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“just when you thought you could learn to forget her, right through the door comes a tear-stained letter” (Richard Thompson, ‘tear-stained letter’.)

The elf is stalking me.

She dropped me like a hot shit brick just as i was about to jump on the plane to elf town Told me she didn’t love me anymore. She has some tiny voice in her head tells her what to do, apparently. Well, so does my brother and he hides knives and his bedding stinks of Clozaril. But that’s another story.

So the big lovely holiday with ms sexy elf was not to be. And in the words of Peggy Lee: “I thought I would die. But i didn’t.”

Time went by. I was cheering myself up. Fucking girls, boys…i even found one i could hold a conversation with. She scared me off by demanding a monogamous relationship after i’d known her a week. Maybe we’ll just be friends. I don’t want to mess anyone around.

Then the elf sends me an email confessing she did love me but couldn’t stand the pain. Or something. Then she starts reading this blog, and seems to get mad that i’m not in a monastery. Doesn’t she know you can be balls deep in one woman while your heart breaks for another?

She, who should know all about lousy coping strategies.

Maybe  i write too much about things that don’t matter. Can’t look my real demons in the eye, so i create a false reality, where the stop-gaps and the consolation prizes loom bigger than the heartthrobs. But it’s time to set the record straight. Let the world and his dog know, who it is i loved the most. So, Elf, if you’re listening, this ones for you…

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

Elf climbs on top of me and starts to work my cock up her arsehole….

(just as i start to write, up pings a note: “i’m not angry…i want you to be happy…but save your garrulous words for someone who can find meaning in them…or maybe for yourself”

They don’t call her the pissy elf for nothing.

Right now words are all we have. If you find them garrulous, dear reader…this ain’t ‘clockwork orange’, no-ones pinning your eyelids open. You can always look away…)

At first i’m kind of scared of the little monster, and not without reason, as we’ve seen…the Elf’s criticism can hit you like a hard blow across the eyes from a wet rope. But the blood surges and i hear myself saying ‘lets do this properly’…and soon enough i have the little freak flipped over and i’m taking her from behind still buzzing from the happy memory of the three other guys i helped do this to her a few days before…and a good time was had, by all.

So yes i bummed her and it was gud. Probably falling in love was a bad idea though.  Should have thought of her as just another cooz, albeit one with an extra juicy arse who cums at the drop of her hat and has wild eyes and crazy lips and isn’t as hard faced as she likes to make out…all of which could also be a description of me, except the cum bit. I take ages.

Hell, even porn stars have feelings, or so i hear. Maybe those who fuck nastiest have the softest hearts, after all. Certainly you get a lot of  buzzy chemicals swarming round your head when you have crazy sex,  enough to push anyone over the edge into sexlove. You set out, full of bad intentions, out to fuck the pain away. Then before you know it, the sex object you’re using without regard for their humanity- is suddenly the apple of your eye who’d you’d gladly burn alive for. Hard luck, sucker. It’s like the lady from Shanghai says: You can run away from your own true nature, but life is long and the world is round, so- you’ll catch back up with it sooner or later.

Reading that back, i fear the naive reader may think the pain the elf was fearing, was from the endless bummery. Far from it, as far as i know. In fact that was the bit that sold her on the deal. No, the pain she couldn’t stand was of the separation, over and over, after a few short weeks of sexy loving bliss. Nothing like a bit of what you’re missing to show you the true horror of your ordinary life. And I should know.

Then again, what does it matter?  Romance, shmomance. Tear down all of the illusions and it’s just yourself stood alone on a landscape straight out of Dante. The denizens of hell are clawing at your ankles, the sky’s ablaze, and time’s many mouths are eating your life, mouthful by tiny mouthful.

There’s stuff to do, Honcho.  Kids to school, Mums to hospital, great works to be wrought from the wreckage of a dying civilization. Any women want to know you, well…they know where to find you, eh?

