Mushrooms
by Brodie Crellin
18/03/2020 | fiction
Mushrooms sprouted like giant alabaster cocks all across the village green. Clustered together, on the patch of wet grass, I first observed their budding shapes while I was out walking the dog. They quickly transformed from white amorphous bulges nestled between tufts of weeds, to fungal forms resembling perfectly sculpted porcelain penises. Anticipating that they would have a brief life cycle, I took photos of them with my phone. I bent down on my knees, soiling my jeans, to capture them at an angle that accentuated their stature. The final result was an image – taken in portrait mode – which juxtaposed the milky, impermeable skin of the mushroom, with the permanently grey sky. Later, when I’d arrived home and dried the dog’s feet, I altered the colours, to create a brighter scene and a sense of fun, and sent the picture to my new girlfriend, along with the message “I want to suck your cock”.
Immediately afterwards, I began scrolling through Twitter and contemplating what to eat for dinner. But then, within a minute, I received a reply from my partner which read “I’m so wet”, so I responded in a way that suggested I was similarly aroused, despite the fact that I was browsing different recipes for a ragu. In a hurry, I sent a series of texts outlining all the things I would do had we been together, and then I muted the conversation so I could concentrate on BBC good food. In terms of dinner, it was unlikely that I would be able to follow through with the vegetarian bolognese: I was in unfamiliar surroundings without a car, and the options for grocery shopping were limited. I thought about what was in my fridge and decided that I would probably end up eating broccoli: fried and served with two sausages and ketchup.
I was living in a dead lady’s house, in a village outside Nottingham, with the small dog she’d left behind. I’d responded to an ad on Gumtree looking for a freelance painter/decorator/dogsitter and had excelled in my interview via Facetime. I’d had very little positive feedback in other interview scenarios, so I felt buoyed by the feeling that I was employable and/or desirable. Although, as my prospective employer spent most of the phone call crying, it wasn’t a particularly taxing assessment and it was easy to conceal my other shortcomings. My new role mainly involved cleaning up the empty house, and looking after the dog until the daughter found a more permanent solution. Generally, I was bad at cleaning but I was also poor, and besides, I liked dogs and missed having one of my own. So I was happy to take the job, even though the remote location and my inability to drive meant that I would be alone the majority of the time. My girlfriend, Wren, cried when I caught the train north, but I told her that she needn’t bother, perhaps she could visit and meet the dog.
The dog’s name was Esther and I could tell that she liked me by the way she gazed at me with such trust when I attached her lead. It was like she loved to feel connected and felt emboldened by my presence. Instead of cleaning, Esther and I had been going for plenty of walks, which allowed me to track the progress of the phallic mushrooms. The dog was always very patient while I crouched awkwardly on the verge to get the desired shot; sometimes she would wander into the frame, which was fine, but the pictures were more sophisticated without her.
When I wasn’t entertaining Esther, I did my best to take care of the house. I’d lied about my limited decorating experience which meant that all of my tools and paint brushes were suspiciously clean. It made me feel nervous. At school I’d enjoyed painting and wanted to be known as an artist, but instead of concentrating on my sketchbook I busied myself with gathering tasteful flecks of acrylic on my skirt or smudges of indian ink on my cotton blouse, as I knew these were the signs of a true creative. With such pristine equipment and no audience, I felt uncertain. Nonetheless, when re-ordering a space I’d always been taught to start with the toilet, so I gathered all the things I would need to tackle the avocado bathroom suite.
Esther sat on the landing and watched while I removed decade-old stains and prepared to paint over the textured wallpaper. I dipped my roller in a pool of white primer, carelessly allowing paint to drip onto the cheap lino smothered across the floor. Using the roller, I smeared layers of creamy emulsion all over the wallpaper, covering up the damp that had seeped into the plaster. I could have tried to wipe the mould away before I began, but it seemed like a lost cause. There was no ventilation in the tiny room and a furry white film clung to the crevices around the shower cubicle. I wiped my finger across the dewy surface, but the bacteria dissolved beneath my touch, and I decided that a lick of paint would serve the walls better than a damp sponge. It didn’t look much better when I’d finished, but at least all signs of the pink paisley wallpaper had been removed. It only took half an hour which left plenty of time to walk Esther.
Esther and I rarely bumped into anyone else when we took our walk. I supposed that the other villagers were also on the brink of death, as the squat thatched cottages boasted multiple sets of net curtains which barely even fluttered when I marched past. But I’d noticed a few people venturing forth occasionally, to visit the post box or exercise their own beloved pets. I tried to take note of their routines so I could avoid contact, but sometimes bumping into other people was unavoidable, especially when I was obviously such an exotic addition to their community. Being both younger than fifty and boasting multiple facial piercings, I felt extremely visible, even if I wasn’t quite sure who was watching. So far, on my walks, I’d met a lady who seemed like a sloppy sort of person: her two large poodles always bounded towards Esther, terrifying her, and then the dogs would launch themselves at me, fat slices of saliva spinning from their jowls. This left me feeling vulnerable and I placed the blame entirely on their owner. Then there were the little men who staunchly avoided my gaze, muttering to their border terriers; these little dogs had names like Sally, or Maisie and wore cropped tartan jackets. Possibly because of my appearance, but perhaps also due to my visible disdain, I was mostly left alone, and responded to their “good mornings” with the briefest of smiles.
