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Fantasm

Manchester: 26/05/2017

Four days since the bomb and the helicopters and sirens haven’t let up. My flat is right in the eye of the storm, calm (no-one arrested on this estate) but on every side, the cops are seizing suspects: moss side, withington, fallowfield….most of the time the chopper is directly overhead.  Two days i ago a cop van blazed past the flat and i leapt on my bike and arrived too late to see them dragging a suspect from his house ten minutes from me, the street roped off and the school evacuated, teachers chatting by the police tape cordon. 

The day of the obscenity i was in macclesfield, having sex with the ugliest man i’ve ever been with. I came home, got rose from school, and when she was tucked up and in bed i heard the sirens and assumed it was gang stuff, related to the shooting on the next street the night before. I was chatting to the Elf online, and she told me what had happened- the news on my doorstep, flashed to me via indiana.

But its too soon to add my spoonful to the tidal wave of outrage and inanity on this horrible thing. The elections on its way, im hoping to canvas…but fuck that too, ive nothing to say about it here.

Nor do i care to talk about the loneliness and the isolation and the boredom of these last couple of weeks, mums lung scare, Mila’s miscarriage, or any of the other events of this hateful month.

But I have to write about SOMETHING. I’ve not been on wordpress for….too long. A writer needs to write, and rather than wade into current events i’m going back in time. Here’s a little story from the notebooks, rough and around the edges and nasty as you like. Not exactly a true story this time…but not exactly lies, either.

A little on the long side but hey, it can’t all be haikus….we’re working up to a novel here. And i promise, its plenty dirty. Just the way you like it.

FANTASM

Imagine seeing your daughter in  a porno. I’m sure its happening, more and more:

His hands fumbled for the decanter…whiskey! He must have whiskey.

Okay no decanter, it was just a bottle of bells left over from christmas….but it will have to do…anything to sear the image from his mind.

He’d stumbled on it by accident,of course,  just one more clip swimming out of the mirk as he idly tapped in his search terms. Milf, gangbang slut, etc.  She was an adult you understand, way past twenty and, by the looks of things, working in a fairly respectable part of the industry. I mean, the lighting was professional, so…

He hadn’t lingered long, once it clicked in his head who that oddly familiar face was on that unfamiliar naked body, squirming- apparently happily- amongst that crowd of excitable young guys. But he’d been frozen with  does-not-compute confusion long enough to glimpse ‘what no father should ever have to see’ .

To be clear: It didn’t turn him on, though he’d half feared it would-  not because he had the slightest confusion about the appropriate role of a father. I’m a reliable narrator, kids, and i’m telling you, this woman hadn’t suffered a days abuse in her happy and supportive childhood. But here she was, ‘expressing herself’ on screen, and in that frozen moment of astonishment he briefly panicked that he’d have some kind of an automatic, animal response, against his will, the flesh rising even as his stomach churned. But no. It didn’t accidentally do it for him, though everything about it was so much the things he’d gotten off to before, a thousand times, with a thousand different women- whether watching it on a screen, or there in the thick of it, for real. Our guy passed the test- his own arousal, was a million miles from his mind.

He wasn’t moralistic. If that’s what the kid wants…so long as she’s safe and happy… He was no hypocrite. And god knows he himself had been about as bad as a libertine can get, even before the days when the internet let the cat out of the bag, revealing a world of pervs to itself, like an endlessly repeating, endlessly distorting hall of mirrors.

But no, he wished her luck, now that he knew. Go ahead, kid, express yourself. I did. Just be sure and get your PREP.

Nor did he wonder where he’d gone wrong. She didn’t need money, she wasn’t on drugs or haunted by eating disorders. This was just a healthy young woman, full of hormones, experiencing herself in a way now as socially acceptable as open gayness or interracial dating  or anything else.

But

What shook his soul and hurt his heart and made him want to cut off his hands and bleed himself dry was that when he watched her squirm and cavort on that forty inch screen, it was like looking into a mirror. The ghost of his youth, transmogrified into female form…

Some times, he would play the dom, naked and wild eyed in the company of a woman who opened her holes for one man or twenty, grunting and roaring at the mercy of a roomful of dicks. Of course in truth the woman was in control the whole time. The men were the ones panting to keep up, eager to impress her, bending over backwards to bend her over backwards:  sometimes struggling to maintain their hard-ons, sometimes blazing fearlessly ahead, with or without Viagra or other potions and gizmos,  often just high on the sheer nasty fuckery of the whole wonderful thing.

Or sometimes he’d  go to gay town, and play the sub himself.  On his knees in the sauna with men lined up to use him like an object, hurting both holes and slapping him hard, grinding his face into their bumholes, shoving fistfuls of bollocks in his drobbling gob. All the pain of life gone away, feeling beautiful, his only complaint that they never went hard enough, or fast enough, or deep enough, or for long enough. They could have left him shaking  and exhausted on the floor and he would have been content, but men like that were hard to find. He’d have let them piss in his face if there’d been PREP back then. This was how he knew for a fact, that not all women in these wonderfully twisted scrumfucks were acting out some neurosis or using it as a form of self harm. Some of them were in straight up heaven. He knew, because he’d been in their shoes himself.

See, swingers clubs aren’t like those scenes in porn, those dungeons where hard men rule over powerless girls. The women aren’t really slaves. The drones service the queens, and even in bdsm  they always seem more afraid of the women than the other way around. Nearly always, anyway, and those twisters who come there to abuse women are weeded out quickly. So when he  was spanking some girl, or cumming in her face, or climbing on behind to bend her bum inside out, third guy in a row…it was always with the clear knowledge that she was in control. If anything, sometimes he would be the one sat feeling small and alone afterwards, with the woman he’d been slapping red and calling a slut , now satisfied and smug  and indifferent to his existence, leaving with her husband without a backward glance.

Here was the real dark side of the scene, the bit that tore the soul and ate at the  self. The loneliness of the inner self, neglected behind the mask of super sexual fuckhero.

Could he even remember what it was like, before everyone had a profile, or rather, multiple profiles, converting every desire to an algorithm?  Remember when you thought you’d invented anal sex? You were pretty sure gay guys did it, but what if you could get a girl to try? Why would she? But some girls had a look in their eye, like they’d try anything. The idea was too dark and delicious and insane  to bear…

He really didn’t blame her. In fact in a funny sort of way, it made him feel closer to her. Chip off the old block and all  that.  The  difference being, she’d been born into a world where it was all known to be normal, while had had to work it out for himself. Scouring the back pages of ‘loot’ magazine for couples, hands shaking at the wildness of it all, head full of depraved inventions he’s sure must be unique to his own crazed mind, such as the double penetration of a woman by two men at once, or the blow job so deep it made a woman gag. Would anyone in the world be crazy enough to do these things? Only one way to find out…

When the experiences come they’re always coloured by his own weird romantic nature.

