The Man who Picked his Nose and Loved Fat Women
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Derek Stubbs was an unassuming, quiet sort of man. He rarely
made excessive amounts of noise, but nor did he shut himself
away in a room and never come out. He seemed to accept what
he may have regarded as the responsibilities of life as a
human being in the 1990's, that is, he had a job and he
worked at it with sufficient zeal to ensure him his living.
He was a waiter. In a restaurant. (This I add to avoid
confusion, for it has been said that we are all waiters in
that we are all waiting.)
Stubbs' social encroachments were few. He never had any
friendships that could be called close. If asked why this
had been the case, many people would say that they didn't
wish to be friends with anyone who picked their nose. Or at
least with someone who picked it so blatantly and made no
attempt, as most nose-pickers do, to restrict the habit to
locations and times when and where observers would not be
present. But Stubbs dug deep even as he ducked between
crowded tables to place pizzas and burgers before impatient
customers. If he had been of an extravagant nature one would
have said he flaunted his nose-picking. However, it was
merely a habit, the actions of which he performed totally
unselfconciously.
He had picked his nose ever since he could remember. His
parents had tried every feasible method to get him to stop
his filthy habit. They painted foul-tasting solutions onto
his fingers, imposed threats of cut-downs on his
pocket-money and meals, they even held his Action Man to
ransom. But all to no avail. Mrs. Stubbs had never told Mr.
Stubbs that when the doctor had yanked little Derek from her
womb and into the world, she had seen quite clearly that the
baby's right index finger was largely hidden inside the
right nostril. She had noticed this first, before she
thought to discern the baby's sex. The doctor had placated
her, agreeing that, yes, it was unusual, but she need have
no fear that this early positioning of the index finger
would set a precedent.
But this, it would appear, is exactly what it did. Stubbs'
fingers travelled to his nostrils like the thumbs of his
peers gravitated to their mouths.
With the advent of adolescence and the natural
inquisitiveness of that age, Stubbs asked questions of
himself; why did he pick his nose so much more publicly and
frequently than his colleagues at school, some of whom
professed not to indulge in the practice at all? He supposed
that it had become a habit which would never leave him. Not
that this bothered him unduly.
People, teachers sometimes, at school, used to say to him:
You'll pick right through to the lining of your hat. Or:
With all that picking one day your head will cave in. Stubbs
paid them little heed. Once or twice he contemplated a sharp
retort: Why don't you tell that to Mr. Farquhar (a teacher
in the English department) who sits there hiding behind his
Touchstones with his little finger up his nose and flitting
deftly to his thin lips? But he always resisted the
temptation to deliver this monologue for two reasons. One:
He would doubtless amaze his interlocutor with his
eloquence, usually hidden behind his desire to appear
unforthcoming. And the interlocutor, if a teacher, would
expect work of a higher standard than that to which he was
willing to aspire. Two: He would almost certainly receive a
detention for his trouble.
Anyway, there was some truth in their remarks. But Stubbs
was not about to allow this to become common knowledge. For
this was Stubbs' secret. It was what provided him with the
strength and optimism to stride through life displaying
apparent nonchalance and mediocrity of being.
He knew something they didn't; this gave him the security we
all need but obtain from different sources.
Stubbs' secret: he had been picking his nose for so long and
with such consistency (and sharp nails) that he had in fact
excavated a hole at the top and back of his nostrils. There
was a little space up there.
Which was nothing but air. Derek Stubbs' air and nobody
else's. There are not many things a man can call his own.
Not a lot is away from the prying eyes (and fingers) of
other humans. Even the most private parts of a person's body
are played with in no delicate fashion during the act of
love by the fingers and private parts of another person (or
other people.) But this little cavity in Stubbs' head was
his own personal private property, to which he had exclusive
rights of access.