But after two weeks I began to miss human contact. While I enjoyed solitude, the company of other people energised me. And Esther’s brooding stare was becoming increasingly unsettling. This was around the time I began sending provocative texts to Wren. Although I tried to remain coy, these messages evidently had desperate undertones as she was the one to initiate a visit, not me. To my surprise, on a Friday afternoon, a vibration in my pocket announced that she would be arriving the following day at 11.55am. The specificity of her arrival time meant that she had definitely consulted the bus timetable, reminding me of her unwavering reliability. It was so impressive. But also boring. Personally, I preferred to cultivate an aura of uncertainty.
Nonetheless, I loved structure and eagerly anticipated my guest. But there were a few things I wanted to prepare first. Inspired by the scene on the village green, I chose my least favourite silicone dildo and plunged the tip into the industrial sized paint bucket. Unlike the walls in the bathroom, I made sure that the paint dried evenly all over the smooth plastic and hung it from the curtain rail to get the perfect finish.
Later I placed it on the windowsill and smothered the whole thing in a condom, so that when the moment arose I wouldn’t have to awkwardly unwrap the packet with my teeth. Task completed and already bored, I rewarded myself for my creativity and forward planning with three shots of raspberry liqueur, as that was the only alcohol the dead woman had left. I texted Wren to remind her to bring more.
Predictably, Wren appeared at my door minutes before midday. Esther barked a lot when she arrived which made our initial embrace quite stilted, but eventually the dog quietened down enough for us to hug. We had only been dating for a month beforehand and I felt weirdly shy. Like a child, I offered to give her a tour of the cottage. I showed her around, taking care to exhibit my newly acquired decorating skills in the bathroom, as well as the selection of herbs that were still sprouting in ceramic pots in the garden. Although these plants had nothing to do with me, I felt a strange pride in their good health.
We could use the rosemary for cooking, she said.
I know, I replied. I’ve been adding the thyme to my mug of lemon and honey in the evenings.
This was a lie but she nodded as if this new shift in my domestic maturity was a natural development now that I was living in the countryside. Luckily, I’d managed to order the things I’d need for the lentil and mushroom ragu so there were plenty of sensible things when she opened the fridge.
You went to a shop?
Yes. Well, no. It was delivered.
Admitting that a van had delivered food to my door, and by extension, that I had planned a shopping list, seemed to impress her a lot.
After that we went upstairs. Although there was a master bedroom with a double bed, the bed that Esther I and had been sharing, I felt weird about sleeping in the dead lady’s room with Wren. I hadn’t even changed the sheets since I’d moved in. I was inured to that kind of thing, and obviously Esther didn’t mind, but I could imagine Wren getting all upset about the woman’s natural odours lingering on the pillow case. She had an acute sense of smell; once she cried on the tube because she thought she could smell vomit. So I led her to the box room, where my embellished dildo stood erect on the windowsill, shimmering in the cold light, and shut the door behind us in the hope that this would signal to Esther that we did not want to be disturbed. In the room, I’d set up a blow up mattress to imply that this is where I’d been sleeping every night since I’d arrived. I lay down on top of the sleeping bag and asked Wren if she’d mind inserting the phallus, sitting in plain view on the window ledge, into the black leather harness that I knew was hidden in her sports bag.
Then, I said, I want to suck your cock.
Hungrily, I knelt and took the entire thing in my mouth and imagined that the silicon dick was breathing rot down my throat. In my mind, it was like I was consuming one of the mushrooms I’d spent the last two weeks studying. I thought of mushrooms eaten raw, their cool texture and bland flavour, compared to the way the flesh became tender, when they were fried in oil or butter. Above me, Wren’s eyes were closed and I knew that the vibrator, buried inside the dildo, was gently teasing her clit. I wondered what she would think if she knew I was currently contemplating chestnut mushrooms, slowly cooking in a pan with garlic. I realised she’d probably want to pontificate about my dissociation from the dildo as penis, and decided that I couldn’t be bothered to have such an intellectual conversation. To be honest, everything for me was about aesthetics; I just hated the vibrant colours that characterised the majority of sex toys in my price bracket. Still thinking about food, I suggested that we switch positions. The plastic air bed made a lot of noises, many of which might have embarrassed me when I was younger, but I was past all that now and knew how to enjoy myself.
Afterwards I peeled the slippery condom off and rinsed the dildo under the tap in the bathroom. Flipping the lid of the bin, I dropped the condom inside where it mingled with the leftover strands of the dead woman’s dental floss.