Now, cry me a river so we can sail our little life raft out of this desert, once and for all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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From the moment i set eyes on her, i knew i was in trouble…

of course we’d already been in communication for some months. The stream of gags, ideas, dirty talk, cleverly chosen gifs and pictures and other file sharing foolishness…I deleted the whole messenger thread, which is a terrible thing for writer to do…but the first time i set eyes on her real, three-d, fleshly form…well..

I can’t write this right now. Why tear the new flesh from a barely scabbed wound? Life-threatening until mere days ago…be glad the pain has eased to a dull throb, with occasional searing blasts still soaking the bandages scarlet and drawing your lips back from your teeth.

instead, lets do some comparative study. Think back, to the last time I felt this bad. So long ago, now, that I can look at it truly dispassionately, and say “hmm. look at the pain that poor slob was in, over that particular dame…some watery bint, seemed like the centre of the universe back then… fascinating, fascinating…”

 

SANDRINE

Our eyes met, across a riot. Even now, when its all burned away into the distance of time, and the final judgements in, I still recall it as a unique and cinematic moment. We’d been nodding acquaintances for years, and I hardly gave her a thought. But she looked at me in a way that seemed to contain knowledge of future events. Fascination, and it seems now, pure loving lust. I was with someone else. It was 2001, and we were there to protest the evils of the worlds most powerful countries, or something. The G8 summit..the Genova police were getting ready to charge us, and it was over a year before we met again, had our first unremarkable sex, six months until the same non-event…and inbetween, i didn’t think of her at all. And yet by the time three years had passed and i was with Beryl, when we got together for what was to be our third casual, pointless canoodle….we had somehow developed and overwhelming, intoxicating, brain-buggering desire for each other.

She was overweight. She had a funny haircut. Weird slanty eyes, lashes so pale as to be invisible…and yet, flipping heck. Even now, torn up as i am over the Elf and what a lie that all turned out to be…even as images flash into my head, unbidden, of her drooling face contorting in pleasurepain as she fulfilled every fantasy in my great big book; as i bitterly brood, on promises made, and abandoned with such ease;  and on the smiles, and the tears, and the arsefucks, and the cuddles, and the  lies of love she poured from that faithless, inconstant gob and into my gullible, never-learning ears…

Even so, if ol’ Sandrine was to walk in here right now…walk in now with her wobbling-coquettish walk, flash her bashful-dirty smile and immediately begin to explain that the last ten years had been a terrible mistake and it’s of the utmost importance than i lob it out and stand it up and shake it til i spunk in her grateful-adoring face- here, even in  this very library where i type, everyone watching and cheering us on (this is, after all, MY daydream…)then to snog the jizz from that most beautiful wonderful face, and lick up her grateful tears while I’m at it, tongues dancing and hearts entwined like mating snails… Well, I’d say yes. And as the other adult-learners applaud this glorious scene of true romance, I’d sweep her into my arms (even though I AM still in love, with the heartless fucking Elf…) Id whisk her away and marry her at once- and then the fun begins in earnest…once more to waste wonderful days laughing and drinking and eating and fingering and  smacking each others happy faces red. Oh, I wouldn’t mind at all the time thats passed since last time! I’d bite her bum her, spit at her and worship her. Tie her up and offer her holes to many many black guys, weep with joy that miracle of miracles she loves me still.  I’d beg for her forgiveness for all this time wasted, to have and to hold, til death do us part, tits and smile and arsehole and heart…

Yes. I don’t need the Elf at all. So long as I have the last woman that made me feel that way…a decade back, and counting.

Which just goes to show, i suppose, that love is really as simple as locating one of the finite number of people with whom you share sufficient compatibility factors to trigger a mutual hormonal response that causes mutual infatuation.

Plenty more fish in the sea, i guess. Even if the fish you seek, is a rare one….and the granules, of course, are rushing to the bottom of the hourglass.

Yes, I’m a scientific man. I know that consciousness is located in the brain, and that your psychology dictates your internal reactions to events…but when lady love tells you where to stick it and leaves you snivelling in the mud outside of her door, well…

Its your heart that breaks, is it not?

