mind my saying, it’s a beautiful head, Sophie. Jack’s a lucky man.”

“Would you like to touch it, Matt?” The twinkle in her eye told Sarisob that Sophie and Jack were going to be just fine. While Sophie still had a statistically-significant chance of experiencing a recurrence within 5 years, he had a good feeling that her life partner would be there every step of the way.

“OK—but at our next session. Jack should be the first man to have the pleasure.”

“Fair enough, next time then. You’re a good man, Matt Sarisob. I don’t mean to pry, but, are you married?”

“Not yet, but I dearly hope to be one day. Still waiting on Ms. Right. But I don’t lose sleep over it: how could I when there’s so much to be grateful for? Sophie, it looks like we’re drawing to a close for today. Is there anything else you’d like go over?”

A few minutes later, as Sophie strolled out of his office—even her stride was more confident—Sarisob grinned broadly, pumped his fist, and said a silent “thank you” to his mentor in social work and sexual potency, Wilhelm Reich. Then he took a small bottle of extra-virgin olive oil from his desk and went to sniff out her toilet.

Episode 3: “Timing is Everything, Part II” (aka “To Fart Or Not To Fart”)

The English say that every cup of tea is different, and so it was for Matt Sarisob, MSW, LICSW: every fart is different. Considering his anal issue the purest expression of his individuality, he covets it for that very reason, savoring the aromas like a connoisseur, loving them in the same way that mothers do their children: protectively, always surprised by the next one, more gleeful with each inhalation, each finger-sniff.

Sarisob feels similarly about his calling as a social worker: the second-purest expression of his individuality. He loves helping his Oncology patients along their path to recovery as surely as he loves smelling his flatus. And the sweetest fart of all, he thought, flushing the come-clotted toilet paper down the toilet—the mere thought of his unprecedented public masturbation earlier that morning set his prick astir, compelling him to beat off again just before lunchtime to the mental reenactment of his al fresco wank—is the fart that his 10 a.m. patient Rick Landsman didn't receive during their session. The sweetest fart of all is the one that combines the two purest expressions of Sarisob's individuality: the Patient Fart.

Sarisob discovered the Patient Fart two years into his practice at MGH, and it has become one of several unique therapeutic tools in his, er, arsenal. When he chooses to cut a PF, Sarisob relishes that moment more than any other. What made PFs so precious was that Sarisob allowed himself exactly one fart per patient. Only one, which was placed at the exact right moment to provide optimal therapeutic value to the patient. The PF wasn't for all patients, but could come at any time to those who merited it. When to let fly, the volume, his reaction to it—all are critical factors in creating the optimal patient response. When to let fly is the most important factor, and Sarisob’s instinct for placement is impeccable, unwavering. He is the Miles Davis of the butt-trumpet.

Sometimes he broke wind in the early stages of their collaboration. (Sarisob considers social work a symbiosis between himself and the patient, working together to guide them through the journey of despair and despond to the other side of their disease and into the light of new life.) When patients evinced discomfort in receiving help from a social worker, Sarisob could sense it immediately, feel it in their body language, their reluctance to make eye contact, the quaver in their voice as they answered his questions. It is that cohort of patients who received the early fart. For maximum impact, Sarisob gently slipped one into a pause in the patient’s dialogue. Disarmed by the eructation, the nose-hair-curling bouquet somehow lowered the patient's guard and humanized Sarisob, revealing the caregiver’s own occasional lack of control over his bodily functions. Despite being at the epicenter of stench—or because of it—the fart relaxed the patient, brought them together, and the patient was his from there on.

Intended to break down walls of repression, early farts needed a strong reaction from Sarisob to ensure success. If he let the patient interpret his malefic stink he was lost. So Sarisob took charge, being quick to dismiss the odor with a matter-of-fact wave of the hand. He would own up to the fact that he sometimes farted and that people shouldn’t have to apologize for such a natural human expression. “People always want you to apologize for things, you know what I’m saying?” Sarisob would ask the patient, prompting them to offer variations on the theme he was leading them toward, which was “You’re right! My mother/father/wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/son/daughter/brother/sister/boss/co-worker) makes me feel like I need to apologize for having cancer!” Sarisob would then boldly proclaim that cancer and farts are nothing to apologize for, and ask the patient if they’d heard of Benjamin Franklin’s pungent manifesto “Fart Proudly”. If they hadn’t, Sarisob would offer to give them his copy, which they often accepted. Sarisob stocked his desk with several copies of “Fart Proudly”, taking care to dog-ear and monogram each one so it would indeed look like his book. “And, if you ever need to let one go in a session with me,” he would tell the patient, “don’t hold back! Repressing it is a waste of your energy.” Sometimes they took him up on it, to Sarisob’s enjoyment and edification: one of the many things his patients have taught him over the years is that chemo farts are truly vile. But it was easy to abide their loosened sphincters when he could see their bodies relax, feel the change in their auras.

