So Who Knows More About Eels?

Meg Tuite

Sigmund Freud proved that eels have testicles and I can’t even get out of bed. There’s an intimidation of potency. I don’t have gonads, but I have snorkeled. It’s ludicrous to hitch a noose to the whiskers of a rabid brain that took countless prisoners. My mind was not trespassed by paroxysms of thought-assaults–those itching intricacies of mind codes that probably kept Freud awake.

I was a pendulum of sleep and paranoia. I insulated my lack of the phenomenal with inebriation. It interrupted the violation of items I hadn’t bought that didn’t fill my refrigerator or my bathroom. I had come up with a theory or two over beer and sheets. The father, son and holy ghost were the trio that some men hid under baggy shorts and others openly arranged through the thin sheath of a speedo. My nautical beast had actually been compared to sea anemones. Hidden, yet penetrated by many trinity’s of evangelical proselytizing. Freud was not a religious man, nor was I a zealot of preachers and stained glass windows, but we both found solace in the primitive instincts and dream state. I often pondered how many layers of distortion were necessary for my intricate apparatus and lack of peanut butter to swell?

I have shared my bed with many packages, some which have circled and infiltrated me with an eel-like intensity. My blind spot lacked photoreceptors, but my rods and cones were sufficiently dubious. They witnessed many an infestation of exotic denizen of the deep that trawled and exhorted long enough to leave my dogmatic genitals a noxious, rising discharge. I was forced to vacate my mattress and search for the nearest temple to inner peace: Walgreens. Once inside, my cart had a compass that located those aisles that allowed my tangled secretions to surrender to a box that swore that three days of foaming applications would conquer the domineering riot that wailed between my legs.

Freud believed he had tombed me, engulfed me in the rotting fly of the hysterical, but I had nailed him many times over. I had an understanding of certain arenas he had barely wheezed his tobacco breath upon. His beard had never bristled against a vagina. He knew more about eels testicles than females. So, I was out of toilet paper and eggs. I grabbed another beer and headed back toward the bedroom. It was only a matter of time before I was engulfed by the frontiers of my own hypnosis of free association. It oozed from my septic libido.


About the Work

Meg Tuite

Meg Tuite’s writing has appeared in numerous journals including Berkeley Fiction Review, 34th Parallel, Epiphany, One, the Journal, Monkeybicycle and Boston Literary Magazine. She has been nominated several times for the Pushcart Prize. She is the fiction editor of The Santa Fe Literary Review and Connotation Press. Her novel Domestic Apparition (2011) is available through San Francisco Bay Press and her chapbook, Disparate Pathos, is available (2012) through Monkey Puzzle Press. She has a monthly column, Exquisite Quartet, published up at Used Furniture Review. The Exquisite Quartet Anthology-2011 is available. Her blog:

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