Go ahead and tell yourself its located in your head: even as you clutch the ol’ blood pumper on the left  like it just took a javelin, blood pissing between your fingers as your knees fail and your face turns white and the life-force gushes from your body…

Damn these women. Damn them all to hell for making such a fool of me.

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

Meanwhile, on the Manchester vascular ward…the cue for the surgeon is growing. I watch men plead for their painful legs to be amputated, and he duly obliges. Somewhere in this building, severed limbs are wheeling t’ward the incinerator, obsolete appendages whose blood supply has failed beyond saving…and they who still long for release from their pointless limbs watch, stoical, as the flesh turns black. Toes snapping off, larvae having failed, eaten away the necrosis but the rot still spread…gangrene, pulling at your flesh.  Where dementia first dismantles your mind, this beast takes your body, by installments. Dying a piece at a time.

“Hey, Doc. Post these parts of me to the great hereafter will ya? I’ll pick them up when I get there. ”

The afterlife will be a blast, I’m sure. I just hope the almighty is good at jigsaw puzzles. ‘cos he’s really got his work cut out, piecing everybody back together.

Postscript:

It has come to my attention that some readers have perceived in the above story,  the hand of some sort of obnoxious self absorbed misogynist. To these readers, I can say only that the fault must be with my writing. I had intended to create an unreliable narrator, whose crude broadsides at a series of women- first idealised, then hated- would paint a picture of a man so heartbroken and lost that he has fallen back on these dumb swipes. It seems, alas, that while our hero cannot fool himself, he has fooled others- for of course, ‘Gene’ knows only too well where the fault really lies.

No matter. I’ll let the story stand. Let Gene Even-Wilder rage and rant against his lost loves, for now. I’m sure all will come clear in future installments.

 

 

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Weeks since the bomb and the sirens still haven’t let up. What’s going on? They must have arrested every Muslim person in Manchester twice by now. And still they’re saying hey, think it was a lone wolf anyway.

In other news

I’m in some kind of sexual frenzy right now. All by myself, you understand…in fact the thought of a Woman is kind of scary right now…but Madam Palme and her five daughters are having a wild old time with their insatiable lover man.

So now you’re feeling life is too short to read a blog about a guy jacking off a lot…but i just wanted to give you some context. The love and passion bottled up right here is like a nuclear power station approaching meltdown…four times a day seems a lot of frustration to relieve to me… and now the Elf has told me the U.S passport office have fucked up her kids passport app…so looks like I’m alone for even longer than i thought.

I’m thinking of taking my lonely ass to a gangbang on saturday…i know by now it will probably be weird and disturbing and disappointing. And even if the women are gorgeous and hey even if most of the men are too…it still isn’t really what i want. I want a brutal gang fuck with someone i love! That’s where i’m up to right now. I want what i hd with the elf, last time. Looking into the eyes of my darling while some other hunky shmoe takes her asshole. Let someone else be the fuck toy. I don’t want to be the toy for some other happy couple.

I know where I’m up to and what i want. I just don’t know how to get it.

In other news:

I got to meet a victim of the bomb. Injured, lost someone. Stitches swirling across their limbs, shrapnel wounds all over their body. Inoperable shrapnel inside to stay. Bereaved. My Mum’s hip replacement sure is put into perspective. And i get to do my bit to help the victims of the atrocity, bringing the bed pans and the urine bottles, and cracking the odd corny joke.

But lets keep it real. I didn’t spend the whole shift biting my wobbly bottom lip. I spent it frenziedly flirting with the amazing support worker on the next bay, finding any excuse to sneak out of my own section and ask for her help. Watch her arse shake when she walks away, turquoise knickers visible through her uniform. Laugh at her jokes, because she is funny. Also loud and daft and way too young for me. Would I know what to do with her if i somehow got my clutching mitts on her? Only one way to know. My stomach swirls and my uniform is sticking to my body as ask her out to the pub, casually as i can. Her and her Muslim co-worker, so that’s gonna be right convincing: “Hey, ladies, why don’t we all go to the pub now our shift has finished?”

