"What?" She asked, confused. Although we had a good line, I was calling from Mexico and I might not have been talking loudly enough on account of my deaf left ear. Oh yeah, I couldn't hear out of my left ear, it was clogged from the ocean. Lets recap. No hearing out of my left hear. Totally disorienting. Unable to sleep on my right side due to nasty shingle outbreak. Unable to bend over due to spasming back from fall down the subway stairs. Right elbow fucked from same fall and what else... I feel like I'm forgetting something... no I guess that was it. The sunburn had gone by the time. I switched the phone to my right ear.

"Have you ever had chicken pox?" I repeated.

"No. Why? Do you have shingles?" What the fuck? She was an actress not a doctor. How'd she go straight to shingles?

"Yeah. I got it from the sun. You never had chicken pox?"

"No. Well, I got one chicken pock when my brother had them when we were kids."

"You got one chicken pock?"

"Yeah." I opened the thin metal door of my phone booth to get counsel from Rebecca, and to let in the full driving force of "Here We Go Again" by Whitesnake.

A couple days before when checking the Mets score, a Mexican hard rock band blasted in between staples like Neil Sedaka's "I Hear Laughter In the Rain" and that whiny "You're beautiful" song by that English ex-army kid with the pretty eyes the pouty pout. My little amigo who worked in the internet/phone shop played music all day and collected a few pesos from the gringos who couldn't just relax for a couple days in paradise and had to get on a computer. You know, to check what side herpes they may or may not have.

"Mexicana rock and roll," I said to my young hombre with a kooky grin.

"Si."

"Cual band es eso?" I said in broken Spanglish.

"Rata Blanca" he replied. I guess whatever I said was close enough to what I meant. Yeah, that's right. I'm bilingual. Deal with it.

"White rat?" I asked, pretty sure of my translation. He smiled and nodded.

"That's right, right? En englase. White rat? Rata blanca?"

"Si," he confirmed.

"They're a knock off of White Snake."

"No entiendo." Not enough Span in my Spanglish.

"No sabe the band White Snake?"

He shook his head no.

"About diez anos pasado hay un big band llame White Snake."

"Diez anos passado!" His face squooshed with confusion. right. That was the problem. He was 8 when White Snake was out. I'm old. Ten years ago was when I last jerked off, it was another lifetime ago to him.

"You would sabe ellos if you escuchared them." I explained in radically fused languages and went back to ESPN. Less than twenty seconds later the Rata Blanca faded out and the rumbling melodic waves of "Is This Love" by White Snake mixed in. I looked over at the kid who was beaming behind his computer at the desk.

"Is theees luv," he said, smiling.

"White Snake baby! Tu sabe eso song, yeah?"

He nodded yes. "Me gusto."

"No shit tu gustas. Fucking White Snake. Tawny Katan all over the hood of your Jaguar, entiendo?"

He laughed but didn't know what the fuck I was talking about. Ever since then, whenever I come into the joint, White Snake is on. Just our little inside joke.

"Could you turn the White Snake down a little por favor. Es mas importante call." He lowered it.

"Rebecca, she said she had one lone chicken pock when her brother had them when they were kids. Does that make her immune?"

"She had one chicken pock?"

"Yeah," I said. shaking my head at the absurdity of it.

"It might."

I got back on the phone to Michele, "Rebecca says you might be immune because-"

"I know all about it. When my good friend Ellen got shingles last year my doctor told me to stay away from her."

"Even though you had had the one chicken pock?" Three days of hot sex with my possible new wife was so fucking out the door.

"Yeah."

"It says once it scabs over in three days it's no longer contagious. I'm sure that's getting you wet just thinking about it," I was grasping at straws.

"Yeah. I know. I really want to come..." She was feigning trying not to hurt my feelings but I totally understood. I wouldn't get near me either.

"What if I hermetically sealed the area with Mexican gaffers tape and bandages like a burn victim so it wasn't even exposed to the world. Or you could come anyway and we won't have sex."

"Yeah, right. I'm coming to Mexico, I'm fucking you." That made me feel better. A nice consolation prize.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I totally understand."

"You do?"

"Of course. I really wouldn't want you to come if there was even the slightest chance of you getting it, so you shouldn't come. Maybe you can come to NYC for a weekend when I get back." I didn't think she would. The ship had kinda sailed.

"Maybe."

"Yeah, okay. I'll talk to you soon."

"Okay. Have fun the rest of your trip. I'm sorry."

"Me too." And that was that.

"She's not coming."

"Awww, really?" Rebecca said comfortingly.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm all fucked up. She shouldn't come."

"I'm sorry."

"And you're leaving in a couple days. I guess I'm supposed to be alone."

"Or maybe you'll meet someone here."

"Yeah. Lets go eat mangoes."

"Okay." Mangoes always cheer me up. For the first time ever this trip, Seth, the Mexican chef at the place I'm staying recommended we eat them with lime, salt and crushed chili peppers. It sounded weird because mangoes are so good and why fuck with them, but it was out of control amazing. I'll never eat them virgin again.

We went back to the shack on the beach and ate 6 mangoes under the bright moon and thick starry sky, the ocean pounding at our feet.

"Don't touch your eyes or your dick," Rebecca reminded me.

"I know, honey. Thanks." That was the last thing I needed. Pepper in my eyes or on my dick, though I didn't really believe a little ground chili pepper would really tear up my dick too bad, I mean I had survived a lot worse from Mistresses. Not that I like my dick tortured because I really don't. The sounds didn't hurt (if you don't get this reference read the Mistress Fiera story) so that's why I permitted that. I don't like my dick or balls hurt in any way, and I'm only into a little torture from time to time if it's administered by a hot chick. I don't like hurting myself.

