Turned Gay by the Existential Dread That I May Actually Be a Character in a Chuck Tingle Book Read online

  TURNED GAY BY THE EXISTENTIAL DREAD THAT I MAY ACTUALLY BE A CHARACTER IN A CHUCK TINGLE BOOK

  By Chuck Tingle

  Learning is great and, at the end of the day, the pursuit of knowledge is something that makes us all human. In a grand, cosmic sense, our own sentience and desire to learn is the most beautiful creation of the known universe.

  What are the chances that all of this space dust floating around and exploding at random could eventually, given a billion or so years to sit around, become full of thought and life. That these rocks and meteors could one day become something out of nothing, single cells organisms that evolved into tiny micros and then early fish, lizards, birds, mammals and so on. Now we have the means to pursue knowledge, taking evolution into our own hands for the first time in the history of life on Earth.

  As a fan of erotic author Chuck Tingle, I suppose this is why I’ve never found his stories to be as ridiculous as my friends did.

  Who is to say that the universe couldn’t have ended up full of gay butts? So what if the airplane can talk?

  Long, long ago, there was a moment when a tiny spec of nothingness became something, where life blossomed in a place that it had never been before. I’m not going to comment on why this happened, but we all know that at some point it did. This begin said, is it really so crazy to think it could happen to an entire plane?

  Again, that’s the great thing about learning. This is a wild philosophy that I’ve created on my own and shared with my friends, who can take it or leave it. If they take it, then my knowledge on the subject of evolution and astrophysics has been contagious, and I can’t think of anything more beautiful than that.

  But now we’ve come to the heart of the matter, the terrible, hidden tragedy of knowledge that few people even consider until it’s too late. There are some things you just can’t unlearn. This lesson comes to me in the form of short story by one of my favorite writers, Chuck Tingle.

  As I said before, I’m a huge fan of Chuck’s work, although I am dubious about the idea that he is a real man out there in Billings, pounding away at the typewriter to create a seemingly endless supply of gay erotica. I’m not gay, myself, but I read it for the laughs, and it’s sometimes hard for me to believe that anyone could truly get off to Chuck’s typical sexual staples; chiefly dinosaurs, unicorns and bigfeet.

  Then again, there are thirteen billion people out there in the world. If you can think of it, then there’s bound to be someone turned on by it.

  My fandom of Chuck was all well and good until one day everything changed, because one day the words of this brilliant Montana man taught me a lesson that I just wasn’t ready for.

  I’ve just left town with my wife, Carrie, for a short weekend trip down the coast to San Diego. We both work in online marketing and our eyes and brains are fried from the constant glow of laptop screens. This weekend is supposed to be a break from all that, a chance to recharge by the beach just a few hours south of Los Angeles, and so far so good. I’m not even checking my phone as I relax in the passenger seat, staring out the window while the traffic slowly dissipates into brilliant swaths of lush palms on either side of the freeway.

  I take in a long breath and then let it out slowly, hoping all of my anxieties from the workweek will drift away with it.

  “Where are we staying again?” my wife asks. “Sandy Point Suites?”

  “I think so,” I tell her, “you want me to start mapping it?”

  “We’re getting close,” Carrie says with a nod. “Go for it.”

  I pull out my phone and open my E-mail, checking to make sure that I’ve got the name of our destination correct. I do, but I also can’t help noticing another unopened message that sits patiently waiting for my attention.

  ‘Have you seen the new book from Chuck Tingle?’ the title reads. It’s from a friend back at work.

  “What’s that?” Carries questions, glancing over. “New Chuck book?”

  I nod. “Keep your eyes on the road,” I tell her, only half joking.

  Both of us are huge fans of the author, and often find ourselves doubling over with laughter at the erotic audacity of his titles alone. We trade pictures of his covers back and forth at work, trying to out do each other with every progressive gay literary masterpiece.

  “Well, read it!” Carrie offers.

  “The message, or the book?” I question.

  “The book,” my wife continues, “we’ve got another hour or so before we get to the hotel, I bet you can power through it. Then you can tell me what happens!”

  I laugh. “I thought this was going to be a technology free week!”

  “Well, I’m curious now, Brad” my wife explains.

  I consider this a moment, then eventually pull out my phone and open the E-mail. Just as I thought, it’s a link to Chuck’s latest work of brilliance, which I promptly download and dive right into.

  Of course, an hour might not seem like long enough to devour an entire novel, but Chuck’s work is short and sweet, right to the explicit point.

  This novel is titled Pounded In The Butt By My Book “Pounded In The Butt By My Book ‘Pounded In The Butt By My Book “Pounded In The Butt By My Own Butt”’” and it is essentially a Russian nesting doll of gay anal pounding. The story is about a knight and a wizard battling it out with one another, commanding armies of hunky Chuck Tingle characters, but it quickly turns quite meta when the author himself is written into the story. This is Chuck Tingle at his best, and I’m thoroughly enjoying the read until I get to a part about the true depths of the Tingleverse.