Him and his best friend are both fucking the same girl so they get together one night, all three of them. It starts good but rob gets annoyed about god knows what and smashes the bedroom up, ripping the toilet seat off in a rage and hacking holes in the door with it, hurling the bookshelf through the window. Yet  for the longest time after that he longs to get the two of them together and do it all again, but for some reason, they just- don’t.

The first time he sees his girls anus all pooched out and sore from the fucking they’ve been doing all week, hes horrified, stops in his tracks, and they both sit around discussing the strange new changes to her body. When she gets drunk and fucks her ex under the Christmas tree, him lying in bed in the next room listening: he’s so excited he thinks he’s gonna have a heart attack, and when the guy leaves and she comes to join him for seconds, hes worried he may be completely crazy, even as he’s cumming in her like a, like a- monster.

Then theres that weird couple he picks up at the cabaret night. The whole thing seems to be more about them toying with each others minds than any actual sex, and hes too drunk to be much use to them. As soon as the guy leaves the room, he gets horny, but when he comes back in, the ridiculous expression of terror on the guys faces gives him the shrinkies. (Years later he will recognse this as the standard ‘cuckold face’ in porno. Was the guy doing it on purpose? He’ll never know.)

But what about  that girl from the paradise factory? God, she was fantastic. As a threesome it failed utterly. The other guy, got the cuddles, held her  all night, freaked out by the whole thing, our guy squashed at the foot of the bed like a dog. But when the loser left in the morning, he got to shag that big tittie student girl for all she was worth, and for this she will always hold a place in his heart.

Spin the hands on the clock. The wide-eyed, pretty boy becomes the hatchet faced geezer. Stuff happens and  man changes. Meeting murderers. Meeting people who have had their legs smashed off, or who go on to be suicides. And then there’s the dementia wards. Where the shuffling husks of humanity live out their remaining time, their lives over but they’re bodies still walking, even as their brains unravel in their heads. Explain that, religious types. How can the personality survive death, when its already come apart long before then? Unless perhaps its being decanted to a new reality, a grain at a time. Like sand in an hourglass. Memories, loves, ideas. Picture a brain  of cake. Mice, nibbling it away. Your bodies going, too. The penis, disappears. Did you know that? The buttocks, sag like empty wind socks. Pubic hair recedes.

He has yet to meet a sexually active person with dementia. There must be some. The early onset. Imagine fucking the person you adore, as they forget who you are. Still enjoying themselves, an animal organism getting its jollies. The spunk squirts, the clit vibrates. Kisses, just as sweet. They scarcely know what’s happening- but then, that’s the way it should be.  Maybe both of you have dementia. You don’t know who you are, or who you’re fucking. You can’t remember those Shakespeare speeches you memorized, any more. Or maybe you can, but you cant remember what your name is. You cant tell your kids apart. This person you’re fucking, could be anyone. You could be anyone. Would that be so bad? At least one part of you, is still functioning.

Do you think our hero sounds like a dark person?  When he kneels down to wash the body of a crippled man, stripped before him, he wonders what the man’s cock would have been like, in life. In truth, if someone told him he had to suck off these people rather than bathe them, he’d prefer it. Why not? He’s done it to people just as ugly. And a big willy in your mouth is nice, pretty much whoever its attached to. He can relate to those hookers, who specialise in needy people. The cross-over point, between care work and sex work. All part of the service. What, I have to wash the shit off you but when you’re clean I don’t even get a shag out of it? Whats that all about? You too grandma, come on. Great grandma, even. Lets see if we can make that old clit sing again. I don’t care if you’re pissy and bitter. So long as you’re up for it. You’ve seen the blitz, raised kids in slums. That guy  fought the nazis, am i too good to suck him off?  I’m headed for the same place as you, if I don’t fall of the train before I get there.

So great grannies up for it, we’ve cleared it with the matron. The curtains are drawn but it sounds like similar things are happening with all the patients and support staff. Must be something in the coffee today! Okay Mrs Jenkins, are you ready? Of course I want to, we’re both human beings and you’re a fabulous woman. Let me check your chart for contraindications, don’t wanna strain that heart. Are you continent? I’ll stick my thumb up your arsehole if you like. Trust me, i’m good at this. And I know you’ve been around….

Of course, this never happens. You lose your job if you suck off the patients. We’re back in the bar with Bob, getting pissed thinking about his own offspring gangbanging the way he used to. She doesn’t exist, of course. I made her up. She’s a fantasm, an excuse for Bob’s little walk down memory lane, turning off down fantasy alley.

There’s no answer to all these questions, so keep on writing. Keep writing, until they break your fingers. Keep fucking, until they cut your cock off. Keep drinking while you can still find your way to the bar.

Before that bar becomes a nursing station and you become a shell and you’re stood there in your hospital gown asking the harassed sister for a pint of Guinness while she tries to do her meds round.

 

Pick up the elf at the airport…here she comes, all small and bright…dragging her suitcases and bundled up in some crazy scarf she’s made. Drink coffee in the arrivals lounge, then catch the train to Manchester…taxi to mine…unpack, talk…get naked, fuck…she cries, says ‘I missed you so much’… talk, sleep, fuck some more….its strange and awkward after so much time apart but it’s good too…so much fire and squelch in this tiny woman…I can’t believe she’s here, in England, in Manchester, in my flat, in my bed…

A club I’ve promised her so a club it is. Seems a little crazy, first night here, her still jet lagged and me still coming to terms…but this is the only night with an event going on, during her stay. And for your first visit to a swingers club, it really has to be a ‘greedy girls’ night…or so it seems to me. Knowing what I know.

We get lost multiple times with my shitty GPS, but finally find the club. Park  on the pavement, head on in…show ID, pay, get our towels and…

First impressions are of a place that leans to the fat side. REALLY fat. Big is fine by me but some of these folk have serious health issues. less Rubinesque than Robbie Coltrane. A convention of seacows, huge and  hairy, lumbering bellies on their bellies, wasted muscles, bad posture, …one man’s body is covered in livid spots, greasy hair curling about his thick glasses. The Baron Harkonnen would not be out of place here.

In a couple of dingy side rooms, people are fucking, moaning and squirting, all soggy foopas and erections jutting out beneath guts…me and my elf exchange looks,  move deeper into the building.

In a room  done out like a dentists, a slim black guy is fucking a pretty blond women, over the dentists chair. She’s taking it from behind, so you cant tell which hole, and men are gathered round, hoping for a go…one grungy, older man with a huge, hard dick, is eyeing her powerfully, but its no go for this particular gang…the couple finish, she thanks the guy, and goes back to her boyfriend, who has appeared from the shadows.

