Thus God Created Penis

"Have you read Lalat's journal?"
"Why? Has he said anything even remotely accurate lately?"
"Nope, just the usual Lalat stuff."
"Then, why the question?"
"Y'know, he doesn't talk that much in person..."
"He doesn't talk at all, period."
"If you go to his place, he just sits there, ignoring you, like you don't exist."
"That's pretty standard of him. He rarely comes out of his room too."
"But he has so much to say in his blogspot..."
"If you take away his laptop from him, he'd be as quiet as he is in person."
"That's what I think too."
"On his turf, his page, he's this big guy with the attitude, y'know."
"Yeah, like he's this really important person that you must listen to."
"I read somewhere in his archive, in high school, girls called him The Brick Wall."
"Really? Hah!"
"Yeah, I mean, this guy's got a problem."
"He thinks girls go gaga over him because he's got his blog."
"Yeah, right, in his dreams..."

*****

Sometimes I think that there is no real good reason to get out of bed in the morning, but then, one fine morning, a few days after the finals, came a bizarre dream.

I remember standing at the far end of a long hallway and walking towards a typical-looking men's restroom at the other far end. I am not rushing myself, and I am not in a hurry to pee; I am just walking. I do not remember what shirt I was wearing, or what time of the day it was, but I do remember wearing a black suit, which in reality is not part of my closet, and the hallway being simply sufficiently lighted, as if it were a late autumn afternoon. Once inside, almost as immediately, I pull down my pants' zipper. With one hand still holding onto the zipper's head, I go from one available stall to the next, pushing open each stall's wooden door carefully, looking into each stall's interior, as if checking for its cleanliness and availability. All of the stalls are not occupied, and all of them are in good condition, and the urinals are all open for business, although I do not use urinals for my bladder's pleasure ever; the toilet is virtually empty -- left to my own personal use. I remember smiling to myself upon knowing that fact, and then, after a few more glances at the stalls, as if to make sure for the last time, I proceed to the washing sinks whilst whistling an unfamiliar tune.

I take out my dong from its nest and comfortably standing, I pee into the sink.

I remember looking at my dong as it empties the content of my bloated bowel into the throat of the washing sink. It had a peculiar face on it, as if it had indeed an actual face; oblivious, relaxed and carefree. Looking from above and at your crotch, and if you stare at it long enough, it seems as if the meat is indeed unattached to your body, emotionally and physiologically, as if it is on its own, as if it had its own force of life, its own will and desires, and not at all a part of the ensemble that is yourself. I remember looking at my dong as if it were an animal from the wilderness all on its own, with its own distinctive body hair, its own charismatic face, its own personal problems. As I stood there attentively watching and patiently waiting, and as the dong unhurriedly and at its own pace of leisure finishes about its business, I remember having a flashback in my dream. I remember hearing the voice of Ustaz Hambali, my sekolah agama teacher when I was in Johore, over the noisy sound of my urine splashing about erratically in the sink in circular eddies.

"Jangan kamu kencing berdiri. Jaga percikannya. Halakan secara bersudut."

I remember the dong being a bit on the lazy side, somewhat limping, slightly crooked, and much less hardened than its usual glorious boastful self. It does not look at all healthy. The dong while peeing resembles that of a furless ant-eater blowing his nose endlessly; the yellow snot coming out of his nostril at a velocity faster than that of the usual spit of thick green saliva, and at a nonstop output rate that would make even the fastest tap water jealous. Ustaz Hambali's semi-coarse voice continues to echo on, bouncing from one tiled wall to the other, and I remember being very annoyed at its persistence to be heard. His voice keeps on urging me that I re-adjust the angle of the dong with respect to the sink's pearl white sides so that the urine flow squirted out would not splash too much onto my pants. I must be careful with the splashing of the urine, he says, and not mess up the pants with them. God will punish those who are not careful with their peeing, he continues on, and He will execute this promised punishment in my grave for eternity to come, he says further, and one's cleanliness before Him is a must -- one's prayer is one's pillar to a strong Faith, he adds.

The dong finally ends his deed, and after a quick rattle, I let it out to hang, to dry.

I remember seeing my reflection on the washing sink's mirror while peeing, but I do not remember the details of my face. Just the realization of "hey, that's me" and then, the dream shifts back to its original third person view. I remember looking around as I stood in wait for the last drop of piss. The lighting inside the restroom is bright, but not glaring piercing bright, and the air inside is humid, but not wet smelly humid, and the toilet paper rolls are stacked high and ready for emergency use on the shelves next to the heater pipes, and the green washing soap that is used for washing your hands is placed into small metal containers next to the hot water tap, and there is a small coin-operated condom and tissue vending machine fixed onto the wall adjacent to the washing sinks, and finally, the tissue paper waste basket -- I remember it being so far away from the sink that I turn around and raise my arms to the level of my chest and throw my crumpled used tissue papers into the waste basket's mouth like I am shooting three-points free throws. Having done with it, I then walk out of the toilet calmly and with cool. Funny -- I do not recall washing the mouth of my dong at anytime in the dream.

Then slowly, I woke up, and I felt wet, and I realized that, yes, there is a reason.

*****

"Oh no, don't do this!"

The vending machine swallowed my U-Card again this semester. The previous time that this happened was last month at the Civil Engineering building just across the road, and I was buying my favorite jelly donut for a late lunch when the machine suddenly refused to return my U-Card to me. Had I withdrawn a few new mint-condition dollar bills from the auto-teller prior to arriving to class, this problem would not have happened at all. To replace a U-Card is not hard actually, but it is quite an expensive sum to replace one, and at a rate of fifteen bucks per application, no one wants to go to all the troubles of replacing it. I waited around for a few more minutes, just in case, if the vending machine would suddenly become miraculously well all on its own and vomit me my precious U-Card back, but to no avail, oh you poor fool -- the wonder of science is nothing but a lucky glitch in mankind's machinery of logic.

