The Brush Off by Diane M Dickson

Lydia was late home, she had delayed as long as possible but now it had to be faced. She threw her keys into the old bowl on the hall table and climbed the stairs. Cuthbert had stepped out of the shower moments before.

As she stood in the dark of the landing she watched him stroll from the bathroom, his pale arse glowing in the borrowed light from the bedroom. She found it hard to believe that she used to find that particular part of his anatomy attractive. She had stroked it, patted it and on occasion she had kissed it.

Of course that was years ago now, before all the nastiness. Before the other parts of his ‘nether regions’ had taken themselves off to explore pastures new.

He was singing loudly as she stepped along the fading carpet. She felt her hackles rise. She hated his Karaoke voice, his stupid hiccupping imitation of her greatest and longest lasting teenage crush. She had never enjoyed the evenings in the pub when he had jerked and jinked his pelvis, not even when they first met and his pelvis wasn’t hidden under rolls of blubber.

As the years had gone on he had fallen apart. At first it had made her sad to watch the spreading of his body, and his pathetic attempts to hang on to the ever more unlikely colour of his thick, dark hair. At first she made excuses until finally, she could hide from it no longer. He was disgusting. Not only was he physically repulsive he was selfish, vain and he was a cheat and a liar.

She was leaving. The plane was at ten, her bags were packed.

She could hear the hum of the hair dryer now. The tall mirror screwed to the wall of the hallway showed a reflection of him. He turned off the dryer and reached out and picked up the curling tongs. What blokes used curling tongs? Really?

He was still humming, still rolling his fat arse, and shrugging hairy shoulders. He swayed in time to the beat of ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, his slightly distended dick swinging back and forth between white fleshy thighs.

To give her credit Lydia waited until the final chords had faded. She knew this play list by heart and knew that up next was ‘I Wanna Be, Your Teddy Bear’. That would be a bridge too far.

She pushed into the room.

Cuthbert spun around, he let out a high pitched, girlish squeal. He jumped in shock away from the dresser. The cable on the curling tongs was stretched tightly between the wall socket and his hands. As he jolted in shock the cable tightened, the tongs jerked from his grasp and as they fell he grabbed at the wire. The hot tongs swung in front of him, back and forth. On the back swing they bumped first against his belly, he let out a little squeak of shock. He tried to grab the handle, the tongs slid on downwards, he snatched at them, pulling them in towards his body, in towards his groin. As the hot metal made contact with his man bits the tiny squeaks of panic increased in tone and volume and terror. He tried to cross his legs in defence. This ill-advised move trapped the tongs between the very top of his legs. Now the scream was real, it was huge, it was blood curdling. There was the stink of singeing hair, the smell of hot flesh.

“Gerrit off – Gerrit off.” He pulled now, desperation making him clumsy and ham fisted. The hot metal rods tangled in the curly fuzz of pubes. He dragged and tugged with both hands. He was performing some strange parody of a rain dance, his knees flexing, veiny calves pulsing as he tried to jig away from the agony. The hot metal blistered his fingers, his legs, his cojones. His willy had retreated in panic.

The fear, the pain in his eyes, tore at her heart, just for a moment and she stepped forward. Then she remembered the smug grin on the face of his secretary, the embarrassed pity on the face of her friends. She picked up the bottle of mineral water from the bedside table, crossed the small space between them, dragged the plug from the socket and then poured the water onto the steaming mess that was his manhood. He was sobbing pitifully and clawing at the dripping tangle of cable, hair and curling irons. She, took one last look at his tear stained desperate face and walked from the room. As she left she was humming. She never found out whether he recognised the song ‘A hunka chunka burning love!’.

Diane M Dickson

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