Now elf is excited. She tracks the woman down and they start talking, Boyfriend looks like he’s not really feeling it, and I’m unsure myself. The only ground rule we set was, if either one of us isn’t into it, well…just sit back while the other has their fun.

I go to my locker, break out the little blue pills. Fuck it. There’s no time for any performance anxiety that may creep in. Not when you’ve got the nymph of your dreams, for a limited period. Cheat your way into it, with the drug that eliminates all doubts and qualms…supposedly. Sometimes I wonder. I took it at that soulless gangbang last year and could barely get through the whole dispiriting farce, fucking a woman who looked so bored she seemed always about to yawn, with a roomful of men as nonplussed as me. But that’s another story…suffice to say that when the bloods up and you feel the force, well…you don’t need no pills, the holy spirit is your guide. So to speak.

I guess my superhuman confidence has suffered some blows of late. What with the way the world is falling apart and all. Right now I just want to curl up in a ball and fall into the infinite worlds beyond my duvet. So every little helps. Take one pill, pop the other on elf girls tongue. They say it does little for women but who knows?

Into the fun room we go…

Almost immediately the two women fall on each other, fingering and kissing and sucking each others clits….blondie’s man makes some effort to fuck her, clearly not much inspired. I can’t be bothered to even pretend. This is not for me. I sit back, lying on my side on the warm rubber matting, and watch the show..

The couple leave. He looks relieved. I think she’s annoyed I didn’t dive in. Elf is really excited now, crawls over to me, climbs on. I’m inside her.  I start to feel good. Men gather at the door…she says, feel free to invite someone in…the black guy from earlier enters, and his dick is immediately in her mouth. Choking her, strings of slobber falling from her maw when she pulls away to kiss me. She goes to wipe it off but I kiss her before she can, snogging up the cockslobber… Another man has entered the room, stocky, shaven headed, white. Cautiously wanking. Over her shoulder, I signal him to come over. He rubbers up. I mouth ‘fuck her up the arse’.

‘up the arse?’ he mouths back. It’s kind of funny. ‘yes. Up the arse’. I mouth, more emphatically.  He nods, moves in. I put my lips to her ear and whisper ‘you’re going to get a cock up the arse now, darling.’ she whimpers. I look at the man- his dick is big. ‘its going to hurt’ . I hold her tight-no squirming away. She moans again, first in anticipation and then, as the guy pushes into her, in sweet pain. I can feel his shaft against mine, through the membrane of vagina/anus. His balls rub mine. She screams, a pleasure scream. So, it’s true. She walks it like she talks it, she really is that sort of girl.

She rides me and sucks black cock and takes the hard white dick up her arse and all is good in the world. The grunts and moans that say ‘this is like nothing I’ve ever known, and I like it’.  People blur, events become confused…the guy has finished with her arsehole but we both want it to take more…looking around for other guys…a lad in blue shorts, young and slim…soon, his dick is in my girlfriends mouth…the black guy, is the second to fuck her arse, his member thinner than the first man’s, but longer…at some point they swap places…and now I find myself outside of the scrum, watching her riding one guy, sucking another…blue shorts is taking a moment to get hard enough, I intervene-“me first”- get up behind my darling and shove into that fat arse where two other men’s dicks have just been, sore and wobbling, and she continues to moan…

Somehow I’m out of the picture now, she’s fucking two men- I forget which two, but both her holes are full. She asks me to get her a glass of water, so I go to the bar, return with it…I don’t know if all these guys have cum, but they’ve finished, and they leave, keaving us alone.  She wants more dick, but can’t see anyone suitable.

A woman enters the room, black and bubbly, laughing, a mob of white men around her, mostly fat guys. She doesn’t seem to discern, just happy to be gang fucked, and starts taking them all on in a merry, silly gangbang. Elf suggests I join in if I want, and I’m kind of tempted, but put off a little by the ugliness of the men…elf drifts off to look around…

Somehow the evening peters out. We don’t find anyone else to play with. I guess we’re both tired, and there’s no deluge of super-fit people to temp us back into the fray. In the locker room, I see Sinderella- that woman I was always supposed to meet, but never did, looking bedraggled and insane and nothing like her photos. A friendly scouser hears Elf’s accent and asks her if she likes Trump…the last thing you wanna think about, at a time like this…or any other. We return to our car, shag-bandy and high, and weave our way through the night, back to Manchester.

In the depths of the night, we fuck again, and it’s the best of all. Those holes she gave, to all those men, are now just for me- tumbling through the infinite worlds, beyond the duvets and blankets, time disappeared and limbs a-tangle, sweet squelches hard kisses and fistfuls of love. Cock breath kisses, slaps in the face and teeth at the throat. Welcome home, baby.

It’s not everyone’s idea of a romantic date but it sure worked for us…

Twisted

 

Can i ask you a question? Where AM i?”

“Hospital, Dave. You’re in the hospital.”

“HOSPITAL? I’m in HOSPITAL? And where’s me dad? ”

“Dave, your Dad has passed away. But I think you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“He’s passed away? Hes in heaven. And can i ask you a question: Where am i? ”

“Hospital, Dave. You’re in the hospital.”

“HOSPITAL?”

“Yes.”

“And when can i go home? I don’t have a home? And wheres me dad? Dead? And where am i…?”