To go deeper into the matter (and indeed into the head), the
hole to which Stubbs had access in turn gave his longer
fingers access to the lower frontal regions of his brain. He
could insert his second or third finger and worm his way up
and press the tip of his finger against the soft fluidy mass
of his brain. When Stubbs made this discovery at the age of
seventeen, the experience caused him very great pain and a
sense of disassociation from his body.
Over the years, however, his tentative probings had become
firm prods, and he no longer felt any pain. By the age of
thirty three, he experienced a tingling sensation, starting
in his head and spreading like a delayed reaction to the
extremities of his body. Stubbs had come to rather enjoy
this sensation, but it would be a mis-representation of the
truth to say he relied on it as some people rely on drugs
which produce similar reactions. Mostly, this access to his
brain was important to his self-esteem - it provided that
inner strength of which sufficient mention has already been
made.
With girls Stubbs was a late starter. He lived very much
under his mother's wing and felt quite safe and contented
still there in the nest at sixteen. At eighteen, however, hi
mother's death kicked him out and down to earth. He picked
himself up, dusted down, reassured himself with a quick
flick up his left nostril and into the space beyond. Then he
got himself a waiters job in a pizza and burger house. Life
rolled on, an endless succession of second-class carriages.
His was never that of the privileged Pullman or first-class,
but then he was lucky never to descend to the freight trucks
in which it is the indignity of many to rattle and bump
along.
Out in the world Stubbs discovered the attractions of the
pleasures of the flesh. He saw not why he should not be
excluded from combat simply because he had not started as
early as most. And so he entered the arena. His were not
the tastes of most men. Not for him the scrawny, shapeless
products of slim, perfectly proportioned (standardised)
beauty. Stubbs looked straight through these eager flighty
birds of other men's paradises to the more lugubrious and
sedate creatures passing slowly in the undergrowth. The
length of time for which his eyes followed a lady down the
street was in fact directly proportional to her size.
He courted fat women and allowed them to lead him to his own
bed where they had sex, slowly. He felt like a swimmer and
dived deep, swallowing mouthfuls, reluctant to come up for
air, happy to sink down and down and down...
Happy in the knowledge that his mind was safe.
They couldn't touch his brain or harm his mind. So his
personality was in no danger of infringement. He was safe.
Safe to swim and dive and turn somersaults. And still retain
his privacy.
Still retain the little hold in his head through which he
could touch his brain.
Because that kept him afloat.
Stubbs thought at first it was merely a matter of aesthetics
which led him to desire the fat women and not the lithe,
doll-like creatures so sought after by his peers. But one
night he realised the reason was intellectual, delivered
subconsciously.
He was relaxing in bed with Maureen. Maureen was an
extremely large lady and even Stubbs' bed - gargantuan berth
that it was out of necessity - was dwarfed. Stubbs was
enjoying his usual post-coital excavation and looking at
Maureen, who lay in a slumber next to him. His eyes wandered
down to her right arm to the five sausages attached to her
pudgy right hand.
Of course!
They were too fat. Her fingers were too fat to get even half
way up his nostrils - the nostrils of a thin man - so, since
fingers are the thinnest part of a person's body, she, and
her ilk, were unable to penetrate that private little place
in the middle of his head. Clearly, his subconscious had
worked this out for him and directed his sexual desires and
aesthetic facilities towards the appreciation of the larger
form. A slim woman would have long slim fingers which she
would be able to slip effortlessly up Stubbs' nostril while
he slept. Her long member would enter his private domain and
finish him for ever. There was no question of that
happening, Stubbs was sure.
He grew to love their walk, the way their thighs interfered
with each other. He developed a fond affection for the
unnaturally tiny head sitting atop the huge body. The
enormous buttocks like two half-globes held in check by only
the most substantial of elastic.
His attention came to focus itself solely on the fattest
parts of their bodies. their thighs, upper arms, breasts,
stomachs and buttocks. He no longer saw their eyes, fingers
or toes. These things were there but didn't possess the same
mesmerising fascination.