On my way back to the lecture hall, all frustrated and hungry, I saw a silhouette of a Malay girl's body in her white tudung taking her takbiratul ihram in the underground tunnel connecting the EE/CSci building and the Chemical Engineering building. She laid down her winter jacket and her wool scarves and her mitten gloves onto the winter-cold cement floor, and at the general direction of the Kaaba, she stood there head high and on her two cotton socks, and raised her two thin arms up to the level of her ears and said her Asr's glorious Allahuakbar. The bright ceiling lights coming from the far end of the tunnel blinded me from seeing clearly who she was, and the grumbling loud sound of passing liquid nitrogen delivery trucks on top of the tunnel made it even harder for myself to concentrate on the details of her face, but all that did not diminish the smallest slice of my sincere curiosity, of my deepest appreciation.

The girl standing there, and in the midst of her afternoon prayers, was such a soothing sight to the eyes of those who saw her, and such an inspirational touch to the hearts of those who became witnesses to her, and her figure against the dull yellow backdrop of the wall behind her was more than just a picturesque view worthy of a famous artist's great portrait, and more than just a remarkable scene worthy of a cinematic sequence for a film; and me walking in an unspeakable awe towards her vicinity, my eyes not a moment away from her, my breathing not a pace different from when I am in blissful delight -- oh, how words fail miserably in describing this intense feeling of mine, and oh, how sentences disappoint me in conveying the exact emotions that I had then. She was, in all manners imaginable, and with adjectives that fall short, a blooming red rose of true faith in the middle of a putrid pond of horrid hedonist mores.

Oh, if only you had seen her for yourself; the girl, the religion, the view...

*****

"Tengok sapa kau Long?"
"Hm? Apa mak?"
"Anak dara sapa yang kau tenung tak berkelip dari tadi?"
"Mana ada tenung..."
"Itu nama dia Rina, anaknya Kakang Jenal tu."
"Takde, cuma nampak dia ambik wudhu kat kolam tu ha..."
"Dia tu berapa ntah umurnya, tua dari kau setahun mak rasa."
"Mana ada orang tenung dia ah..."
"Engkau, kalau minat sapa-sapa, cakap..."
"Mana ada lah..."
"Kalau tak kenal, tanya..."
"Ish, tak yah ah..."
"Tak baik tenung-tenung anak dara orang, Long..."

*****

There's a certain kind of sexiness to the sight of a Malay girl in her prayer.

You know that she is definitely the religious type, and don't we all know already how much you like Malay girls that embody that revered type of rigid moral and spiritual conduct; girls who are proud to be in their tudung and know the truth behind wearing them, and girls who laugh that silly shy chirpy laugh that is so polite and yet so childlike, and girls who walk past you with her head bowed so close to the ground in front of her feet, and girls who are creative enough to find the boldness of fashion and the strength of trend in their ensemble of baju kurung and tudung and selendang without sacrificing the limits of their aurat, and girls who talk with their voices kept soft and their smiles kept generous, and girls who are careful with what they say and see and hear, and girls who are virtuous and kind and in constant pursuit of the true happiness of taqwa, and girls who know well enough which is haram and halal and makruh and sunnah, and girls who are on-time and dedicated to their five daily prayers and its times, and girls who know that their beauty is skin-deep and their God-given youth is fleeting, and girls who recite the Koran with such beauty and grace.

Oh, you feel so very sinful for being so very attracted to them, don't you?

Tok Mat, your mom's dad, who, from only one wife, that is your grandmother now, he has fifteen children from 62 years of an arranged marriage, and your mother being the third offspring -- that religiously devout old man, he helped you realize and understand the truth behind why this is so of you, and also of him. The captivating sight of a girl in her daily prayer is a good sign, an indication of fertility, Tok Mat said one day after he caught you red-handed staring oh so profoundly at one of his brothers' great granddaughters, such a beauty she was, preparing herself for Zuhr, and yet he was not angry at you, since you were merely at the tender age of ten then, but he showed you his tenderness that he is rarely associated with, that ill-tempered old bag of bones. As the old man rubbed his coarse wrinkled hands against the temple of your round head, he whispered slowly into your soft earlobes pearls of wisdom that you will never ever forget, that you will always use, that you will always be grateful for the presence of such a man in your life; he said, a girl in her prayer is a girl that a man should go to war to win her heart for, a girl that a man be a humble man, a girl that a man should fear God's wraths for.

But, is there a place for a man in the heart of a girl deeply in love with God?

The penis is mightier than the pen, sharper than the sword; a man who has everything in this world, all served at his behest, all served at his feet, but not in his powerful grasp a penis that triumphs over a girl that he loves so, that roars over a household that he lives in, that brings midnight earthquakes to the bed that he reigns as king -- he is a man who has nothing. A penis without a man is a symbol of conquest, a motto of supremacy, an emblem of prestige, and a man without a penis is a walking mockery of the procreation process, a living ridicule of the gender differences, a breathing shame that thrusts straight into the very proud heart of sex. Orgasm is dogma. Thus, the penis is created in the splitting image of an iron fist, of a nuclear warhead, of a speeding rocket, -- that works best its magic in blowing apart the vaginal door, breaking down the virginal wall, and exploding up her sanity, her belief system, her moral integrity. No matter how religiously devoted, or how well educated, or how filthy rich, or how physically strong; in the sack, none of that has true significance.

"Ask yourself; in the heat of passion, will she moan your name, or His?"