Dave has me complacent now. This loop, can manage itself. I leave the bay  to help with other patients- there’s Seamus, who has dementia and is always punching people, shitting on the floor, trying to strangle us with our lanyards (quick release, fortunately). Or that man who thinks his bed is on fire. Or Mister Wang, always laughing, wandering, laughing some more…or old Ted, the boxer:
“What the bloody hell is going on? I need to get to WORK!  Can you catch the bus, from here? I’ve never seen anything like it…”
Then comes shouting from the bay and i rush in to find Dave, now towering over Terry in bed fifteen, who is quaking in terror. Ancient, compus mentus but suffering from acute anxiety. He has cancer, after all….hes previously regarded Dave as a bit of a clown, having arrived on the ward after Dave’s angry period. But now the anger is back.
Dave is screaming now, every muscle in his face taught, spit flying, eyes  out on stalks:
”Where the FUCK is that TWENTY QUID YOU OWE ME?”
Of course there is no money, this is another of Dave/s funny little fixations- last week it was girls, today its money. He’s in deadly earnest though-fists raised, ready to lick  Terry one in the head. I get between them.
“David! Get away from this man! He doesn’t owe you ANY money! Get BACK NOW!”
“NO!” screams Dave. “He DOES! HE OWES ME TWENTY QUID AND I FUCKING WANT IT NOW!”
“Get out!” I say. “Get out of the bay and into the day room.”
“NO!”
“YES.”
“RIGHT, THAT’S IT!”
He pulls down his trousers and stands manically thrusting his floppy dick at the terrified man in the bed front of him, as though buidling up to flog him to death with his cock.
I give him the iron finger.“GET OUT!”
“RIGHT, THAT’S IT!”
Snarling, Dave sruts out of the bay and into the corridor, his bum wiggling. The new computers are ranged around on their trolleys like a little gathering of robots. Suddenly Dave is throwing them left and right, smashing the screens with his fists, stomping the machinery with his bare feet. His eye roll red in his head, spit foams at his teeth.
“Get your trousers on and get in that day room!”
The command has a strange effect. For a moment Dave is frozen like a hypnotized chicken, his eyes searching space for some invisible information. Then-
“Oh, ok”
He says, suddenly mild.
Ten minutes later we’re sat watching TV, and hes meek as a lamb. “I’m so sorry. Its just, i get very confused. Me ‘eads in BITS.” Passion starts to rise again, he bounds to his feet. Out into the corridor, pushing past the other patients, shuffling round the nurses station. He searches every face, desperate. His hands clutch frantically.
“I NEED TO GET A LIFE. I NEED TO DIE. I NEED TO GET A GUN SO I CAN KILL MESELF!!I NEED TO BE KILLED YOU BASTARDS! WHY WONT YOU LET ME DIEEEE!!!????”
His eyelids flicker, his limbs stiffen. Like a fool i lunge forward to catch him- the fit is upon him, he falls, spasming, pinning me to the floor, frothing and flopping like a fish on the deck of a boat.
Korsakov’s syndrome is a hell of a thing.
……………………………………………..
I get home exhausted but  determined. Another twelve hour stinker tomorrow morning and I’m picking up Pearl after that. But right now, sleep is for the dead.
Tonight i’ve decided to find a gangbang. I’m now so desperate i do’nt care how ugly or fat the people are, i just want to shag someone, anyone. Some fat slut with ugly men crowding round, who cares? I’ll cum fast and hard and go home exhausted and sleep better for it.
But all the clubs are closed or, in the case of amours have actually closed their guest list (since when where they ever full?) I’ve ruled out the events that look transparently as though the women are brasses, anything that guarantees sex to any man without knowing what you look like…somehow i just cant quite go for one of those..and anyway, I’ve missed them all for this week.
Trawling through fabswingers.com while Andrea eats his tea across the room. I happen on a party, ask if i can come, and am immediately sent an address. I’m there! Shower, sit ups, into a cab and off to oldham. The host looks nice enough, jolly and blowsy with multi-coloured hair. Its a bisexual party, of all things-bonus.
The door is answered by a pretty little tranny that i recognise from another part of the ‘fab’ site.  She shows me into the small terraced house, two up two down, coat hooks and nibbles in the kitchen.
To my astonishment the first thing i see is a living room full of naked people, many of whom are entangled in interesting shapes on a brightly coloured ‘Twister’ mat.
“Hello!” says a fat lady with huge tits and blue eyeshadow, pleasantly, her face wedged in the armpit of a wiry, skin-headed man. “Hello” i say. “sorry I’m late!”
I leave my coat and have a wee, and move through the kitchen (picking up a glass of wine on route) and sidle nervously into the lounge…
Is this the heaven to counterpoint the hell of the hospital? This is the kind of party i’ve wondered about since i was  nine years old. There’s about twenty people. Some gay looking skinheads in thongs, a really bad transvestite to add to the cute one, and a skinny woman in a santa suit. One short but very wide, handsome, muscly black guy with a gentle face, A couple of non-descript white blokes and a couple of standard issue tubby blonde ladies.  Quickly i scope out the two hottest women: the big breasted woman who is in fact not naked but wearing  a rather fetching jade basque, big round catlike face, blue eyeshadow, and i like the friendly way she looks at me. The other woman looks  hotter to my eyes:  hard features, hair drawn tightly back in a pony, flabby belly but elsewhere slim; mighty tits  squeezed into a sort of black netting halter-neck thing. The kind of tough, dirty woman i never get my hands on.
The respective husbands are an affable, big bellied man with pierced cock and ballsack, and a sleezier, nastier looking ginger guy, with a big cock, shaved balls, and look of straight-from-central-casting rough-arsed-ness.
The room start chanting that I’m over dressed, and I’m invited into the next round of twister. I have no knickers on so i have to go straight from fully dressed to naked-others still have underwear on…but what the hell? The clothes come off and here I am, naked before a roomful of drunken strangers, already feeling the hospital lift off of my shoulders..
I’ve never actually played twister before, but i like to think im supple, and in no time  and cat woman and black guy, are knotted up in a giggling mess of limbs on the dotty mat.  A guy i who will  later realise is her husband, is spinning the dial, and he keeps fixing it to ensure that each move brings our crotches nearer to each others faces.
Pretty soon   the game has gone out the window. My face is now  buried in cat lady’s big old arse, my  tongue in her pussy as she grinds it into my mouth. Everyone starts making horny noises… the room shifts and the music surges, and after that i start to   ilose track…i find myself sat in the middle of the floor, randy people getting it on all around me. Lots of men are sat with their hard cocks out in front of them, and its a bi party so i guess for once they’re not out of bounds. I can feel my pupils dilating, and now that fit woman in the black nets is beside me. She  sees me looking at her guys cock, says ‘go on’ …and suddenly taking the great big thing in my mouth…i can hear the pretty tranny giving me tips, telling me to hold my breath for five seconds or something….someone says “is that nice? The guys says “its alright” and laughs…
Soon his woman sucking me… then him…she does it just the way you see it in the movies…or your dreams…or when you’re in love….absolutely high on cocksucking, her eyes huge and happy, and in between me and her start kissing, swapping glorious slobbery snogs between  turns on her man’s dick…or  she else she alternates between my mouth and my cock. She takes it all the way down, is grateful to have her face forcibly fucked. Its the wildest nicest fun i can remember ever and i cant quite believe i’m not dreaming. I realise I’m actually fucking her face in time to the pumping music which is something i never thought I’d do..(at one point some Irish fiddle-dee music gets into the mix somehow, which is a bit weird, but nevermind…)
I play  with this woman for a long time, and its truly amazing. I also finger her holes a bit, but somehow shes so great at kissing and sucking that nothing else matters. It really seems she’s loving it every bit as much as me. Her eyes are bright, and though we do bits with other people, we keep coming back to each other. Its really wicked.
At some point she needs a break and goes off to the kitchen for a drink. I ask her her name, but i’ve forgotten it now. Zara?* Grace? I’m not sure… The thing is i’m operating on pure hormones, as im actually utterly exhausted and coming down with a cold.
All around me, people are fucking. The hostess is getting it hard by some bald guy, moaning away , having a great old time…and now my memory fragments…there’s so much i know i did but cant place, like some hysterical sex jigsaw… I  sucked a lot of guys, and fingered a lot of girls…the girl in the Christmas hat is getting it from one of the skinheads. I notice what a severely distended bumhole he has, i don’t think i like that.. there’s some other girl, getting it on with the bad tranny…
The woman in Jade is fucking several men. I’m not sure if shes interested in me, now…but the time comes when she is bent over, and gets fucked by one man, then another, screaming the whole time and her husband looking at her adoringly. I find myself next in line. I’m a little bit in love with the woman in black net, but here is another princess offering herself freely, and this is an orgy, so…i line up behind her. She looks back, checking who it is. I say, is it okay? I’m told, yes.
I’m never sure about fat girls, there’s a lot of flesh that gets in the way when fucking them…and yet i always cum so fast and hard with them. This is no exception. I get it in her, and though i’m dog tired and worried i wont put on a good show, pretty soon i’m ramming her like a crazy man, (do you want it?/yes, yes!) and in no time, it seems, i cum, totally against my will- i wanted to go for hours, but here it is, right up the cunt of this lovely fat stranger, sobbing with relief, and even finding it in me to cling to her, stroke her, touch her hair, just for a few moments… lovely creature…
Soon I’m playing with my other friend again. I’m not match fit, can i get it up again? I tell her i’ve just cum, give me a moment…and she stops wanking me, immediately i#m disappointed. I really want to cum with her…the next thing i know, the little tranny boy is centre of attention. I find myself snogging him, sucking him…the black guy is lined up to do his arse now, i’m helping…my lovely woman is watching, and i’m in two minds…i have a hard on again now, of course, and I’m awful tempted to have a go- he’s saying “feel free, to all line up…” the black dude isn’t that big of cock, and doesn’t do it that hard…(why are the fit ones never the best fuckers?) i know i could show him a thing or two…
But in the end i don’t. I’m terrified of being too knackered for work, god knows why, i should really just fuck it off…but the party is winding down now…or is it? People are in the kitchen, amiably eating pizza…i find myself talking about taxis to the big ugly tranny….i feel a bit rude going so early, but my head is whirling now, I’m full of snot and booze and god knows what dirty hormones, and I gotta get to my bed before my head explodes.
I’m too high from sex to feel sad though, and too exhausted to feel ashamed for leaving…as i step into my taxi, and away into the night, and the two remaining hours of sleep in my own big delicious bed…
I gave everyone at that party, my cold.