We went to bed after the mangoes, well, Rebecca passed out. I, of course, started watching my 24 episodes. Suddenly, the tip of my dick started burning, like, kinda bad. What the fuck now?!!! Had I passed my own side herpes to my own dick?! I mean I should just shoot myself right now and get it over with. I hadn't touched my dick with my chili fingers and I had washed my hands anyway. I didn't want to wake Rebecca so I inspected my penis under the light in the bathroom and it looked normal. I washed it off and got back in bed, the burning still there. It must have been a little chili powder had fallen on it from before or something and it incubated for a few minutes before erupting.

I lied in bed feeling fucking pathetic. Nicked and bruised, ego and body. The burning went away a few minutes later so I figured I was okay.

Rebecca left three days later. My shingles were almost gone as was my sunburn. My back was feeling better and my ear had unclogged. I might be able to have a vacation yet. I ate a few mangoes and felt at peace for the first time in two weeks in Mexico. But then I had this awful feeling.

What if the burning dick from the other night wasn't from the chili pepper but some awful disease that lay in wait?

I had to know. The only way to find out for sure was to rule out the chili pepper.

Now, I have this character, this part of me that emerges every once in awhile. I call him "The dumbest man in the universe." He does things like asks cops if he can "speak to them off the record" about traffic infractions (30 moving violations accrued while driving the taxi) he's committed, expecting them to honor their word to keep the info just between the two of them and not arrest him. Eat catsup smothered cheeseburgers while sitting Indian style in all white outfits expecting not to get any spillage. Things of that nature. I had a sneaking suspicion this experiment might fall under his domain but I saw no other option. I would worry about this for the next two weeks if I didn't do it.

I rubbed a little chili pepper powder on the shaft of my dick and waited a couple seconds... nothing. Shit! It was some evil disease and not the chili powder. As much as I dreaded lighting my own dick on fire, it was a death I was willing to endure to be freed from the worry of what might be wrong with me if the burning was from something else. I hadn't had sex in weeks and wasn't even jerking off, saving my chi, so it couldn't be an STD. No, something WAY worse!

Maybe I didn't use enough and didn't put it in the right place. I figured I'd try on the less sensitive shaft first but I had no choice but to move to the g spot. The outer one of course. I saw no reason at this point to jam cayenne pepper up my ass but who knew what might be necessary at a later juncture of these important proceedings.

I took some more of the chili pepper powder and rubbed it on the soft spot under the head of my dick. I waited... and waited... and waited... aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand... nothing! Fuck. I was getting scared now. The side herpes, the hearing loss, the sunburn, the back paralysis was all just a cruel appetizer for whatever this dick disease was.

I took a handful of this red Mexican pepper dust and furiously jammed, rubbed and ground it onto the most sensitive part of my under cock and waited, watched, listened for even the slightest rumble of feeling. If this didn't work I was going straight to a Mexican doctor.

But oh my friends, that wouldn't be necessary. Like the distant thunderous sound of 20, 2000 pound bulls heading up the cobble stoned streets of Pamplona on their way to stomp and impale you after a night of drunkenness, a feeling was beginning to brew. And then, with the instant clarity that only your impending death can provide, a clarity that wipes away your hangover and makes you as alert as the moment of your birth into this great world, you first set eyes on the stampeding heard of black and horns heading for your ass through a parting sea of other inebriated tourists and Spaniards alike who thought it would be "fun" to run with the bulls and now regret that decision more than any previous in their lives, I could distinctly feel my dick starting to warm up... and warm up... and get hotter... and hotter... and hotter... until it burned as if I was laying it on a fucking hot stove and mashing it down with one of those square mettle things deli guys use to press your bacon into the grill to make it cook faster.

My dick was in Dante's inferno. Only the head of my dick. Who needed the wind and sun to capture energy to run the humble alcove of bungalows that were home to a handful of relaxation seeking gentle spirits? We could just hook up my dick to the wires and run all our dvd players and computers and cell phone chargers and any other motherfucking thing from it.

I bolted up and dumped cold water on it, which soothed the pain. I thought I was out of the woods until I turned the water off and the fire returned 1000 fold. I scrubbed my dick with the cold water and soap but again, after drying it off, it was combusting again far worse than before I tried my futile efforts to countermand my genius idea of basting my dick in hot chili pepper powder.

I lied on the bed spread eagle, naked, and meditated. I just went into the pain, I became the pain. I didn't really have much choice. I tried to make it sexual and imagined a hot Dom laughing at me as if she had just made me rub it on there myself but as I said before, no dick pain for me, so that wasn't working. It just plain killed. And it wasn't going away anytime soon apparently.

I laid there for what felt like an hour but was probably more like 7 minutes, which is a fuck of a long time to have your dick ignited, until it finally started to subside. In a few more minutes it was completely back to normal.

I thought to myself, what the fuck is up with this vacation? I mean what's next, I get eaten by a shark tomorrow? And then I realized, all my ailments were of my own making. I wasn't cursed as I sometimes think I am. I went into the hot sun without enough protection and that started the first round of problems. I was rushing around New York before I left and that's why I fell and I had rubbed the chili... yeah, you get it. I just needed to chill the fuck out... and heed any good mother's advice.

Use sunscreen and don't rub chili powder on your dick, or probably pussy either, if you're a girl. I'm going to the beach now. xo e

Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 2:24 PM

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