“The pub? Now?! No way!” she yells merrily. “I’ll take that as a no then!” i sing back.

She has just done the long day, so who can blame her…maybe i should have tried harder? I hang around outside, thinking i might catch he eye and win her over…but i’m fumbling with my bike lock as the two walk laughing by, unseeing on their way to the bus stop…or somewhere. They disappear behind some buildings and the moment is gone.  At this point i still think the elf is on her way and i’m running ahead of myself: it’s probably for the best. She’d have fallen madly in love with me…we’d be having passionate anal sex all night every night and the elf’s heart would be broken…we’d try a threesome but there’s be conflict, i’d be forced to choose, it would be like being thirty five again, in all the worst ways.

Yes, its for the best we didn’t have a drink together, me and sexy ginge. She’d have wanted kids, i’d ruin both out lives…better i sweat my lonely arse back to the flat for another half crazed  hand shandy.

Sun blazes down sirens scream and somewhere in England a demented divorcee is aiming a van at a throng of innocent people…again…and I’m off home to lie in my bed and dream of impossible women and make more laundry for myself.

Which come to think of it is a lot more than my patient can do-what with their hands all wrapped up and full of metal and all.

Grateful for small mercies, innit?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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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.

 

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….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.

 

 

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I sit in the little waiting room watching ‘homes under the hammer’ until i’m called through.

It’s a nice lady. It’s always a nice lady and they’re always gorgeous, why is that? Maybe they seem more lovely because of the situation. Their manner, the power of their job, their no nonsense attitude and warm, worldly wise understanding of everything they hear.

“I’m going to have to ask you some questions.”

“It’s okay.”

“How many sexual partners in the last six months?”

“Er…”

“Double figures?”

“Yes.”

“Male or female?”

“Yes. I mean, both.”

Oral sex?”

“Yes.”

“Penetrative vaginal sex?”

“Yes”.

“Anal sex?”

“Yes.”

“Giving or receiving?”

“Both” (blushes now. From me,)

“Protected?”

“Usually.”

“Protected with strangers?”

“Always.”

“Protected for anal?”

“Yes”

“And oral?”

“No.”

“Even with males?”

“No protection for oral, no.”

“And the unprotected penetrative sex, is that with a regular partner?”

“No”

“Someone you know?”

“Does ex wife count as someone I know?”

a wry, indulgent smile.

“Yes.”

“Multiple partners simultaneously?”

“Uh, yes”.
(I’m not sure she really asked that one, but it seemed like she did. Like she turned me inside out like a piece of fruit and saw everything there was to see.)

She smiles, folds away the paperwork.

“Well, you definitely meet the criteria. Your are entitled to a free Hepatitis vaccine.”

“thank god. The cost of all these vaccines is something else.”

“are you training as a nurse?’

“I wish. Well, maybe eventually. Right now, care support worker.”

She looks sympathetic. “do occy health not do them?”

“What occupational health?  Its an agency. They tell us its our own responsibility. It’s been a real slog to get them all. T.B, you can only get free if you live in cheetham hill, for some reason. Plus they told me I was too old and it wouldn’t work on me. Which isn’t true at all. I had to get it done at a travel clinic. And I had to threaten my G.P with P.A.L.S to get my MMR. Then again, he didn’t bother giving me the second dose.”

“Well, you’re alright here. You definitely meet the criteria for free hygiene.”

“Thanks.”

“Its OK. We hear all sorts. You’re normal.”

“Thanks. Actually, I’m special.”

“Sorry?”

“That’s the job title. Working one-to-one with a single patient, using skills gained from my experience in mental health. Confused or aggressive patients, in a general hospital setting. I’m a ‘special’.”

“Oh I see. Well, good luck with your specialing.”

