Emergency in his precious territory

Chris hits me again. This time the force is so hard, I fall back. As I fall backwards and hit the carpet, I realise it’s done. His trumpet is in my mouth. He has inadvertently helped me cut off his Johnson.

I guess when I woke up this morning, I too, did not envision ending the day with someone’s trumpet cut clean off, in my damn mouth. What the hell?

I want to laugh hysterically as I see the gaping hole where his junk used to be but I’m in too much pain. Plus, my body is sending out signals for flight mode. Another blow like that and I’ll be dead. I spit it out the severed penis and all the blood in my mouth along with it.

I have succeeded! One small step for Samantha and one giant leap for womankind! If women everywhere started doing this, how many men would ever risk using it as a bargaining chip? Imagine how things would be. The only way they’d let us anywhere near it is if we were married. Not just married, but happily married. I’ve always thought that the level of trust men place in strangers with their most cherished possession is frightening. Prostitutes, one night stands, you name it, he’ll happily pop it in her mouth.

Does this scenario ever cross their minds? That one day, someone somewhere could bite it off? Why not? A stranger can do it for all sorts of reasons. Perhaps to rob you. What better way to ensure you’re immobilised? Perhaps she has mental health issues. Nothing wrong with being a little touched in the head. It’s an illness like any other. Or perhaps like me, she just snaps.

I think y’all need to be more discerning about where you place your bits. I bet Chris wished he had been. So… Is he going to hit me again and finish me off?   

Fortunately for me, he is more concerned about his missing penis rather than tearing my head off. He holds his hands across his wound to stop the bleeding. I should feel bad. I don’t. Instead, I’m back in dissociation mode, hovering in the ceiling, watching this scene unfold like it’s happening to someone else. No one has come to his rescue despite the screams. He collapses on the ground, all his energy spent by the two blows to my head to free himself.

“Mummy,” he cries like a whimpering child, reaching for his severed trumpet.

Ok, maybe now I feel bad. Really bad. A grown man reduced to this. What he did was shady, yes, but I had a choice. It was not sexual assault. I could have walked out. The punishment does not fit the crime. And that’s an understatement.

The man no longer has a penis. I look at it and back at him. He moves closer to it and I inch back. I’m so dizzy. I feel like my head is about to crack open. He reaches for his organ and cradles it. He looks like Gollum in Lord of the Rings.

“My precious…”

If you haven’t watched the movie, forget it. I’m not explaining. Take the L and move on. Poor fella, he looks so broken. He still doesn’t approach me, content to cradle his ‘precious’.  I use the chair next to me for support and attempt to stand up.

“Which health care provider do you use?” I ask.

He says nothing.

“Tell me! I’ll call for help,” I say. He looks at me with pure hatred in his eyes but he tells me. I do a quick Google search for the number and call them. I let them know there’s an emergency and they need to get to his office pronto.