Stubbs had never particularly wanted to sleep with a
prostitute, no matter how fat she might be. But one night he
was passing through Finsbury Park and his attention was
caught by a very fat lady leaning against a lamp post,
busily picking her nose. The perfect woman, thought Stubbs,
and he entered the world of commercial sex. For sixty pounds
he could spend the whole night with her in her room. So
eager was he to not miss this opportunity, he paid her
immediately, and they crossed over to a seedy rooming house.
Brenda undressed to her pearl necklace, which, she said,
she'd like to leave on. Stubbs had no objection so it
stayed. Stubbs noticed that her nostrils were somewhat
flared, enabling her to pick her nose despite the size of
her fingers. His own nostrils were quite narrow; he had
nothing to worry about; she could not violate him in his
sleep.
The made love, moistly. For Stubbs it was sublime. the
finest experience of his life. which was just as well.
At the time of maximum movement an awkwardly angled limb had
snapped the nylon of Brenda's necklace. Pearls rolled
everywhere but were abandoned in the mounting passion.
As was not altogether unusual for Stubbs he fell into a deep
contented sleep. Brenda on the other hand remained awake,
and played with some of the scattered pearls. She rolled
them over Stubbs' body, over the smooth expanses and down
the wrinkled valleys. One pearl, which she was moving where
his moustache would have been if he had worn one, rolled
down Stubbs' left nostril.
Oh dear, thought Brenda, for she had to get the pearl back -
the necklace had been a present from her great grandfather
who had disappeared exploring in Nepal. She leant over and
peered up Stubbs' nose. Nothing. No pearl. She saw two
empty nostrils.
But it had to be there, she reasoned. It was simply that she
couldn't see it. there wasn't that much natural illumination
in a persons nostril, after all. She would see how far in
she could get her finger in. She entered him but it was a
tight squeeze. Much too tight to reach the pearl. Brenda
thought for a moment, then extended an arm to the bedside
table. Rummaging through knick-knacks and bits and pieces
her digits found what they were looking for and closed
around it.
The knitting needle glimmered in the lamplight as Brenda's
hand brought it down to Stubbs' face, the tip lying at the
entrance to his nose. Stubbs was climbing a mountain. He
was third in a party of five, but the faces of his
companions eluded him. From time to time the sky darkened as
gigantic women flapped across blotting out the sun.
The knitting needle edged its way up Stubbs' nose. Meeting
no obstacle it continued. Brenda was not really keeping an
eye on how far in the needle went. She was just waiting for
the feel of it hitting the pearl. The point of the needle
emerged in Stubbs' once private little hole - the little
hole in his head through which he could touch his brain -
and it travelled on until it actually came up against the
brain.
There's something, thought Brenda, but it's too soft for my
pearl. She prodded with the needle and applied pressure.
The knitting needle slid into Stubbs' brain like a knife
into jelly. The mountain suddenly shook and the climbers
stopped. The rock under them became hot. A crack appeared in
the side of the slope and red molten lava pluttered out.
They screamed; one fell, the rope held him. the lava flowed
in cascades.
Brenda withdrew the knitting needle and looked puzzled at
the substance lanced on its point. She wiped it on the sheet
and reinserted the instrument.
The level of the lava rose. Knees, waist, chin. Stubbs
opened his mouth to scream and the fiery rock streamed in.
He did three things simultaneously; he awoke, he screamed;
and he jerked upwards into a sitting position.
It was the third of the these three actions, which in
conjunction with an unfortunate combination of angles,
forces and pressure, drove the knitting needle right up
through his brain, skull and scalp. It emerged like an
errant flagpole, fluttering a tattered flag of red and grey,
as what had once been Derek Stubbs was convulsed by violent
shudderings.
Brenda wondered at the sparkling red fountain playing out of
the top of her clients head. It almost reached the ceiling.
How pretty it was!
Mercifully, at this point, the shock of the reality of what
she was seeing hit Brenda. Already unconscious, she keeled
over and struck her head a killing blow on the sharp corner
of her bedside table.
And that was just about that. Characters killed, problem
solved, story told.