Later-in-relationship farts were a trickier matter. Those farts had an entirely different therapeutic modality, reserved for patients who have worked with Sarisob for quite some time, for years in certain cases. They’d come to depend on Sarisob long after he felt it was time for them to “leave the nest”. It was this cohort of patients who received the later-in-relationship fart, intended to help them with their separation anxiety. His aim was to offend, however subtly, and set them on a thought process whereby they’d choose to break their dependence on him and move forward with their cancer-free lives. The late fart, or “separation fart”, as he called it, would be delivered not during a pause in their dialogue but while Sarisob himself was speaking. He would release a loud one in mid-sentence, pushing hard for a real splat effect, and would then stop talking, widening his eyes and covering his mouth for an embarrassing two seconds. As the tear-gas permeated his office, Sarisob would apologize profusely, attributing the errant toot to his latest spicy meal. Then he would pretend to lose his train of thought and continue to apologize awkwardly, all the while spraying his odor neutralizer to little effect. Late-fart patients seldom remembered what it was he was talking about, stunned as they were by the smell. In this context, Sarisob appeared quite ashamed of the fart, overdoing his shame and causing the patient to think that their longtime counselor might have repression issues of his own.

“Separation fart” recipients might think that their social worker simply doesn’t have 24-7 control of his gas, but this is far from the truth. SFs actually require great physical control for the reason that one seldom talks and farts simultaneously. One talks, one farts, but one rarely does both at the same time unless by accident. The fortissimo flatus always offended the patients—a risk Sarisob was prepared to take on their behalf. These patients, Sarisob concluded, were ready to take their recovery to the next level, and needed to be roused from their complacency in order to do that. And like the early-in-relationship fart, the SF was successful more often than not: the majority of this cohort decided soon thereafter to stop seeing Matt as regularly. A few patients broke off the relationship immediately, others more gradually, and some bought him lavish parting gifts to thank him for his devoted care—overcompensating, Sarisob thought, for the disgust with which they now viewed their caregiver.

If only they knew, Sarisob mused while returning from the bathroom stall, nibbling off the little bits of toilet paper adhering to his left hand’s index finger, how much care and compassion a PF contained.

Episode 2: “Timing Is Everything”

The preceding episode may cause readers to think that Matt Sarisob, MSW, LICSW, is a repulsive, secretion-obsessed juvenile. However correct this may be, the reader should be cautious not to lose sight of her own Sarisobian proclivities. After all, aren’t we hard-wired to abide, and sometimes even enjoy, the smell of our farts? Don’t we occasionally bring the soiled toilet paper noseward to discern the constituent elements? Does not the human mind light upon sexual fantasies at oft-inopportune moments? The reader can surely relate to Sarisob’s predilections and doubtless relishes her own covert cheese-cutting, or the wetness-inducing memory of her tryst in the HVAC closet with that cute Maintenance guy.

Therefore it should come as no surprise that the other half of Sarisob’s double life is that of a highly-functioning citizen, respected at work and active in the community. Sarisob was beating his meat that chilly morning while waiting for the B-Line to bring him a short walk from Massachusetts General Hospital’s Yawkey Center, where he works as an Oncology Social Worker. Loved by his patients and colleagues, Sarisob has carved out a comfortable niche in his eight years at MGH. Only the keenly observant can descry his fart-centric behavior: in the way he suddenly ducks into bathrooms for longer-than-average visits, lingers over smells, and brings his fingers to his face more than is necessary and hygienic. The keenly observant have so far consisted of Sarisob’s parents, Monique and Roger, and a series of ex-girlfriends who gradually discovered that their soon-to-be-former beau was either unable or unwilling to change his personal habits. The ex- that stung Sarisob the most was Stephanie S., a fun-loving librarian at the Athanaeum whose classical music collection was even larger than his. Determined not to repel the willowy brunette, he was remarkably successful at keeping his smells to himself during their seven months together, and was shocked when she abruptly broke it off one morning during their ritual pre-work breakfast at the Fill-A-Buster restaurant. Stephanie, quieter than usual, barely touched her grilled bran muffin and diet Coke, although she did eat two of the three fried eggs. Her eyes beginning to well with tears, she said "Matt, look, I'm sorry—I think I need some time to think things over. I'm so sorry," and rushed out, covering her mouth as if she were about to throw up. He never heard from her again, and stopped attending the Victorian Literature book group that brought them together. To this day Sarisob wonders what it was he may have done that snuffed their flame, and will always feel a pang over losing the second woman he could have married. And the second woman he could have married breathes easier, having never told Sarisob about the months of anguished forbearance that led to her breaking point. Stephanie, you see, loved Mexican food, and decided that a man who couldn't eat so much as a Chile Relleno without turning the sumptuous bed that was her prized possession into such a toxic Dutch oven was not the man for her. She didn’t have the heart to tell Sarisob the extent to which he farted in his sleep.

