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Posts Tagged ‘true life’

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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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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….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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