The End
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Derek Stubbs was an unassuming, quiet sort of man. He rarely
made excessive amounts of noise, but nor did he shut himself
away in a room and never come out. He seemed to accept what
he may have regarded as the responsibilities of life as a
human being in the 1990's, that is, he had a job and he
worked at it with sufficient zeal to ensure him his living.
He was a waiter. In a restaurant. (This I add to avoid
confusion, for it has been said that we are all waiters in
that we are all waiting.)
Stubbs' social encroachments were few. He never had any
friendships that could be called close. If asked why this
had been the case, many people would say that they didn't
wish to be friends with anyone who picked their nose. Or at
least with someone who picked it so blatantly and made no
attempt, as most nose-pickers do, to restrict the habit to
locations and times when and where observers would not be
present. But Stubbs dug deep even as he ducked between
crowded tables to place pizzas and burgers before impatient
customers. If he had been of an extravagant nature one would
have said he flaunted his nose-picking. However, it was
merely a habit, the actions of which he performed totally
unselfconciously.
He had picked his nose ever since he could remember. His
parents had tried every feasible method to get him to stop
his filthy habit. They painted foul-tasting solutions onto
his fingers, imposed threats of cut-downs on his
pocket-money and meals, they even held his Action Man to
ransom. But all to no avail. Mrs. Stubbs had never told Mr.
Stubbs that when the doctor had yanked little Derek from her
womb and into the world, she had seen quite clearly that the
baby's right index finger was largely hidden inside the
right nostril. She had noticed this first, before she
thought to discern the baby's sex. The doctor had placated
her, agreeing that, yes, it was unusual, but she need have
no fear that this early positioning of the index finger
would set a precedent.
But this, it would appear, is exactly what it did. Stubbs'
fingers travelled to his nostrils like the thumbs of his
peers gravitated to their mouths.
With the advent of adolescence and the natural
inquisitiveness of that age, Stubbs asked questions of
himself; why did he pick his nose so much more publicly and
frequently than his colleagues at school, some of whom
professed not to indulge in the practice at all? He supposed
that it had become a habit which would never leave him. Not
that this bothered him unduly.
People, teachers sometimes, at school, used to say to him:
You'll pick right through to the lining of your hat. Or:
With all that picking one day your head will cave in. Stubbs
paid them little heed. Once or twice he contemplated a sharp
retort: Why don't you tell that to Mr. Farquhar (a teacher
in the English department) who sits there hiding behind his
Touchstones with his little finger up his nose and flitting
deftly to his thin lips? But he always resisted the
temptation to deliver this monologue for two reasons. One:
He would doubtless amaze his interlocutor with his
eloquence, usually hidden behind his desire to appear
unforthcoming. And the interlocutor, if a teacher, would
expect work of a higher standard than that to which he was
willing to aspire. Two: He would almost certainly receive a
detention for his trouble.
Anyway, there was some truth in their remarks. But Stubbs
was not about to allow this to become common knowledge. For
this was Stubbs' secret. It was what provided him with the
strength and optimism to stride through life displaying
apparent nonchalance and mediocrity of being.
He knew something they didn't; this gave him the security we
all need but obtain from different sources.
Stubbs' secret: he had been picking his nose for so long and
with such consistency (and sharp nails) that he had in fact
excavated a hole at the top and back of his nostrils. There
was a little space up there.
Which was nothing but air. Derek Stubbs' air and nobody
else's. There are not many things a man can call his own.
Not a lot is away from the prying eyes (and fingers) of
other humans. Even the most private parts of a person's body
are played with in no delicate fashion during the act of
love by the fingers and private parts of another person (or
other people.) But this little cavity in Stubbs' head was
his own personal private property, to which he had exclusive
rights of access.
To go deeper into the matter (and indeed into the head), the
hole to which Stubbs had access in turn gave his longer
fingers access to the lower frontal regions of his brain. He
could insert his second or third finger and worm his way up
and press the tip of his finger against the soft fluidy mass
of his brain. When Stubbs made this discovery at the age of
seventeen, the experience caused him very great pain and a
sense of disassociation from his body.