Still chuckling over how he surreptitiously “pulled it off” on the platform, Sarisob made it to work a little after 8, with his customary blueberry scone and Peets coffee. (After testing all of the coffee chains, Sarisob found that Peets inspired the strongest laxative effect.) He took off his windbreaker and scarf and before doing anything else opened the bottom drawer of his desk, which contained, among other things, three pairs of chinos. Mindful that there was a not-insignificant probability that coffee, food, urine, shit, diarrhea, or semen might stain his pants during the workday, he had to be prepared to maintain his professional image. He keeps three pairs in the drawer because one particularly embarrassing day he had to change twice—and only had one pair in his desk! From then on, three pairs was the rule; even Sarisob could not conceive of having to change his pants four times in a workday. He withdrew a pair, and went to one of the two unisex bathrooms around the corner to change his pants. Sarisob loved these bathrooms: their proximity to his office, the heavy, sound-shielding wooden doors with locks that communicate “Occupied” or “Vacant” to those outside, and best of all the fact that his female colleagues use the same stalls, a thought that lent piquancy and potency to his near-daily work-jerk.

He returned to his office, settled in, and dialed up his favorite of Bach’s “English Suites”, the 4th Suite in F major as played by Glenn Gould, on his computer’s Windows Media Player. A classical music lover, Sarisob outfitted the computer with Altec-Lansing speakers and subwoofer, to better convey the dynamic range of his beloved Vienna Philharmonic. Between sips of coffee he opened the electronic medical record of his 10 a.m. new patient: Rick Landsman, a 53-year-old father of two, investment banker from Newton, being treated for Stage II laryngeal cancer. He has completed one-third of the prophylactic course of radiation therapy that followed his successful surgery. The most recent progress note from the referring radiation oncologist, Dr. Harry Morganstern (Sarisob’s bi-monthly bowling buddy) revealed the scenario that inspired many a head-and-neck cancer patient to see a social worker. Landsman dismissed the warnings about the difficulty he would have eating and swallowing during his course of radiation, the painful exhaustion, the hyper-inflamed throat, and insisted with pre-treatment bravado that he’d get through just fine by drinking liquid meals pureed in a Vita Mix. He fought against the surgeon’s insistence that he have a feeding tube, known as a PEG (percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy) tube, surgically implanted into his abdomen to maintain his weight by taking liquid supplements through it when radiation side-effects make it all but impossible to swallow food. “Mr. Landsman has lost twelve pounds since his surgery,” Sarisob read from Harry’s note. “He reports acute pain swallowing, and discontinued taking meals orally three days ago. Mr. Landsman has begun taking Ensure via the PEG with extreme reluctance. Mr. Landsman and his wife report difficulty adapting to the PEG, so I am referring him to social work for a consult.” Sarisob had a pretty good idea how this arc would go: Mr. Landsman would spurn his offer of joining a support group, and work through his anger issues pretty quickly as he makes the shift from hating his PEG tube to accepting his PEG tube to, in many cases, loving his PEG tube. Once head-and-neck patients realize they can maintain their weight while enduring the hellish side effects of radiation, they begin to view the PEG tube as a savior rather than a freakish abdominal protuberance. More than a few patients actually preferred using it to eating and were unwilling to have it removed! Sarisob finished his coffee, took a bottle of odor-neutralizer from his desk, and hurried around the corner for his morning dump.

“Look, Matt, all due respect, but I could care less for this. It's all for my wife that I’m here,” Landsman said in a hoarse whisper later that morning. He was a slight man with close-cropped black hair and intense dark eyes. The tone of his voice, Sarisob divined when they met with a firm handshake, revealed that Rick Landsman was not one to suffer fools. “I don't belong here talking to you; you don't belong here listening to me. Well, I shouldn't say that—you probably spent good money to get your degree. But don't fool yourself: all you are is a necessity for me, another hoop to jump through.” He slumped in his chair dejectedly, tugged at the sleeve of his black nylon sweatsuit, and took a pull on his water-bottle.

