Vaginahead

[Unpublished] [as Clint Venezuela]

When I entered the White Cockroach I noticed right away that the walls were giggling at me.
“Why are you giggling at me?” I asked.
I got no reply, and I realized how foolish I was to think that the walls could speak to me.
So I approached the bar and asked for a bitter shandy. The barman was staring at me in a peculiar manner, as were most of the people in the room. He handed me the bitter shandy and I asked him why he was staring at me.
“You have a vagina on your head,” he told me.
“What? Don’t be absurd.”
“I know a vagina when I see one and you have one on your head.”
“No bullshit?”
“None at all.”
“Whereabouts is it then?”
“It’s at the top of your forehead just below the fringe line.”
I was tempted to reach up and inspect the area with my finger, but this sounded a little perverted, so I asked the barman to watch my bitter shandy, and I made my way to the restroom.
Ignoring the strong smell of perished piss I stepped in front of the cracked mirror and studied my forehead. I leant forward for a closer inspection and sure enough I had a vagina on my head, just where the barman had told me. My heart was beating strangely as I looked at my reflection, and I made sure that no-one was in the room before reaching up and running my finger along the pink gash. I was astonished to discover it felt just like a real vagina, soft and moist and warm, and when I held my finger to my nose I sniffed the familiar musky smell.
“Holy Albuquerque,” I muttered, before dashing out of the restroom and into the street.

I had no idea how I had acquired the vagina. One minute I had no vagina and the next I had one on my head. As I walked along the sidewalk I contemplated my future. Nothing would ever be the same again, I felt. I would be ridiculed and everyone would ask questions about it. I would become like a sideshow freak, with people wanting to touch it or take pictures. Even now folks were pointing at me and laughing and giving me quizzical looks. I felt severely confused and embarrassed, and so I slipped into the nearest sports store to get myself a baseball cap.
I came out of the store feeling much more confident with a brand new black baseball cap upon my head. I had made sure that the vagina was not visible to anyone and that made me feel a hell of a lot better. I strolled along the sidewalk like a big peacock, proud that my vagina was not showing. Yet strangely people were still laughing and pointing and giving me quizzical looks. I found this quite disturbing, and soon reached the point where I couldn’t bear it any longer.
I snatched a hold of the nearest person who was chuckling, an unshaven forty something with a smell of peanut butter upon her lapels.
“What are you chuckling at?” I demanded.
She didn’t appear petrified nor frightened in any way. “You have a vagina on your baseball cap,” she said in between chuckles.
I let her go and grabbed the cap from off my head. Gazing at it I gasped when I spotted the obvious vagina image on the front of it. Yet I gasped even more when I realized that my real vagina was now visible to everyone who cared to look at it. And they were!
“Bastards!” I yelled as I galloped along the streets in the direction of Dr Zagduma’s surgery, attempting to ignore the catcalls and laughter.

I was sitting in the waiting room with a smug grin upon my face, for on the way to the surgery I had ingeniously covered the vagina with my copy of The Kafka Effekt by D Harlan Wilson, which I had fastened to my forehead with masking tape. I was still receiving queer looks but I explained that I had accidentally stuck the book there and this was why I was seeing the doctor. I was still admiring my own cleverness when Mrs Vvvv called me in to the surgery.
I was immediately astonished to see that Dr Zagduma was naked with an obvious erection. He invited me to sit on the couch which I did so, and he took a seat at his desk.
“Doctor, why are you naked with an erection?” I asked.
“We’re here to discuss your problems, Dumbfuck,” he replied.
“I guess so.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“I have a vagina on my head.”
“Whereabouts?”
I removed the book and placed it beside me on the couch. I felt vulnerable with my vagina exposed but I knew that this was necessary in the company of the doctor.
“Fuck a duck!” said Dr Zagduma, and I watched his penis bobbing up and down as he got up and approached me. He ran his finger along the slit and I felt an absurd thrill. He bent down to inspect it more closely and I could smell chicken tikka masala on his breath. “How did you get a vagina on your head, Dumbfuck?” he asked. “I’m a patient not a detective. I just want you to get rid of it.”
“This is a phenomenon. I haven’t come across this before. I reckon you need surgery to remove it.”
“Why can’t you just give me some antibiotics?”
Suddenly Dr Zagduma got up and started banging his head against the wall.
“Antibiotics!” he screamed. “Antibiotics! You think everything can be solved by taking antibiotics? You must lead a very shallow life if you think that everything can be solved by taking antibiotics! AIDS, decapitation, premature ejaculation, sexually transmitted diseases, severed limbs, chicken pox, mumps, loose bowels, piles, measles, Parkinson’s disease, the plague, the clap. Fucking hell! Antibiotics isn’t the answer to everything, you know, and if you think it is you might as well go visit Dr Fondlebreast and not me, you bastard!”
The doctor then ejaculated copiously up against the wall, his eyeballs rolling around strangely as he did so. I watched a thick trail of sperm sneak down the wallpaper as he plunged back into his plush seat at the desk.
“So can you cure the vagina on my head?” I asked.
Dr Zagduma silently dragged his prescription book along the desk and took up his pen. He scratched some illegible words upon the top sheet, tore it off and gave it to me.
“Take these three times a day after sex,” he told me, “and if you don’t have sex masturbation will do. And if you don’t masturbate take them after spying on your neighbor either making love or merely undressing, providing your neighbor is female. And if you don’t have a neighbor take them after having sexual fantasies about a famous movie star, a female one. And if you don’t have a favorite female movie star take them after washing your genitals. And if you don’t wash your genitals you’ll stink like crazy and you don’t deserve to be cured if you stink like crazy so fuck you.”
I examined the sheet but was unable to decipher his writing.
“What are they?” I asked.
“Antibiotics.”
“Cool beans, dude.”
I got up and left the room and I could hear Dr Zagduma banging his head against the wall again as I made my way out of the building.

I got home, having evaded more laughter and ridicule by cleverly fastening a dead chicken to my head to conceal the vagina. I was so pleased that no-one noticed this. I examined the prescription and smiled to myself, promising that I would collect the antibiotics in the morning.
I was tired after all the excitement so I tripped into the bedroom to sleep. My wife was already in bed presumably dozing. I stripped off all my clothing and climbed naked between the sheets. There was a strong smell of sperm, and I realized that my wife had had a busy day prostituting. I turned on my side facing her and closed my eyes to sleep.
Moments later I felt her moving next to me and I just knew that she was staring at me in the semi-darkness.
“Dumbfuck,” she whispered.
“What?”
“You have a vagina on your head.”
“I know.”
“Why have you got a vagina on your head?”
“Fuck knows.”
She went silent for a moment, then seconds later I spotted the grotesque sight of the penis on her head, which she slowly inserted into my vagina and began to slide in and out as I closed my eyes and screamed inside my head.