The Final Frontier

I’m quite a curious person. I once pulled the hind legs of a dog apart to see how far they go. You’d be surprised how wide they can get before breaking. Well, I was anyway (the dog might have been as surprised as me, but I had already over-enthusiastically pacified it with a half-brick).
I like to think I apply this searching, almost scientific curiosity to pretty much all of my interests, including sexuality (especially sexuality). And looking back, I suppose it was exactly this over-wrought inquisitiveness that placed me in my current situation.
Although to be honest, for all my posturing of intellectual inquiry, I didn’t really go out that much (the dog had lived next door on a desiccated patch of brown grass and concrete my neighbour defensively claimed was a garden), and I didn’t get on well with people, so much of my learning was confined to exploring and experimenting with my own pale and malnourished body.
I can’t think of a better place for private deviancy than a bedsit, particularly in East London. The sheet thin plaster-board walls ironically increased privacy, as the inhabitants of my housing complex were pathologically resentful of any perceived intrusion into their self-imposed quarantine, including any and all noise that percolated through the pathetic separating partitions. Unidentifiable banging noises, arguments and screams were routine, and studiously ignored by every resident. Ideal really.
And yes, a lot of my experimenting was masturbatory; I’d recently discovered a trick where I would very delicately sit on my lamp, minus the shade, ease it up my rectum and very briefly switch the light on as I hurriedly pounded away at my tumescence. I was quite proud of that one (taking pride of place in the monthly update to my journal, Chronicles of Onan) and it made for a great picture. However, I had also begun to have a rather desultory feeling that my sexual imagination had either run out of new ideas or – worse – I had bumped up against the confines of what it was physically possible to do to a body. I mean, I could always eat my own genitals, but that had a finality about it that didn’t appeal to me. It also suggested a paucity of imagination, admitting defeat to the demanding adventure of self-exploration, and I wasn’t quite ready to wave that white flag just yet.
This is what has ultimately led me to the scenario I now find myself embroiled within (ha! very much within); I was lying on my greasy mattress, idly contemplating my belly button whilst absently staring at the faecal stained wall, which for the past hour on and off there had been emanating from shrill, camp sounding screeches.
I’d been engaged in a kind of solipsistic inventory of all the objects I had inserted in myself at one point or another, when my lazily exploring fingers pulled a large sprig of feculence from my inward facing belly button. As I examined the coil of dirt my curiosity stirred, and I began in a semi-interested manner to search for more buried treasure. Imagine my surprise, when instead of finding more grime, the tip of my finger slid inside my belly button, past what felt like cartilage, and actually into my stomach.
Now I imagine at this point most people would panic, remove their finger, and either call for help, or just do nothing and forcefully repress the memory, never to think of it again apart from the odd sweaty spasm of recollection at night. I like to think I’m not most people though – I’ve managed to shit on my own face before – so my reaction was perhaps unusual. I pushed the finger in deeper.
Oddly, even though I was knuckle deep inside my own midriff, I felt calm, serene even. In fact, the only odd note that struck me was that there seemed to be no resistance from any organs or tissue in the slightest. It was like sticking my finger into a mound of jelly; I could wag my digit with ease. Hmmm, I thought, that’s weird. Shouldn’t I be poking my stomach or bladder? I decided this needed further investigation and I placed my middle finger in there alongside my index and waggled. Still no resistance. Ha! I thought. I’m fingering myself! I laughed out loud, my stomach rapidly inflating and deflating, and pushed my entire fist into my belly button. Amused, I thought ‘now I’m fisting myself’.
By the time my arm was half way inside my torso, a slight resistance had formed, akin to pushing my fist through the middle of tautly stretched Clingfilm, yet I kept going. As my arm sank deeper I had a brainwave. I’m going at this the wrong way, I thought – I want to see what’s inside there.
With a sound like an arse rubbing on latex, I pulled my arm completely out of my belly button. My belly button gaped, momentarily exposing a black void, and then shrivelled closed like a sphincter.
This was it. The ultimate challenge had presented itself, and I was not going to shy away. No sir. I leant forward as far as I could, the breath rushing out of my lungs with the sudden pressure, and began straining my face toward self-discovery. As my nose inched closer to victory, there was a soft parp as gas was forced out of my anus, followed by a spattering of faeces that shot up the mattress. I barely noticed – by now the desire to reach my destination was all-consuming. A loud cracking noise that may have been a rib juddered my body, but the pain was distant and indistinct, as if it realised it would be ignored, and I kept going.
After an eternity, my nose finally brushed up against my belly button. By this point I had lost feeling in my legs, and the journey had caused more unidentifiable loud cracks to issue from my spindly body. I didn’t care; I was overjoyed to have made it.
Closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, I pushed my face into my stomach. Anticipating complete darkness, I opened my eyes. Instead of the expected black void, I beheld a glorious cavern of shimmering red meat. It was magnificent! I tried breathing, and to my astonishment, I could. Giddy with joy, I worked my entire head through the gap, and then my shoulders, arms, and torso, until I dropped about six feet onto the springy flesh-floor of my new internal domain. Weeping with euphoria, I surveyed my new surroundings and looked up. I couldn’t see where I had come from. Instead, high above me was a massive structure comprised of smooth ribs, blue veins and patches of green mucous beneath a pulsing red canvas material I assumed was skin. The floor seemed to consist of substance comparable to tongue, and I started to bounce like an astronaut on the moon.
I couldn’t believe it. I had actually achieved the pinnacle of self-molestation – I had fucked myself using myself! This would not – could not – ever be surpassed. It was my crowning glory. I started convulsing with laughter. “I’ve done it!” I gibbered. “If you fucking bastards could see me—“.

*      *      *

Detective Inspector Martin stepped gingerly through the threshold and into the bedsit. “Jesus Christ.”, he blanched, his hand automatically flying up to cover his mouth.
“Doubt it.”, said DI Blanchard, sweeping his gaze around the dank and airless room, before again settling his eyes on the grotesquely twisted figure lying on the shit-stained mattress.
“It smells like a bucket of shit. Urgh, what the fuck has happened here?” Martin had lowered his hand and was gawking at the bed and its contents.
“Well, Martin”, Blanchard sighed “my finely tuned detective skills tell me that this poor bastard, whilst trying to attain personal heaven, has inadvertently ended his own life.”
“Meaning?”
Blanchard turned to face Martin. “His neck broke as he tried to suck himself off.”
Martin looked suitably repulsed. Then a glint entered his eye. “So you could say he came and went at the same time?”
“Ha ha.” Blanchard replied. Jesus, he’d had enough of this wacko shit to last a lifetime. He shook his head. “Right, you can deal with this fucking mess. The report pretty much writes itself anyway. I’m going home.” Backing out of the room and with one last look at the absurd tableaux of failed fellatio on the bed, Blanchard left. As he made his way to his car he began to wonder at the sheer, sexual urgency that possessed these nut jobs, making them attempt these doomed stunts. “Actually, I don’t want to know.” He said to himself as he got in the car.
Just as he was turning the key in the ignition, his mobile vibrated.