69 @ 45

….is the door code for all the wards in the hospital. Easy to remember-my age and my aspiration. Just don’t let me be fifty and still here and trying to remember what age i was when i started this damned job, the door code a constant reminder of how long i’ve been doing this damn job.

So here we go. Another a day of wiping poo off of disfigured fannies. Shit and sores and bed washes galore.

There’s this one patient i have to wash. She’s eighty seven but she looks good. Pale and a little jaundiced, after all she is very ill or she wouldn’t be here. But shes doesn’t look so bad for eighty-seven. I ask if shes okay with me washing her and she says yes. “Not often i get a young man washing me” she says. Rueful smile.

I get all the stuff together, blankets sheets pillow cases counterpane papier mache bowl hot water soap towel patient wipes dissolvable pink plastic laundry bag. As she’s taking off her top, she says sort of sourly: “i bet you’ve seen hundreds of female bodies.”

I’m a bit thrown but i smile and i start soaping her tits. They’re not so bad, droopy but fleshy. I say “i don’t have to wash you  anywhere you’re not comfortable…you can do as much as you like, yourself.” I’m trying to be respectful but to my sadness she says “not your cup of tea?” and looks a shade more desolate. Bless her.  I want to say, honestly, your not so bad, grandma.”

She says “its not a young body.” Again her voice is suffused with ache, immeasurably lonely, immeasurably lonely.

i want to say, really, you seem a nice lady. I feel such a chewing pity for her that i almost think i should to offer to touch her, show her her body is really not so repulsive. In a an insane moment i find myself wondering if she will get aroused, proposition me. Now I  WANT to see what she looks like from the waist down.Her legs, her arse, her cunt.  Haggard but soft. That have seen so much, birthed babies and taken cocks like any other woman. What would i do, if she said “lick me?” So close to death, but still yearning.. I’d have no moral complaint. Id do it for her.

Of course, id lose my job if we were discovered.You cant lock these doors. What if someone walked in?. How would i explain when they  found me  with my face between her legs?  Maybe if i just brought her off with my hand? Clamp the other over her mouth to muffle her cries…

It would be a strange joy. Perhaps to be the author of the last orgasm of an ancient lady! I’d do it. Yes, id do it. Just say the word, grandma. Say the word, and i’ll suck that haggard cunt for all I’m worth. Even if it tastes bitter, it would e such a sweet experience. And get hard and get off myself while I’m doing it. Just for you, sweet ancient lady who’s lived through so much. Child of the war and the world. Who knows? Maybe I’ll even get carried away and fuck you. Shove it up between those spaniels ear buttocks, plunge it into that saggy anus. Hld oyou gently, do you deep. Make you drool. Why not? Aren’t you a woman, like others? Say the word, granny I’m yours.

” i don’t think i want to wash any more of me.” she says quietly.

“you sure?”

“yes.”

okay then.”

I hand her the towel i, she dries her body, slips sadly under the nightgown. I pause at the door. “can i do anything else for you?” “no, thank- you.” “okay….” I leave her, staring blandly at the TV, some daytime soap wittering away…

……………………….

Outside the hospital. Getting on my bike. The ward sister said sky news are about, filming smokers outside the hospital, so look out. No sign of the guttersnipes now though.

There’s a white guy with his family, watching three guys in head scarves get into their cars. Those white turban ones with the extra length of cloth hanging down the back. “Look at that ” says the white guy. “They look like three members of the Taliban! Why would you dress like that?”

I’m not having this bullshit. “That is the most offensive thing you could come out with!” I shout. Incredulous. Why do people need the basics explaining to them, over and over?

“Yeah?” he says, a little surprised.

“Yeah! its just three blokes i  their traditional head gear is what it is.Visiting a hospital And you’re calling them terrorists. Do I say you look like a Nazi, cos you’re dressed in black pants and a shirt t and a buzzcut? You cant SAY stuff like that!”

“i can” he counters, logically enough.

“Well you shouldn’t!”.

He’s bullish. “i didn’t say it to their faces.”