  All of Chuck’s books take place in a realm called the Tingleverse which, as far as I can tell, is a tight collection of very gay parallel universes. As the book describes, each layer is more erotic and absurd than the next, and while some characters are aware they exist within this strange, infinite existence, many of them do not.

  The book ends with the revelation that the world of the reader is also part of the Tingleverse, the outer shell of an onion that appears to be endlessly deep and achingly gay.

  I find the book to be thoroughly enjoyable until I reach the ending, at which point I can’t help feel a sharp chill run down my spine. I realize now that I’ve stopped chuckling to myself, instead deeply focused on the terrifying words of the page before me.

  “What’s wrong?” Carrie asks, breaking my concentration.

  “I don’t know,” I mumble, collecting my senses. I glance at the car’s clock and suddenly realize that an hour has passed in what seemed like and instant. Not only that, but we’re parked in front of our hotel, completely motionless.

  I hadn’t even noticed.

  “How was the book?” Carrie continues to prod.

  I shake my head. “The ending was kind of weird, he says that we’re all part of the Tingleverse, like… me and you.”

  My wife laughs. “That’s funny.”

  “No,” I protest, then readjust, “I mean, yeah, I guess. Something about it just feels kind of weird. Like, what if Chuck’s telling the truth, what if we really are just characters in a Tingler?”

  Carrie glances around. “I don’t see any dinosaurs or unicorns,” she scoffs.

  I let out a long sigh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  Suddenly, someone appears next to my passenger side window, causing me to jump in shock when I notice him. The man leans down and smiles, then opens the door up for me. He’s the valet.

  “Oh
my god, you scared me,” I admit to the man as I climb out of the car.

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” the valet offers with a nod. He walks around the vehicle and opens the door for my wife, as well, who then hands off her keys and grabs her bag from the backseat.

  I gaze up at the massive, beachfront hotel before us, marveling over its architectural beauty. Regardless of my strange moment in existential crisis, I know this is going to be a fantastic weekend of rest and relaxation under the warm California sun. I just need to chill the hell out.

  As my gaze drifts down across the entrance of the hotel, however, I suddenly freeze, my breath catching in my throat. At first I think that my eyes must be playing tricks on me, but as my mind struggles to wrap itself around the meaning of these unusual letters, I am eventually forced to accept the reality of this bizarre situation.

  “Is that the name of the hotel?” I stammer, barely able to find the words. I feel sick to my stomach, a wave of nausea washing over me.

  “Butt Point Suites?” my wife asks, walking up behind me.

  I’m utterly dumbfounded. “I thought it was the Sandy Point Suites,” I protest.

  “I mean, why would they call it Sandy Point Suites if it’s on Butt Point?” Carrie questions.

  I finally tear my eyes away from the giant letters that taunt me from above the lobby doorway and look to my wife. “You’re not fucking with me?”

  “How would I be fucking with you?” Carries asks.

  “So that I think we’re part of the Tingleverse?” I explain.

  My wife cracks a huge smile. “What, you’re afraid that everything is going to turn into one giant butt?”

  I suddenly realize how silly all of this is and let out a long sigh. Butt Point isn’t that strange of a name after all, and the idea that my entire existence could be nothing more than the erotic musings of a Billings madman is more than a little absurd.

  “You’re right,” I finally say. I put my arm around Carrie’s waist and pull her close, taking in the fresh, sea air for a moment before heading inside.

  The two of us walk up to the counter where a rather handsome man waits, smiling and nodding as we approach.

  “Welcome,” the man says, “checking in?”

  “Yes,” I tell him, then remove my credit card and hand it over.

  The man takes the card and then begins to type rapidly into a computer before him, a cascade of potential reservations flying across his screen.

  Me and my wife have no problem waiting patiently as this handsome guy goes about his business, but the longer that we stand here in silence the more I can’t help noticing just how handsome he actually is. It’s not all that unusual to see abnormally fit men around these beach communities, tanned and toned and ready for Summer, but something about this guy seems just the slightest bit off. His attractiveness is, somehow, unnatural.

  I glance over at my wife to see if she notices, but she’s checking out the lobby decor at the moment, completely oblivious to my homoerotic crisis.

  I look back up at the man checking us in, his high cheekbones and incredible, chiseled jawline. There is sweat forming on my brow and my hands are trembling, despite my most valiant efforts to stay calm in the face of such a powerfully disturbing situation.

  What if the book was telling the truth? What if I’m just a Chuck Tingle character?

  I take a deep breath and remind myself that the Tingleverse isn’t real. If it was, would I really be married to my beautiful wife? Wouldn’t there be hung dinosaurs and talking planes everywhere?

  “Alright, you’re all checked in,” announces the man suddenly. He hands my credit card back, along with two room keys. “You’re on the top floor, room sixty-nine.”

  I just stare at him blankly. “Seriously?”

  The man glances down at his computer, double-checking with a vague hint of confusion on his face. “Yep, room sixty-nine, the Butt King Suite.”

  My knees almost buckle right then and there, but I somehow manage to stay upright. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

  I can feel Carrie’s hand on my shoulder, a concerned touch as she tries her best to calm me down. I didn’t realize how loud my voice had gotten, but instead of lowering it I push ahead.

