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Posts Tagged ‘short stories’

“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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What is it with Swingers and white supremacy?

I enter the club and the first thing I’m greeted by is Trump’s wotsit textured fizzog, on a huge screen that dominates the bar. Upstairs you’ll find amusing 70s porno, but the first thing you see is this?! It’s the very thing i was dreading seeing at customs had my doomed visit to the Elf gone ahead- the adorably disingenuous Obama replaced by the transparently vile Don. Transparent to me, anyway…but I trust I’m preaching the choir here,

Anyway, they’re not promoting Donald, just letting ITV play out, some documentary. The face of Alan Greenspan looms up next…I ask the guy at the bar why we’re being bombarded with ‘the Donald’ though, and he says ‘nothing wrong with a bit of trump’ with enough conviction for me to immediately regret handing over my money. Who says such things, even i jest?

Anyway the party is awful, nothing to report. I spend the evening sat shivering in my towel like a Billy no mates, the foil of my condom cutting into my thigh from where it’s optimistically wedged into the fold.  Watch some exhibitionist couple, her giving him head right there on the sofa, no indication they want any company. He’s a sort of miniature neanderthal brad pit, young, massively endowed, she’s older and fatter, huge voluptuous arse spilling out of her corsets. Going down on his huge, rock hard erection., deep throating skillfully before a smooth mechanical fuck. They both look quite bored.

Remember the thrill of those clubs you went to as a youth? I mean ordinary clubs. raves, parties. Everyone clothed, dancing. Generally full of ecstasy in my era, i don’t know what kids do now. There was no viagra or cialis then,  and i don’t think it would have occurred to many people in their 20s that it needed inventing, though they’re selling it by the pill at the bar here…but remember the buzz! The thrill! The air thick with smoke, that terrible music pounding…everything was sex, people snogged like it was going out of style.  I remember being in an absolutely constant state of horn at the time, popping into public toilets to jerk off, always in love or heartbroken, always yearning, and secretly suspecting an orgy was behind every door, shivering with excitement, sometimes uncontrollably so.

Now, this…didn’t Baudrillard say something to the effect, when everything is sex, nothing is? He must have been to swingers clubs. ‘Porn is the death of eroticism’ . I go up to the bar, where the TV is now showing a documentary about ‘Britain First’. Subtitles show some moron on the mike: “Allah is a Paedo!” At least they’ve nailed their colours to the mast- a blatant attempt to connect all Muslims to the worst thing they can come up with. Demagogy one oh one. But the fact that their target audience is morons doesn’t make them less dangerous. Because there are legions of those.

The screen is full of waving union jacks now. “we’re going to string up every paedo in this country from a lamppost” yells the wanker. Lovely image, great idea. Who wouldn’t want a landscape dotted with rotting corpses? I knew the criminal justice system needed reform, and here’s the guy with the answers. And as he’s already made clear, by ‘paedo’ he means ‘Muslim’.

Supposedly those creeps in Rochdale did his propaganda for him, of course. Years of abuse by organised gangs of Asian background,targeting young white girls while the cops turned their back out of ‘cultural sensitivity’. With guys like that around, who needs agents provocateurs?

But i don’t recall Jimmy Saville converting to Islam, Ted Heath neither. Nor Cosby nor Rolf Harris nor…you get my point? It’s all bullshit. And these racist pigs are all probably fucking their kids at home, anyway. Why not? In for a penny, in for a pound, and the world turns and burns wiser and weaker and weirder and worse.

“Can we not have something cheerier on the screen?” i say, this time to the female half of the team. All lipstick and leathers and what’s she doing with that beast? She glances at the screen. The flags wave, the boots stomp. “What’s wrong with this? Seems OK” she says “anyway, i dunno where the control is.”

One more niggling glimpse into a mentality of pointless sex and tiny, vicious brains. Did they have ‘no Asians’ on their profile? Cant recall, but many do. They always claim its an aesthetic taste but of course it’s political. This scene is not the hedonistic, transcendent shangri-la i was searching. In fact, somehow i feel further from that than ever. The Elf was the only one that really understood. And of course it turns out now that she didn’t really understand, at all.

Two days ago i came into this same bar and immediately hit it off with a gorgeous woman, black as a singularity. Witty and smart and privileged, a real nice middle class of African descent. I’d seen her pics online, and that had been enough to get me down there. We got on at once. Me and her and a thick guy went back to her hotel and had some tepid, awkward sex and he left the hotel and left the website. Me and her had breakfast in the executive lounge, looking out over the city, chatted about intelligent shit. Slagged off Netanyahu, spoke of her time in Israel- there on a pilgrimage with her christian mother, she had more rights than a Palestinian but still got the racism. A fascinating situation.

I drove her to the train station. Her train was late and we kissed and touched and later she sent me some nice messages. We could do with more like her on that scene. I’m done with the fascists and the lumpen proletariat, stripped of their legendary sexual fire by a system they don’t understand and shuffling through the motions like Huxley’s Epsilons.

This succulent goddess of a woman has a brain. We didn’t fuck much but I’d like another date. She had depth and possibility and she’d actually read some books.

If I can only persuade her to try anal…

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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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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.

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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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