“No, behind their backs like a coward! And in a public place, and i have to come out of work and listen to your racist shit!”

“You shouldn’t swear in front of kids” says his wife. Children are playing around her feet. “Yeah!” says her man. The moral high ground is his- i swore!”

I’ll not be derailed. “YOU shouldn’t shoot your mouth off saying stuff like that about people!” storms i. “In front of a HOSPITAL!”

“shouldn’t be listening to our conversation” says she “You’re saying it LOUD outside a HOSPITAL!” I cry, parrying the blow. And now, the coupe de grace: DISGUSTING!”

And off i zoom on my bicycle of righteousness, that razorblade saddle slicing my arse in half with every pedal.

Fuck it. I’m not standing by while this creeping fascism gets normalised. Prick needs to know he’s out of line. Who knows, maybe he’ll think again. Maybe he’ll  respect another crop-haired, gobby bloke calling him out on his shit.

L’esprit de l’escalier: what i should have said was, those guys probably take better care of their sick relative than you or I could dream of dare.  Face the rigours of tending the dying up to the last like you wouldn’t have the guts for, and maybe neither would i. Because I’ve seen it many times. Where the white english families shed tears and suffer and then need to rush off to the pub to drown the horror of a dying mother,( im sorry, i have work in the morning, i’ll be too tired…I’ll try and visit, me or another family member…)

 

These guys will work a twelve hour day and still turn up to sit by grandmas bedside all night. The  whole extended family gathered round for days. Do personal care when the staff let them down. Mop up shit and wipe away tears and mutter prayers and dress the body at the end. Because that weird, turban wearing culture you find so baffling and laughable, has instilled them with a sense of duty that us spoiled, selfish Anglo-saxons have never known.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not into Islam or any other religious mindwash. Its all fucking fairy stories as far as I’m concerned, and church decreed identical hats are my idea of hell. But I’m not having the paki-bashing.  Because i know this guy. We’ve just met, but i know him. This is the same nobhead would have teased me for my long hair when i was a kid. Called me for being a hippy or a a faggot. Takes the piss out of Indian waiters or effeminate kids at school. Starts fights in pubs with people he knows dont stand a chance. In short, a bully. A nobhead. And that’s what I’m taking a stand against here. Nobheadism.

Because bullies are getting way too fashionable, way too ‘out’. And between silent bitter acceptance of the rebranded xenophobia of post brexit britain and trumpamerikkka, and blazing at strangers like an avenging psycho Victor Meldrew:  I’ll take the later.

***************

Mum is snoring in my bed and i’m breaking my back on the sofa, writing this from a duvet cocoon. Time to log out and shut down. 3.48 in the morning and we’re up with rose at six. school run, then back to that hellhole for the evening shift. Tending the crumbling fannies of the clapped out super-sluts and chaste married ladies of a bygone age. Like watering a garden of failing flowers. Or something.

I wake up at four thirty and go to snuggle up next to Daisy. Ellison the toy elephant coming between us and the glo-stars on the ceiling fading as their phosphorous runs down.  To be finally lulled to sleep by the strange symphony of the rain, nanna’s snoring, and the tweeting of one of those funnily little  birds that stays up and sings at night.

 

 

HIROSHIMA

Dad’s been in touch. He says he’s not long for this world, probably, and he wants to make  peace, and the twin towers were blown up from below, the planes were merely holograms.

He say’s I’ll probably always regret it, if we aren’t reconciled. After all he’ still mad at himself for hating grandad, who after all did bust his ass to send his son to the posh school so he wouldn’t have to be a sheet metal worker like him. Dad say’s those public school perverts just beat with birch rods and worse, he didn’t get a single qualification, and by the way the Nazi death camps are a lie of the Zionist conspiracy, just like all those stage managed atrocities we keep seeing on the TV, where no-one really dies.

He says he wants to meet his granddaughter, at last, five years is long enough. And by the way, Hiroshima was never bombed and nuclear weapons are a myth.

Its as though no-one told him the internet is not necessarily full of truth. I think this kind of uber credulity should be in the DSM, that mighty tome of every known psychiatric disorder, which in the bad old days included homosexuality and now is hemming and hawing about whether to put in internet or porn addiction. I’m so repulsed by the illogical wiring of my poppas brain that i can barely bring myself to reply, let alone introduce him to my daughter.He means well but then again don’t everyone, according to their own version of the universe. We all think we’re doing right, right? Even if that means, say,  keeping your kid of school and plying with week from the age of ten, say. After all the real world is an illusion, and its all part of the conspiracy to stop us feeding our kids dope until they’re too scared to leave the house, and it takes them five years ten years and counting, just to claw their way back to some semblance of normalcy.

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I’m on the ward, convinced I’ve drawn the short straw in my little bay full of wild men. Roy is confused by a mysterious infection, a very reasonable man brought low by this mystery illness. He’s obsessed with class, and keeps shouting: “what do you think of people from working class estates, then?” and “this place seems very middle class..for a prison.” in a powerful Middlesborough accent. A security guard has been called, as he’s prone to leaping out of bad and trying to fight with the nurses. His wife is charming and assures me hes normally a completely sane man, an artist and a poet and a teacher.

The others are incurable: a once great lawyer who looks like Peter Cushing (as most people do in here) now reduced to a gibbering fool by dementia. Two more demented men, one whose super-neat bed making marks him out as ex-military, and the other a retired Jamaican postman whose heavy patois accent cant disguise the fact he is talking absolute gibberish. One keep shouting, another wandering off, and its all we can do to keep them from falling or clambering into each others beds or pissing themselves…

But when i step out of the bay and go looking for a nurse, i realise we’ve got it easy. I walk into a bay where a crazy man immediately seizes my hand, crushing my fingers and screaming “CAN YOU GET ME OUT OF HERE?!”;  an old black guy with hair just like don king is flailing around like a fish; and a third man, who i know of old, immediately begins screaming: “Albert! Unhook me from this machine! YOU USELESS CUNT!”

My name isn’t Albert.

Its a vision of hell. I duck out of there to where an ancient Russian man in a strange hat is rifling through the linen cupboard. Neen appears to tell me that he is in fact a famous gangster and she quite likes him. (Neen loves anyone eastern European- they all remind her of her grandad. Violent and mad and polish, being the best combination of all.) She steals me away to wheel an enormous fat man on a bariatric bed into a side room. And all the time there’s people with disintegrating brains wandering the corridors, asking if you’ve seen their Mum, or gibbering with fear, or screaming NURSE!!! as loud as they can, sometimes for no reason at all. Leonard, the lawyer, is hurling objects from his bedside tray across the room. “why are doing this, Leonard?”