  “It’s not funny,” I yell, pointing at the man before me who stands in utter silence, shocked by my aggression.

  “I’m so sorry,” my wife interjects. “It was a long drive.”

  “No!” I protest. “You really want me to believe that we’re staying in a room called the Butt King Suite?”

  “Well, this is the Butt Point Suites,” Carrie interjects.

  “And it’s room six-nine?” I cry.

  “It’s gotta have a number, why not that one?” my wife replies.

  I glance over and notice that one of the hotel security officers is standing in the lobby doorway, his hand on a canister of pepper spray that hangs at his belt. This has gone too far, I tell myself.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say, “I just read this book and I’m a little shaken up.”

  The man checking me in nods to security, calling them off. “It’s fine, I understand,” he tells me generously.

  “It’s just, everything seems so gay,” I admit.

  Suddenly, a whole team of handsome young football players burst into the lobby, shouting and cheering as they slap each other on the ass with playful enthusiasm. They are all shirtless, with boyish smiles and an intoxicating, vibrant charm.

  The next thing I know I’m sitting up in bed, gasping loudly as my eyes fly open to reveal the posh hotel room surrounding me. It takes a moment to gather my bearings, but I eventually realize that this must be the King Butt Suite.

  Carrie, who had been standing by the window and staring out across the endless black ocean, runs over to me. It’s evening now.

  “You’re awake,” my wife gushes.

  I turn my head to look at her and wince as a bolt of pain shoots through me. “God damn,” I groan.

  “Don’t move baby!” my wife instructs. She reaches back behind me and fluffs the pillow, then carefully helps to guide me back down. “You hit your head pretty hard, I thought I was going to have to move you to the hospital soon.”

  “I hit my head?” I question. “How?”

  “I don’t know!” Carrie admits. “We were just standing in the lobby and suddenly you started to yell about our room, and then this college football team pulled in and the next thing I knew you were on the ground. You fainted.”

  I can remember all of this, except for the fainting part, but something about these memories seems like a surreal dream. It’s hard for me to reckon with just how erotic everything had seemed.

  “We’re not in a Chuck Tingle book, are we?” I ask my wife.

  She laughs. “I don’t think so, sweetie.”

  I close my eyes and let the relieved smile creep out across my lips. I can’t believe how ridiculous I’ve been acting, how one little book could so insidiously creep into the depths of my subconscious.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I hope I didn’t ruin our vacation.”

  “Just get some rest,” Carrie instructs me. “I’m sure you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  I listen as my wife walks about the room, closing the curtains and shutting things down for the night. Eventually, I can feel the covers and sheets pull back, and the body of my lover slide into bed next to me.

  She cuddles up close and for a brief moment everything is fine, but the longer that I lie here next to her, the more my anxiety slowly begins to creep back.

  Carrie falls asleep quickly, but I’m not quite so lucky. Soon, the minutes turn to hours, a cascade of ever expanding time that I simply cannot escape from. I feel like I’ve been here forever, trying to will myself to sleep and growing more and more frustrated with every half hearted attempt.

  There are only so many sheep that a guy can count.

  Fortunately, one thing that all of this r
est has taken care of is the pounding ache on the back of my head.

  “Are you awake?” I ask my wife, softly, already knowing that she’s passed out and unable to respond. My attempts at a little company are futile.

  Carefully, I pull away from Carrie and climb out of bed, deciding that the only way I’m going to get any shuteye, at this point, is if I’m completely relaxed. I now remember that the hotel has a hot tub, and if it’s not already closed down for the night then it could serve as the perfect means to chill me out.

  Once I maneuver myself out of bed, I pull on my swimming trunks then slowly, quietly, sneak out of our room and into the cool night air.

  The entire hotel grounds are lit up beautifully, string lights cascading from palm tree to palm tree throughout the main courtyard, which sits open to the beach on one side. From here I can see the illumination glittering off of the water, dancing in the waves as they pull away from shore in a never ending exodus.

  This is nice. This is really, really nice.

  I walk along the open hallway and eventually find some stairs, which take me down to the level of the courtyard. It’s surprisingly empty, not another soul in sight, but I suppose there’s no reason to be out this late when you’re just here to soak up the sun.

  Still, I can faintly catch the hot tub bubbling and frothing from where I stand. I follow the noise across the lush landscaping and eventually round a corner to find the Jacuzzi, lit from within by an eerie blue glow.

  “Hey there,” comes a deep, soulful voice.

  I stop, squinting through the darkness at the lone figure who sits peacefully in the bubbling cauldron.

  “Hey,” I offer, “mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all,” the man says.

  I take a few steps closer and then, as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I freeze. The figure relaxing in the tub before me is not a man at all, but a swirling ethereal manifestation of my suffocating existential dread.

  I should have known better than to go out walking this late in the evening, as my most oppressive moments of cosmic dread typically happen when I’m all alone in the middle of the night. This is the time that I’m usually thinking about my tiny place in the world, or what it will be like to die.