Scumbag

Living inside Craig’s wallet for nearly eleven months had given me serious anxiety.

Craig Anthony Fitzwilliam McGrath, born 16th October 1986, and who has a Class D driving licence from the State of Vermont, whatever that meant, is a loser.

He's lost me.

I had stared at his photo across the crumpled receipts and forgotten coins for far too long. Peeping out through the yellowing plastic of the inside divider of his Glasgow Celtic wallet had become tiresome. It was the type of Nylon plastic wallet with a Velco ripper that was very popular in the 1990s amongst school children, which he had acquired from his visiting Scottish Uncle when he was ten. It was a sweaty prison in which I had been stuck for an eternity.

My red foil jacket was hot enough. But to then be wedged between an unused Burrito loyalty card, which had a chipotle sauce stain and smell, and an old passport photo of his Mom (weird) only made my claustrophobia worse. My latex skin is sweaty at the best of times, and no amount of mint tingle sensation lubricant would cool me down in this nylon sweatbox.

I had grown accustomed to Craig’s neglect, but after so long in his broke-ass wallet, to be so clumsily dropped tonight onto the piss-soaked floor of this men’s bathroom at God knows whatever dive bar it was…well, it was unforgivable.

As I lay here, discarded and abandoned amidst the dimly lit chaos of a men’s restroom, I can't help but feel that my anxiety has now evolved into a rather melancholic sense of despair. How did I end up in this grimy corner, far removed from the warmth and security of Craig’s all be it aged but still safe wallet?

I resent myself for resenting its plastic humidity. As I am beginning to feel the cold from this cocktail pool of pissed men’s piss, I am laid in. I have been harsh. The nylon wallet wasn’t that sweaty. It was cosy. It was a treasured possession of Craig’s which I should have been more grateful for once being snuggled in.

The Driving License, whilst a chatterbox, and the pungent Burrito they hadn’t been bad company. They always seemed interested when I told them how I would fulfil my duty as a faithful protector. A protector of lives by being wrapped tightly, I hoped, around Craig’s penile skin. I wonder if he is circumcised.

Anyway I digress.

Why was he so careless?

Why was he even checking on me?

Oh, wait, a sperm-catching second, was he getting lucky in the bar? Was he checking if I was still there?

God dam it, Craig, you imbecile!

Now, I am lost. A discarded Durex laying flaccid and useless on the cracked ceramic tiles of a bathroom floor. Forgotten and alone alongside strewn toilet paper that has been so carelessly dropped on the floor. Anxiety grips me as I wonder if Craig even realises I'm missing. Did he drop me accidentally in the frenzy of scoring a potential dancefloor mate? Or wait, have I been thrown away callously in a moment of recklessness?

No, Craig wouldn’t do that. My expiration date is good for a few months. And let's be honest, they aren’t true. A hopeless get-out-of-jail card branded on me by my creator to make sure they don’t get sued in case I split under the pressure of Craig’s, I hope, massive girth.

Craig is a cheapskate he wouldn’t give up on me. Not when I have months of spunk swallowing capability still in me. I could be the Roy Campanella of condoms, for all he knows.

I can't bear to dwell on the possibilities. What if he needs me tonight? What if he gets lucky? What if the woman with the hefty cleavage and thick eyeliner I glimpsed when he opened his wallet at the bar takes him home? What will Craig do if, in a finger-fumbling fondle of passion, he reaches to the back pocket of his Wranglers only to realize I'm nowhere to be found? The thought sends shivers around my rubber rim.

How many hours will pass? How long will I remain stranded on this cold, unforgiving tile floor? A stage of excessive drinking and broken dreams. How many failed college football players and serial killer truckers are going to step on me tonight before I am even noticed?

Every time the door swings open, I hope against hope that it's Craig coming to rescue me. But each time, it's just another stranger, another beer-addled mind oblivious to my plight as they stumble drunkenly past.

I have one purpose in life. It’s simple. To protect. I am a shield against poor decisions, unintended consequences and venereal disease. Craig, you fool. You are now susceptible to all those issues. Chlamydia. Gonorrhea. Syphilis. Trichomoniasis. GENITAL HERPES. For Fucks sake (literally). Craig, you could get any of them now.

Do the names of venereal diseases just sound bad because of what they are? Or do they sound bad because of the names? I don’t know.

Is that a spider on the ceiling? Is he laughing at me?

Come on, remember! Try to recall the last time you felt the warmth of Craig’s touch, the reassuring pat of his hand when he checked to ensure I was still there. I think he loved me. I provided him with security. Of course, he did. I am a sheath of security for his sword.

I think the word Vagina comes from a Latin word for sheath. Can you believe that? The word clitoris comes from a Greek word that means to shut away. What the hell? I was shut away. But now I am forgotten.

Craig, how could you? Shut me away! And then throw me away.

No! He didn’t mean to. He knew there was going to be one time when he was supposed to use me. To undress me. To dress himself in me. For us to be one. For us to be one inside of one other. He wouldn’t give up on that, would he?

Yes, he has. Get a grip, you pathetic fool. You’re never going to unravel yourself all over Craig’s length. A long one you had always hoped for. But now you’ll never know.

Tomorrow, you’ll be trash. I will be swept up by some grizzled janitor - the poor bastard that has to clean this shithole every morning. Only one cubicle has a door, for God’s sake. Where did Craig bring me? Where has Craig lost me?

The swish of the restroom door jolts me slightly. A ray of light cuts through the darkness. Who is this?

Are they New Balance walking towards me? Almost certainly a divorced Dad? But if he picks me up, I’ll give him a chance.

He’s spotted me. He leans in. I feel his hand approach and reach down for me. He scoops me up from the filth-strewn floor. Relief floods through me.

As I am lifted into the air, I catch a glimpse of my rescuer. He’s a kind-faced stranger with a look of surprise and bemusement in his eyes. It’s clear he does not understand the significance of his discovery. He’s found himself a warrior. He’s found himself a protector.

What about Craig?

Forget Craig! His mistakes are his mistakes now. It’s not my responsibility to save his skin anymore. This new guy, let’s call him John. John could be a stallion. Craig was a pony at best. And now he might end up being a pony with a disease or, worse, with unwanted children. The poor little bastards, Craig as a Dad? They stand no chance. Maybe Big Boobs is pro-choice. I hope so for everyone’s sake.

With gratitude, John tucks me away safely into his wallet. A proper leather one. God, it smells good. Inside his wallet, inside his pocket, my unwanted stay on the bar’s restroom floor has come to an end. Though I may have been lost, I have been found. Once more, I am a silent sentinel, ready to do my duty whenever called upon.

As I feel my rescuer disappear into the funk and music of the bar, I can't help but feel a sense of hope. My anxiety recedes a little. For though I may have been abandoned in the chaos of the night by Craig, I have been given a second chance to fulfil my purpose – to protect and to serve wherever the night may take John and me.

A few more months inside a wallet shouldn’t be so bad.