Leonard looks at me, placid as a cucumber. “Does there have to be a reason?” he says blithely.

**********************

Dad’s constructed a version of reality which makes sense to him. The great events of history and the news are just too absurd, the world is one big hoax. This strange fantasy perversely comforts him- after all, a conspiracy that brings back the jews from the ovens and Nagasaki from the fire storm; where mad shootists all use blanks and their victims wear fake blood-bags; that’s gotta be a pretty benign conspiracy, right? Else what do they have planned, that is WORSE than all of that?

Me, i see the world differently. It makes perfect sense to me. Chaos is the flood, battering at our door, and oblivion is always nigh. The world exists only the minds of the people who perceive it, and those minds live in fleshy brains. Prey to forces of destruction which can begin nibbling at any time, chewing away one version or reality. When one mind dies, a version of the universe dies with it. And here we are, at the place of endings, the last gasp saloon, where old brains come to die, firing out sparks and smouldering to a stop, their work done but their bodies refusing to die. Not just yet, anyway.

Of course there were death camps, of course there are atom bombs, and of course madmen roam the world with their guns and their hatred. You only need to come here, for your proof.

Sanity is cobweb-fine construction, blowing away like a dandelion clock at the faintest mouthings of the breeze. Madness is what’s left. And it’s infinite.

OK so i changed the name of this blog. I should emphasise to all 2.5 of my regular readers that this title comes with a hefty dose of irony. Its all fun and games until you find yourself swabbing butts for MRSA infection with an extra long Q tip, while the husband looks on approvingly…the groans and moans from the other people around you,mingling with the buzz of the machines….Nicholas Roeg is editing your life, ‘man who fell to earth’ style, and hes cross cutting between the sexy times and the other kind; hes messing with the soundtrack so that sex sounds like work and work sounds like sex. And pretty soon you’re forgetting where one starts and the other ends, and its all just flesh, of one kind or another, smelly rotting squelching flesh,  tearing itself up and kneading itself in endless cycles of birth and fuck and die and rot, like a fucking Francis Bacon picture or something. Yeah, that’s it. You’re in Frances Bacon land now, boyo, and there’s no going back.

It wasn’t always like this.

Flashback ten months or so. Following the twister party (which i still havent told you about) i meet up again with Scarlet and Treacle, the two crazy woman from that very night. Two nice nympho girls and their new friend, we’ll call him Onyx, because he’s a black man, and he probably calls himself something similar, these are sex people after all, so its okay to objectify. That’s all we’re here for- treating each other like objects. What could be more inclusive than that?

We’ve arranged to meet at the hotel on thingy street, where the two slutbags have a room, then go from there to the gloriously seedy environs of ‘Amours’, a nightclub which from the outside resembles Hitler’s bunker, but inside is all moody lighting and tacky-classy decor, pole-dancing tarts and dirty dog men. And, on a good night, wonderful, grunting perverts piling up one top of another in a series of intimate, wipe-down rooms. We’re out for a night of sleeze and excitement, having finally found our dream fuck buddies in one another. This is what its all about, right? This makes all of the horror worthwhile. R&R. Debauchery. Fuck the pain away.

There must be something in the air though. First off the hotel is so fucking shitty it kills my mood from the get go. When Treacle swans down to meet me in the bar, i find myself idly thinking that the woman i’m planning to have brilliantly mindless sex with seems less like a dreamboat than she did when i last saw her, and more like a shark in a wig.  There’s something in her eyes i don’t like…cant put my finger on it…

On the other hand this is the woman who gives the best head i’ve ever had, and is so similar to me in terms of her sleezy, faithless promiscuity that although i know its only lust, its a lust that feels close enough to love for my current purposes, and certainly has none of the usual attendant horrors.

Up in the room, I say hi to Scarlet, and  i meet their new friend. He’s an african man, more educated than them (i don’t think working class Africans tend to escape their own countries very regularly) and friendly enough. Immaculately groomed of course. And no doubt he has an enormous penis which we will all find jolly entertaining a few short hours from now.

Scarlet looks, as usual, like some kind of fairy tale giants favourite whore, all bright red basque and overflowing boobs, laughing at everything in her usual wicked way. God i  love these kind of women, and where have been all my life? So many years wasted with all those clever talented monogamous bore bags….

Conversation turns to strangeways prison, which we can see from the window, the great redbrick cock of its original panopticon towering over the modern escape-proof walls. “Jeez” i say. “Not much of a view for them, is it? Youd think they’d give them windows at least.”

“They shouldn’t have them” says Onyx. “if you are commit are crime, you are in prison to be punish. You shouldn’t have any rights, at all.”

The girls concur. Already my hardons shrinking. “Okay” i say. “what about this. In the united stated, slavery is abolished except for convicted criminals. Some people say, its a continuation of slavery, by other means. After all, the prison population is disproportionately black. There’s very limited options for a lot of people over there- there are reasons, people get involved in crime”.

I know, super sexy conversation, right?! So we agree to disagree, and head out into the night, marching across the no-mans land of rundown car parks and disused industrial land that backs onto the club. Where the three of them are almost immediately rude to a homeless girl who tries to get a cigarette from them, laughing gayly at what an idiot this woman is for bothering them and how little of a toss they give for her predicament, very much in the style of thick school bullies. Now i’m wondering if these women deserve my dick, never mind mister draconian here. I’m so flabbergasted by what cunts they’re being i can barely frame an argument, but i do my best, pointing out that this poor girl may not be homeless from choice and that compassion is a good thing. But my sexy friends stare dumbly while i tirade on, say that they work why shouldn’t she, and i’m so full of useless rage that i bite my tongue and hold my anger and find myself telling myself, in a weird little inner monologue, that these women may not be my soul mates after all, alas, but surely i can still bring myself to shag them both?

But alas the killer blow comes as we cross the vacant lot the club entrance. “Passionate about your politics, aren’t you?” says Treacle. “yes” I say. “me, i don’t know anything.2 she continues, pleasantly. “I mean, this Europe thing, whats it about? I don’t even know. When they had the election, i just went on a website what asked me questions and told me who id probably agree with. So  i voted for them. Cant even remember their names. It were just some letters.”

My heart sinks. “U.K Independence party” i say. “no” she says. “that weren’t it. Say some others. “U.K.I.P?” “No….” “UKIP?” “Yes! them! that were the one! I voted for them.I cant really remember what they stood for actually.”

“i can. I can tell you exactly. I can tell you, what you believe: “Immigration needs to be controlled.”

“Yes! And it should!” she says, excitedly.