Over the years, however, his tentative probings had become
firm prods, and he no longer felt any pain. By the age of
thirty three, he experienced a tingling sensation, starting
in his head and spreading like a delayed reaction to the
extremities of his body. Stubbs had come to rather enjoy
this sensation, but it would be a mis-representation of the
truth to say he relied on it as some people rely on drugs
which produce similar reactions. Mostly, this access to his
brain was important to his self-esteem - it provided that
inner strength of which sufficient mention has already been
made.
With girls Stubbs was a late starter. He lived very much
under his mother's wing and felt quite safe and contented
still there in the nest at sixteen. At eighteen, however, hi
mother's death kicked him out and down to earth. He picked
himself up, dusted down, reassured himself with a quick
flick up his left nostril and into the space beyond. Then he
got himself a waiters job in a pizza and burger house. Life
rolled on, an endless succession of second-class carriages.
His was never that of the privileged Pullman or first-class,
but then he was lucky never to descend to the freight trucks
in which it is the indignity of many to rattle and bump
along.
Out in the world Stubbs discovered the attractions of the
pleasures of the flesh. He saw not why he should not be
excluded from combat simply because he had not started as
early as most. And so he entered the arena. His were not
the tastes of most men. Not for him the scrawny, shapeless
products of slim, perfectly proportioned (standardised)
beauty. Stubbs looked straight through these eager flighty
birds of other men's paradises to the more lugubrious and
sedate creatures passing slowly in the undergrowth. The
length of time for which his eyes followed a lady down the
street was in fact directly proportional to her size.
He courted fat women and allowed them to lead him to his own
bed where they had sex, slowly. He felt like a swimmer and
dived deep, swallowing mouthfuls, reluctant to come up for
air, happy to sink down and down and down...
Happy in the knowledge that his mind was safe.
They couldn't touch his brain or harm his mind. So his
personality was in no danger of infringement. He was safe.
Safe to swim and dive and turn somersaults. And still retain
his privacy.
Still retain the little hold in his head through which he
could touch his brain.
Because that kept him afloat.
Stubbs thought at first it was merely a matter of aesthetics
which led him to desire the fat women and not the lithe,
doll-like creatures so sought after by his peers. But one
night he realised the reason was intellectual, delivered
subconsciously.
He was relaxing in bed with Maureen. Maureen was an
extremely large lady and even Stubbs' bed - gargantuan berth
that it was out of necessity - was dwarfed. Stubbs was
enjoying his usual post-coital excavation and looking at
Maureen, who lay in a slumber next to him. His eyes wandered
down to her right arm to the five sausages attached to her
pudgy right hand.
Of course!
They were too fat. Her fingers were too fat to get even half
way up his nostrils - the nostrils of a thin man - so, since
fingers are the thinnest part of a person's body, she, and
her ilk, were unable to penetrate that private little place
in the middle of his head. Clearly, his subconscious had
worked this out for him and directed his sexual desires and
aesthetic facilities towards the appreciation of the larger
form. A slim woman would have long slim fingers which she
would be able to slip effortlessly up Stubbs' nostril while
he slept. Her long member would enter his private domain and
finish him for ever. There was no question of that
happening, Stubbs was sure.
He grew to love their walk, the way their thighs interfered
with each other. He developed a fond affection for the
unnaturally tiny head sitting atop the huge body. The
enormous buttocks like two half-globes held in check by only
the most substantial of elastic.
His attention came to focus itself solely on the fattest
parts of their bodies. their thighs, upper arms, breasts,
stomachs and buttocks. He no longer saw their eyes, fingers
or toes. These things were there but didn't possess the same
mesmerising fascination.