“I understand that, and I'm flattered for the opportunity to be one of your hoops. But this isn’t about me, Rick—it’s about you and your wife getting through this. You’re a good man for coming here and helping put her at ease. It’s never easy to talk with someone—“

“—There’s nothing to talk about, Matt. There’s just me, the tube, and my painkillers. This fucking feeding tube is all I can think about, OK? (cough!) Last night I dreamed it was strangling me. Shit, I forgot to tell Dr. Morganstern to renew my Fentanyl.” He spoke slowly, slurring his words due to the Fentanyl and the mucus buildup that plagues head-and-neck patients.

“I’ll tell Dr. Morganstern for you, so consider it done. I know how painful this can be—but you have to know, Rick, it’s just temporary. You know the PEG is only here to help you through the radiation. And you know that if the radiation goes as planned you’ll have a 72% chance of long-term survival. Better than fifty percent, Rick—you know all this, Dr. Morganstern discussed it all with you. You’re on track to long-term survival!”

“I know, I know—my wife tells me that like 30 times a day. ‘You’re going to survive this, you’ll be there when our kids graduate from college.’ And all I can think to myself is it's gonna be a lot easier for you to survive it honey—you don't have a fucking tube (cough, hack!) sticking out of your gut! I don’t know, Betsy’s being a trooper...I’m a piece of work even when healthy. But she still flinches when she sees the tube, and I’ve had it for two months now. I hate the feeling that I have to hide it from her. (COUGH!) Hey, can you refill my water?"

Sarisob went out to the water cooler in the Social Work office and filled his bottle. When he returned, Rick took a sip and looked at him with greater attention.

“I’ll bet...” Rick said, nodding at Sarisob with squinted eyes, “you’re a Socialist.”

“Me—a Socialist?” Sarisob laughed. “I’m flattered! Why would you think that? ‘Cause I’m a social worker?”

Smiling for the first time in the session, looking down at his folded hands, he said: “Because of your concern for your fellow man. And I know how poorly paid social workers are (cough, hack, cough!) paid.”

“Ha, ha, yeah, well none of that’s so terrible, is it? I bring home peanuts, and make it a little easier for you to get back to work and make millions for your clients. Rick, I should let you know: my colleagues and I run support groups that could be helpful to you and/or the missus if she would like. Would you like more information on this?”

“I’ll run it by her, but I’m sure we won’t be needing that.” His demeanor hardening, he took another pull on the water-bottle and sat up in the chair. At this point Sarisob felt a little fart coming on, and considered releasing it in front of the patient. The fart was nudging at his anus, but the clinician’s instinct said to tighten his sphincter and save it for later. This was not the right time to fart in front of Rick Landsman. One of Sarisob’s, shall we say, unconventional therapeutic modalities was to allow himself a single fart in front of each patient, with strict requirements as to when to let fly. And he knew deep down in his colon that this was not the time. As it is with so much in life, thought Sarisob as he handed Landsman the support-group FAQ sheet for his wife, timing is everything.

Episode 1: “Cold Hands, Warm Heart”

Sarisob, cold and impatient, jumped on the balls of his feet. He needed to be at work earlier than usual, as he had a 10 a.m. new patient—a throat cancer pt. referred by Dr. Morganstern—and hadn’t yet read the progress notes. Feeling his calves stretching, he appreciated the exercise: a recent snowstorm had kept his bike indoors, and he hadn’t lifted weights in a couple of days. It was a January morning, well below freezing, and he cursed himself for forgetting his gloves. He breathed warm, visible air into his hands while bouncing in place.

The first to arrive at the Inbound platform—a narrow spit of concrete edging both sides of the train tracks—he figured he’d been waiting for a trolley for the past 20 minutes, although it was in fact only half that time. Several others were now waiting as well: a group of cute college girls, blonde, bundled in puffy parkas with “B.U. Terriers” headbands warming their ears; a pair of Brazilian men in painter’s outfits, both underdressed for winter; a woman with a vintage leather jacket and red hair, sporting those ubiquitous white headphones. Sarisob thrust his hands into his pants pockets, as his jacket pockets were poorly insulated.

Jumping less actively now, he felt the heat of his legs begin to warm his hands. All of a sudden, without realizing it, he farted—loudly. The jumping must have loosened a gas deposit in Sarisob’s colon. One of the Brazilians laughed at the ass-blast while the other pretended not to notice. Both of their reactions changed, however, the instant they smelled it. The one who feigned ignorance assumed an expression of shocked disgust and walked further down the platform, while the laugher, whose face was clearly given to expressing joy, took on a grimace of pure disappointment, shaking his head at the offender.

“Que pena.”