So like a good liberal i’m outraged. Actually im sick of this word liberal. I’m outraged like a good revolutionary. My world view is pieced together from the sixities radicals i read about in my parents hippy comics, and my own time growing up in the eighties nineties. Heroes Black panthers, zap comix. No borders, stop the war. Isn’t that why we’re all DEhere? To do something different to the squares and the straights and stiffs? My world is whirling: I always thought, a swinger was the opposite to a xenophobe. But we live, it seems,  in the era, of strange new hybrids. Sexually radical, politically… border-line fascist?

“Oh fuck this. i cant do this. you might as well have voted for the nazi party. You’re about to go and FUCK an immigrant! If your so thick you let a robot tell you how to vote…im sorry, no. I just cant do this anymore.”

And away i go, chuntering righteously into the night. None of them try to stop me, and in  a few minutes i;m on the phone to neena, saying ok, well done sherlock, you were right, she’s A dickhead, i shoulda stayed with your bitter frigid non shagging non loving left wing ass….”

Post brexit, post trump, post truth, post bullshit…i look back and i see i’ve lived through a zeitgeist defining moment par excellence. Right there in my own sex life, the dilemma of 0ur times, played 0ut. Me, Mister radical, so sure of the self evidence of the things i believe, that when the true face of the disconnected people i hang out with is revealed, its like a slap in the face with a giant right wing fish.  Bisexual, sexually liberated (Or at least adventurous); and profoundly politically conservative. Uneducated people who could care less about being right on, or being called a racist, or any other label i wanna throw at them. Traditional small town idiots, with about as much idea about my ideas of working class socialist values, as i have of the values of the planet mars.

Just jolly, shallow, dirty people. Who couldn’t care less about racism, are happy to mingle with black men because they have big cocks, and are more concerned about what they can shove up their cunts than whether the world is being taken over by a terrible new kind of creeping fascism, gaining pace and taking ground.

At this point, it looks like the future may belong to them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Superdrunk

“How the hell did it get here so soon?” (Tom Waits, ‘i don’t wanna grow up’).

(To my regular readers: apologies to you both. No sexy talk again. More hospital shit today. Regular service will be resumed next week…just enjoy the build up, huh?)

Today I’m specialing Joanne. She’s thirty but could pass for forty or fifty. Wheelchair bound by some kind of ulcers, otherwise able bodied. But she’s on a DOLS (‘deprivation of liberty’. Dunno what the s stands for.) Basically they slap a dols on you as fast as possible if they decided you dont have capacity and you’re a threat to yourself or others and they want to have the power to stop you leaving the hospital. You just need a negative capacity assessment is all.

Ultimately she will need to be sectioned. She’s awaiting transfer to a mental health unit. Quite how she has come to be on a ward which specializes in old ladies feeling the strain of winter i don’t know. In case you hadn’t heard, the NHS in crisis. My Mum got up today on her sixty-seventh birthday to a phone call telling her her hip operation is going to be bumped by six weeks, minimum. This was only the first consultation so god know when she will get a date for theatre now. So in her case its the difference between stumbling about for a few weeks awaiting surgery; and now, probably ending up bedbound for months, in pain, unable to work…so all im saying is, yeah. It tough all over.

I am but a humble ‘special’ but its clear to me that when this ward is short staffed, everyone sends the nurses they value least. The one who hands over to me is woman with a full beard. No correlation between beard and not being very good at your job. But in this case….both qualities are present.

So its just me and Joanne. Joanne is another manifestation of a person i have met many times, in  many bodies. She could be the reincarnation of Tracy, she of the arms sliced up like garlic breads, the fake suicide woman of upper chorlton road, who tumbled down the strata of the system, failed and failing at every stage, from bad parents to useless care home to evil foster parents to terrible mental health care, and finally killed herself after years of trying. The girl who cried wolf turned out have a real wolf inside of her. They always do. Aesop didn’t know the half of it.

So. Joanne, like many severer alcoholics who find themselves in a ‘dry’ clinical setting, has a classic method of staying drunk: she drinks the alcoholic anti-septic hand gels, which are liberally dotted around the hospital: a dispenser on the end of every bed, by every sink, and ranged along the walls and corridors. They’ve all been removed from her bay, but shes already been caught with one under her mattress, mixing herself little cocktails with blackcurrant cordial. But shes not fussy: turn away for even an instant and she’s pressing the button on the nearest dispenser, oozing a little oyster of gel into her hand, then necking it, quick as an aspirin or a  salt lick for a tequila.

We get acquainted. she asks repeatedly why we are keeping her a prisoner when all she wants is her freedom to kill herself. Shes slurring her words like a motherfucker, and keeps needing the toilet. Now and then she threatens to punch her head through the window, and now and then we go outside for a smoke. “gotta laugh or i’ll cry” she keeps saying. She never laughs though. A nephew of hers is there, transparently a scrote. Says all the right things about the need for her to get well and back on her feet, but with the polished patter of a compulsive liar. A user of some kind himself, an addict. There’s no doubt. When he fucks off its just me, her, and Doreen in the bed opposite, who has dementia and talks the most surreal nonsense from the minute i arrive to the minute i leave. Bless her.

The punchline of the story is that baffled by Joannes apparently increasing drunkenness, I act on a hunch and go into the bathroom, where i go through the bin and find a secret bottle of gel. My pleasure at my street smarts is undermined by the fact i didnt think to do this until eight thirty, and hour before the end of my shift. She’s drunk a half pint of the stuff in the meantime. To catch a junkie, think like a junkie…when you get round to it.

So the glorious achievement of my eight hour shift is to leave my patient even drunker than i found her.But i have prevented any possible suicide attempts, so im not entirely useful. No head through the glass, and no zipping off out the ward in her wheelchair.

I take her for one last fag. The sky is starry and i can see Betelgeuse,  flashing purple and red. Somewhere out there, there is either another planet with life- in which case, there must be millions of them…or none at all.

The jury is still out. This may well be the only place in the universe, with any life. The only place with love and poetry. The only place with animals and plants. The only place with spoons and paperclips and arse fucking and anteaters. The only place with dysfunctional creatures, staggering around with sparks spitting out of their over complicated brains, drinking alco-gel to drown out the roar of the memories of the man who beat you and the father who fucked you and the pounding, screaming voice saying over and over:

kill yourself kill yourself kill yourself kill yourself kill yourself kill yourself……

My shifts over. I jump on my clanky little bicycle and away into the night i whizz, through the shifting city beneath the cold sky full of inscrutable stars.

Who knows, maybe we’re not alone. Maybe somewhere out there, there are planets crammed with intelligent beings, strange and different and just like us. The residents of Betelgeuse, as busy as us- waging their wars, fucking their kids. Drinking alco-gel and planning the apocalypse.

Saying corny-arsed hackneyed things like ‘gotta laugh, or i’ll cry’.