“Thank-you”

We go through and she gives me my shots. She gives me a leaflet about PREP too- the new pre-exposure prophylaxis. She explains, in euphemistic terms, how you can now dose up on drugs and then go out and get filled with the spunk of the rugby team. No protection needed, 99.9% success rate, and no unpleasant side effects.
“But i’m sure you don’t need that. That’s for if you’re going to parties, with dozens of people, and…anyway, here’s the leaflet.”

“thank-you”.

***********

Woo-hoo! Its off to my new job in the glorious NHS- complete with anti-social hours payments- time and a half for saturdays and night shifts, and double pay on sundays.

I’m allowed through the doors of that fabulous institution, the Manchester royal infirmary!  I work now for the mighty NHS, not some carpet bagging private firm mopping up the ongoing disaster of care in the community. I’m an NHS worker, and I can hold my head up  high!

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

They start me off gentle on an easy ward. I’m sat outside the door of a side-room, where a lad with terrible brain damage sits all day, rocking back and forth. Every now and then he gets up and ambles down the corridor, then out the door to smoke the dimps off the ground at the smoking shelter. He has a huge hole in his head, like someone took a bite out of it, big as your fist. His fingers are yellow with nicotine, he smells like an ashtray, and there’s always a sparkling silver string of drool hanging at his mouth. There’s no conversation, but I talk to him pleasantly, I feel, about the weather and the soaps and the price of fish and so forth. The ritual is repeated throughout the day.

He’s actually waiting for his mum to come and get him. Twitching with nervous expectation. She keeps not answering her phone, she’s getting later and later. We start to worry she’s playing him for a fool. The end of the day comes round and its clear she’s not coming. Who can blame her? He shuffles sadly back to his room, drooling the while. Then at the last moment, when my shift is just about to end, she comes crashing through the doors at the end of the corridor, arms wide. “Hey, son!” The traffic was terrible! C’mere, darlin’!”

He shuffles down the hall towards her at double speed, and my first day ends on a sunny note.

Day two, will be a whole ‘nother ball of wax. Two weeks in, you’re gonna need all that dirty time you told the nurse about in the clinic.  Just to keep your head exploding from all the things you’ve seen. And smelled. And touched.

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

I’d heard that you could get your vaccines for free if you told the clinic you were promiscuous. I told everyone at work that i made it all up, and they said i didn’t look the type to say such things. Well. ‘There’s no art to map the minds construction in the face’ said Shakespeare. And he should know.

They don’t ask everything at the clinic. No need to know if you take it up the arse from several big hairy, ugly men in a row, if you like two dicks in your mouth at once,e if you let me hit you and spit at you sa thank-you sir and beg for more. No need to enquire, whether the women you let lick your arse, do it in a room full of strangers, all high as kites on vodka and pills. It’s not relevant to your medical history, if you’ve fucked a twenty stone woman while he husband watches, smiling.

I’m 43 years old, divorced, father to a two year old,trapped in a human body, trapped in manchester, trapped in the year 2015. Trapped in a job a trained gibbon could do, because i’m too proud to get my head down and study for something better. Because I still think i’m a writer. Well, write about this, smart arse: you’ve traded in the mad and the dangerous for the ancient and the demented. Mopping up the shit at the last gasp saloon. Gently stroking the papery hands of  beings who are frightened and confused, because their mind is being stolen away, a little piece at a time.

Its all flesh.Various flavours.  This morning you’re wiping an old lady’s bum, tonight you’ll have a younger arsehole round your cock. At work, Death works right beside you, leaning over your shoulder, breaking off a few more crumbs with his fingertips. Dementia, brain damage and madness, all steal  life in instalments, like a higher purchase sofa. God instilled the divine spark of consciousness in the brain of an over developed ape. Some kind of joke i guess. I understand he moves in mysterious ways.

So dear Venus (40) and Penus (42) please may i come to your party? Its been a hell of a day and I’m looking to let my hair down. I promise you’ll be glad you asked me.

I got a lot of nervous energy, to work off.

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

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