Stubbs had never particularly wanted to sleep with a
prostitute, no matter how fat she might be. But one night he
was passing through Finsbury Park and his attention was
caught by a very fat lady leaning against a lamp post,
busily picking her nose. The perfect woman, thought Stubbs,
and he entered the world of commercial sex. For sixty pounds
he could spend the whole night with her in her room. So
eager was he to not miss this opportunity, he paid her
immediately, and they crossed over to a seedy rooming house.
Brenda undressed to her pearl necklace, which, she said,
she'd like to leave on. Stubbs had no objection so it
stayed. Stubbs noticed that her nostrils were somewhat
flared, enabling her to pick her nose despite the size of
her fingers. His own nostrils were quite narrow; he had
nothing to worry about; she could not violate him in his
sleep.
The made love, moistly. For Stubbs it was sublime. the
finest experience of his life. which was just as well.
At the time of maximum movement an awkwardly angled limb had
snapped the nylon of Brenda's necklace. Pearls rolled
everywhere but were abandoned in the mounting passion.
As was not altogether unusual for Stubbs he fell into a deep
contented sleep. Brenda on the other hand remained awake,
and played with some of the scattered pearls. She rolled
them over Stubbs' body, over the smooth expanses and down
the wrinkled valleys. One pearl, which she was moving where
his moustache would have been if he had worn one, rolled
down Stubbs' left nostril.
Oh dear, thought Brenda, for she had to get the pearl back -
the necklace had been a present from her great grandfather
who had disappeared exploring in Nepal. She leant over and
peered up Stubbs' nose. Nothing. No pearl. She saw two
empty nostrils.
But it had to be there, she reasoned. It was simply that she
couldn't see it. there wasn't that much natural illumination
in a persons nostril, after all. She would see how far in
she could get her finger in. She entered him but it was a
tight squeeze. Much too tight to reach the pearl. Brenda
thought for a moment, then extended an arm to the bedside
table. Rummaging through knick-knacks and bits and pieces
her digits found what they were looking for and closed
around it.
The knitting needle glimmered in the lamplight as Brenda's
hand brought it down to Stubbs' face, the tip lying at the
entrance to his nose. Stubbs was climbing a mountain. He
was third in a party of five, but the faces of his
companions eluded him. From time to time the sky darkened as
gigantic women flapped across blotting out the sun.
The knitting needle edged its way up Stubbs' nose. Meeting
no obstacle it continued. Brenda was not really keeping an
eye on how far in the needle went. She was just waiting for
the feel of it hitting the pearl. The point of the needle
emerged in Stubbs' once private little hole - the little
hole in his head through which he could touch his brain -
and it travelled on until it actually came up against the
brain.
There's something, thought Brenda, but it's too soft for my
pearl. She prodded with the needle and applied pressure.
The knitting needle slid into Stubbs' brain like a knife
into jelly. The mountain suddenly shook and the climbers
stopped. The rock under them became hot. A crack appeared in
the side of the slope and red molten lava pluttered out.
They screamed; one fell, the rope held him. the lava flowed
in cascades.
Brenda withdrew the knitting needle and looked puzzled at
the substance lanced on its point. She wiped it on the sheet
and reinserted the instrument.
The level of the lava rose. Knees, waist, chin. Stubbs
opened his mouth to scream and the fiery rock streamed in.
He did three things simultaneously; he awoke, he screamed;
and he jerked upwards into a sitting position.
It was the third of the these three actions, which in
conjunction with an unfortunate combination of angles,
forces and pressure, drove the knitting needle right up
through his brain, skull and scalp. It emerged like an
errant flagpole, fluttering a tattered flag of red and grey,
as what had once been Derek Stubbs was convulsed by violent
shudderings.
Brenda wondered at the sparkling red fountain playing out of
the top of her clients head. It almost reached the ceiling.
How pretty it was!
Mercifully, at this point, the shock of the reality of what
she was seeing hit Brenda. Already unconscious, she keeled
over and struck her head a killing blow on the sharp corner
of her bedside table.
And that was just about that. Characters killed, problem
solved, story told.
The End