In the afternoon, I suggested we take Esther for a walk. I showed her the mushrooms, but by now they’d mostly withered. Their pearly exteriors had been stained with splotches of brown while the forms themselves had shrivelled to at least a third of their original size. They looked diminutive and somewhat depleted, like the tiny turds that Esther deposited behind the shed. Wren didn’t pass comment on their distinct lack of presence. To make amends, I decided to take her to the woods. Neither of us had the right sort of shoes to go beyond the footpath and our trainers rapidly became clogged with stacks of mud. As we walked, they became increasingly heavy while moisture oozed through the porous mesh fabric, soaking my socks. I could tell from Wren’s expression that her feet were probably wet too, but she didn’t mention it, instead she just kept throwing me grumpy looks, which absolutely said it all.
Are you OK?
Yes. I’m fine.
Are your socks wet?
No, not really.
Mine are.
Yeah, well you’re trainers are from Decathlon aren’t they. Mine are Nikes.
We neared the trees and Esther looked back at us. Quite nervously I thought. I whistled softly hoping that this would translate to “don’t worry Wren will be gone soon” but I don’t think she fully understood. There wasn’t a path and mud rapidly crept up the legs of our trousers, caking the hem of my jeans. Esther paused, to neatly relieve herself beside a tree and Wren noticed a patch of red pulsating against the trunk. Like a parasite, it protruded from the bark, jutting out like an unnatural, scarlet flying saucer. Although, rather than sherbet, the dense fungus appeared to be filled with watered down blood.
Gross.
Do you think we should eat it?
We’re vegetarians!
It’s a mushroom.
Yes, I know, but it’s bleeding.
Using my front door key, I sliced the mushroom away from the tree. This was harder than it sounds. Holding it in my hands, we both poked it and watched the pinkish liquid slowly secrete from it’s flesh.
Wow!
Oh for fuck’s sake.
I had a pack of poo bags in my backpack which I’d never needed to open. While I initially thought they would come in handy as a dogsitter, I learnt that it wasn’t really my problem if Esther did her business on the pavement. Also it felt superfluous to pick up shit in the countryside – there was shit everywhere! But now I was glad I’d bought them and I carefully wrapped the mushroom inside the translucent bag. Wren looked on with disapproval. Mentally, I dared her to comment on the earthy aroma emanating from what I suspected to be a beefsteak mushroom, but thankfully she didn’t pass comment.
In the kitchen, I pulled up a forager’s guide on my laptop and instructed Wren to submerge our mushroom in cold water for thirty minutes. Her movements were laced with scepticism but she obediently placed the little mushroom into an empty fish bowl and filled it up at the tap. Meanwhile, we sat together and chopped fresh parsley from the garden. I completely forgot that I had planned the ragu.
This is nice, Wren said, touching my cheek with her hand. Bits of parsley were stuck to her slightly damp fingers. I made an affirmative sort of noise, replaced her hand back on the table and resumed chopping. She looked a little crestfallen but seemed to understand my need to concentrate on the cooking. Diligently, she continued to slice the herbs into tiny pieces while I turned my attention to the mushroom. Cold, wet and vaguely pink, I rubbed the mushroom with olive oil and salt before I dropped it into the hot pan. We both stood over the hob to watch the fungus shift from a reddish hue to a slimy brown; the same shade you might expect a portobello mushroom to be when it arrives on your plate sandwiched between the tomatoes and the beans. Except unlike a normal large, flat cap mushroom, this one was still oozing red liquid and had more in common with a rare steak.
Babe, I’m not sure we should eat it?
Why? It’s definitely cooked – it’s been in the pan for ages.
I get you, but it reminds me of meat. I don’t like meat.
Yeah, but crucially, it isn’t meat, you watched me slice it off a tree.
Fine, I’ll taste it, but then please let’s make the spaghetti. The recipe you sent looked really good.
To be nice, I leaned over, to nibble the lobe of her ear and kiss her neck. I tried to focus on her body, its outline and its smell, but I was simultaneously overwhelmed by the fact that her ear looked like an oyster mushroom.
In the end we did boil the pasta. When the noodles went soft I tossed them with olive oil and threw in the slices of mushroom which looked considerably less appetising than I’d hoped. I brought the dish to the table while Wren poured us each a glass of red wine. Eyeing the spaghetti suspiciously, I noticed Wren’s initial attempts to avoid the mushroom, but in the end she seemed to like it. At least, she ate it all, which could have also meant that she was achingly polite. Instead of clearing up, we went and sat down on the sofa with Esther. Wren was very quiet. She didn’t look great.
Are you alright? I asked.
She touched her forehead, somewhat dramatically, and then dashed upstairs. I imagined her, throwing up into the toilet I’d scrubbed so thoroughly that week, or perhaps she’d opted for the bin, her vomit concealing both the used condom and the spun-out dental floss. Rhythmically, I gently rubbed Esther’s belly, and lay my head down beside her.
Brodie Crellin (she/her/hers)
Brodie lives in London and works as an assistant to a literary scout. Since completing an MA in Sexual Dissidence at the University of Sussex she has written essays, reviews and short stories for TANK, Another Gaze, DIVA, Sleek, Emotional Art Magazine and Fruit Journal.