Yesterday At The Hospital

Another thing that happened was the other day while standing outside the RVH waiting for a taxi to come and get me a man approaches from behind with the quietude of a ninja’s ghost and whispers in my ear: “Do you ever wonder about Jesus, son?”
Yes, I answered in a beat. He is the first prophet I call upon when afflicted by sudden pain or great surprise.
Well that’s a starts son. That’s a start.

He left as mysteriously as he appeared by waving off into an empty car park at absolutely no one then he wandered off in a very particular direction. Then I saw the slitty-eyed weasel face of the nurse that re-did my cast who I’ll have to talk about now.

I make my way along the long hall toward the fractures clinic which is far off in the distance the green neon sign with accompanying arrow a mere blip. My arms are sore swinging along on my crutches and taking all my weight, my arms so flabby, mottled and muscle-less. Halfway there I decide to go back and request a wheelchair. I cannot feel myself any longer. It is something beyond numbness and more like simple bodily dissociation. I make it back to the reception going down a steep escalator in the meantime precariously swaying on my crutches at the top till a woman behind tutted and I took the leap and pendulum-ed the inch or two onto the flat metal stair of the escalator emerging from under the floor with a uniformity and predictability reminiscent of that seen in a biscuit factory.

I ask the receptionist then when I get there if I can have a wheelchair. No – she says. No? I answer. No, they are all gone; they’re primarily for the elderly.

I am not one for arguments – unless I am drunk - and so I sheepishly backed away from the reception and returned back the way I came and realised after one of those knee-jerk calculations you make when it sinks in you’ve been fucked that this journey would now be twice the distance than it would’ve been had I just persevered and kept on going. Bane of my fucking existence: lack of preservation.

So I arrived, sat in the waiting room playing a game on my mobile I never even knew was there, and wasn’t very good after all which might explain why Nokia didn’t have it front and centre in their smorgasbord of features.

After a brief consultation with a young Sri Lankin consultant (who concluded my injury was the strangest he’d ever seen as the fracture was in the shape of a spider’s web) I was escorted by a frumpy severe faced nurse (nurses in my experience are never sexy like you imagine they’ll be when the prospect of going to the hospital occurs) into a large room with curtained off booths round the outside. The noises of saws going were many. I took a look around as I swung through there. Many men with plastered up limbs, I started to superimpose the idea of a droids’ workshop over my imagination as I daydreamed.

Waiting not so long in my own curtained off booth the weasel-faced nurse arrives. He is one of those ones I don’t like. Full to the brim with life and high spirits. Actually over the brim so that these same life and high spirits rudely spill over onto other people making them uncomfortable. He is like this not in a pleasant way. Not in a way that is consistently witty or entertaining. He sparks with an aggressiveness thinly veiled by a pointed and tangy affability. He strokes a student nurse’s arm, who’s just new and on the floor on her first day. I see her look away sadly and irked too. He comes to the end of the stretcher and I notice he’s wearing a Pudsey Bear badge. I wonder at this. A Pudsey Bear badge. What sort of person adorns themselves with a Pudsey Bear Children In Need badge all year round? I think it said something like “Pudsey’s Pal” on it. That’s even more sad/creepy/tragic than the old dolls that keep an X-mas tree up all year.

He calms himself enough to remember what he is doing and takes one of the saws out from under the stretcher. I tell him: I hope you’re not all jittery when you take that saw to me.
He makes a noise like a child in the throes of a Disney sanctioned burst of excitement and in minutes he has deftly with grace removed my plaster.

Then he presses my bare foot against his torso and using wet plaster and warm water he messily redoes my cast. Below his smock I can feel his well-developed six-pack. I picture terraformed domed colonies on Mars. I think to myself if I were gay I’d love this. This was an erotic moment experienced by me whose erogenous settings were not set to the requisite persuasion.

So he slightly redeemed himself a little in my eyes in this hot moment that wasn’t – and then I don’t know maybe he didn’t like that I didn’t respond to his ‘madness’ but he give me the dirtiest look outside after that mad old preacher disappeared.

Oil Paintings Of X-Rated Picnics

I have been laid up with my leg in plaster. Today Bogdan turned up in his ace Ford Capri and he suggested I get some fresh air, as there was more than the faint whiff of cum and farts of me.
You stink, Danny Pongo, is what he said.
So we went for a run to the forest for a smoke and a picnic. Again his favourite topic of sex came up.

I’d like to know what it feels like to get fucked as a woman. Not like a woman, because I wouldn’t, but as one.
Why?
Because when they come they feel it all over for ages. When a man comes its quick and it’s all centred round your member the sensation. But it’s strange, as it feels so much better for them that women want it less often than men. Men want it all the time.
Maybe cos it feels better for them they need it less. For men as its more blink-and-you’ll-miss-it they have a greater need to recreate that transient state.
Makes you feel that the oversexed man’s just got a bad rap and in fact can’t help themselves. I’d just love it though, have a big man loom over me and slide it in. and fuck me quick.
I know what you mean from my porn viewing. A woman coming’s like a major tectonic shift, compared to a man, which is more like an ant’s sneeze in comparison.

Which brings me to my porn-a-like for this post.



Today's pornalike is Michelle McManus. Poor Michelle McManus. After her lacklustre crooning pursuits came apart at the heaving seams she turns her hand to porn to keep the kindling of her stardom going, with messy results.

Recently I have borne witness to many strange and otherworldly phenomenon while laid up in my mother’s. How I came to be here is a long story winding up in me falling off a house and shattering my kneecap.

In my mother’s, which is haunted, I have over a series of nights witnessed orbs, shadow people, objects moving of their own volition, wisps and black balls of malevolent energy.

One morning years ago we came down to find a little fire burning in the middle of the kitchen. Another time the scraggily bodies of 3 dead crows were found in the fridge. Back then mother thought it was me acting out in a surreal turn of adolescent rebellion. But as the time went on she came round to my way of seeing things and admitted there was a strange and not necessarily good force in her house.

I have a hankering for getting in a medium whenever I am back on my feet. When I mentioned this to Bogdan he warned ‘mediums can do more harm than good. They can provoke a spirit into greater acts of evil. They’re like the occult equivalent of agent provocateurs!”