“Desculpe me, senhor. Eu tenho uma problema com meu colon.” Sarisob pointed to his ass.

“Valha-me deus!” the man exclaimed with a wave of his hands, picking up his lunchbox and following his friend. By now the gaggle of college girls smelled it too, and had begun to shriek. These girls knew each other as closely as college girls are wont to: they were aware of every rank smell and bodily eructation that each other were capable of, and knew that none of them could possibly have launched such an atrocity. Because Sarisob’s farts are his own recipe—a home-brewed form of biological warfare consisting of an entire head of garlic and a hearty squirt of chili-garlic sauce flavoring the shrimp-and-veggie stir-fry he has almost every night—the stench is 100% his own. The redhead with the headphones acknowledged the situation by lighting a cigarette and dragging deeply, keeping her eyes lowered.

The sunrise began to expand, bringing the prospect of future warmth. Feeling now returning to his numb hands, Sarisob decided to warm them further by gently playing with himself. His left hand grabbed for his penis, owing to its list, while the right hand fondled his balls. Two hands are better than none, chuckled Sarisob, as his member gained mass. He had neither shame nor fear, freely stroking the stiffening cock that rubbed painfully against his pantleg, because he was alone, having cleared the area with his industrial-strength flatulence. The wind-chill was biting out there on the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Chiswick Street in Brighton, but Sarisob was creating plenty of heat in his chinos.

While he generally didn’t favor coming while standing up, Sarisob dared himself to come in his pants before the trolley arrived, thinking that that might hasten its arrival. It surprised Sarisob to think that he had never before beat off on a subway platform. (Often on the trolleys, but never on the platform.) Accepting the dare, he set to stroking the rim of his penis with his index finger and thumb. The delicious flesh-on-flesh masturbation was well-hidden, because Sarisob had cut the left hand pocket of his pants to enable moments like this one.

Thus engaged, he employed a Hall of Fame fantasy: his 8th-grade math teacher, Mrs. Silvia. He began getting hot as he always did when he bent Mrs. Silvia over her desk after class and gave it to her good. Her full, hairy Portuguese ass was hungrily swallowing Sarisob’s prick; after about a half minute, he didn’t have to do as much work. The heat in his loins began to concentrate, and he knew it wouldn’t take much longer.

Just then, the B-Line trolley pulled up with a loud squeal of brakes; he was oblivious to its arrival. The entrance to the second car eased to a halt right in front of Sarisob. Luckily, those gathering behind him had no visible evidence that he was stoking his erection. The door opened and an elderly couple alighted, shuffling by Sarisob as he grunted, feeling the heat rise into his balls and up the shaft of his cock. He imagined himself fucking Mrs. Silvia’s eager mouth, and felt his muscles clench, preparing for release. Stepping up and into the train, he disguised his grunting with a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh as he fell against the railing and held on, gripping it for dear life as the orgasm took hold. He lost the dare, but not by much.

“Looking for money—hang on!” Sarisob falsettoed the final two syllables at the driver—a rotund woman with hair extensions and a large mole under her ear—leaned over, and, groping into his pants found not money but a hot load of semen, spurting over his fingers and left leg.

“Ha, ha, one sec! Looking for...money,” he groaned, with a throaty bark.

“Come on, I gotta make the light!” said the driver, who failed to notice his suddenly-stained chinos. The delirium of orgasm fading, his unstained right hand fished around, but came up with only a quarter. Sarisob despaired that he didn’t prepare for this—he could’ve put the full fare in his non-jacking pocket just in case—and reached around for his wallet, which luckily was on his right side. As the trolley driver viewed him with increasing disapproval, he calmly withdrew his come-laden left hand from his pocket. Deftly cupping his fingers under into a loose fist to prevent detection, Sarisob managed to open his wallet and extract a dollar. Alas though, for all his careful effort he couldn’t prevent a large, thick glob of come from adhering to the edge of the bill.

“Sorry about that,” he said sheepishly to the driver, wide-eyed and twisting his mouth into a grin to divert her gaze from the sperm-glazed dollar being fed into the machine. As the dollar began to be sucked in, Sarisob saw that the machine was old and had poor suction. Due to its poor functioning, a sticky tendril clung stubbornly to the mouth of the slot. By the time the dollar was fully inhaled, a healthy mass of jism clotted the aperture. And then Sarisob’s grin became genuine. Those waiting behind him would now have to run his come-gauntlet to feed their dollars into the machine; furthermore, the T employee who removes the morning’s take will have to pull apart a few bills that are strangely glued together. Couldn’t have planned it any better, he thought, advancing into the car. He turned around to see the college girls gathered around the driver, searching their purses for money.