Turn The Porn On

January 27th, 2014 Comments Off on Turn The Porn On

He was lying in the hospital bed with a plastic clip on his little finger from which a wire connected him to a heart monitor. His leathered skin was pulled tight over his cheekbones and jaw. Under his eyes were turbid shadows textured like bruised deflated bollocks. Every now and then his tongue would appear out of his mouth, twitching like a tired old cock in a gentle spasm on those dry and frigid lips. Near dead, he was haunted by the memory of what was once pronounced between his legs, solid and jerking like some plastered drunkard at a dance. Above him on the television screen a national talent show blazed, sculpted kids in tight clothes, gyrating to songs of unrequited love. He didn’t want it switched off, just the channel changed, but he hadn’t the strength to reach up to do it himself. Not that they had what he wanted to watch. Not like in a hotel room.

This was not how he had wanted it to be. This hour of his death. Alone. The veins from his wrists morphed into plastic capillaries feeding from a translucent sac, slung on a pole like a discarded breast implant. His throat rattling. His lungs heaving, in and out like a exhausted gigolo’s ass. And he wanted to fuck, to relive a fuck, to be back in a fuck, to be alive in a fuck, for his prick to break free of these deathbed blankets like the arm of the undead thrusting through the cemetery turf.

The door opened and in walked a nurse, in a white uniform, her shoes squeaking across the floor. Stopping at the foot of his bed to pick up his chart, scan it, and then glance an eye, a poker eye, not giving her game away. Perhaps she was giving him the eye and he just couldn’t read her. That’s how he remembered it when he was young, when he was in the thick of it. Never could read the look in their eyes. Like another species they were, these women.

She hung his notes on the end of his bed, turned to leave. Was just about to vanish from the room when he croaked her back with a half whispered, Nuuurrsrse. Not once but twice: Nuuuurrsse.

When she turned to face him he could feel his eyes sticking out of his sockets. Watching her highlighted hair glisten under the fluorescent strip of lights. It hung to her shoulders. And her body was heavy, but in a good way, he thought, flesh to get hold of, a body that had been lived in. He’d always liked that. A body with experience.

The nurse smiled gently and waited as he searched not for words – he knew what he wanted to say; he was searching for the energy to say it, and when it came it didn’t flow fluent and fast, it was stilted and slow, the deathly cantor of his breath distorting the pitch and tone of his dense Bristolian lilt. Turn the porn on, he said. Turn the porn on, for Christ’s sake. I’m dying . . . I’m dying. I can’t move my arms. This wheezy breath is dragging me down. I can’t do for myself . . . I can’t fucking move. Please, please make an old man happy. I won’t wank. Honest. Christ, look at me: I can’t move. I just want to remember what it was like. I want to remember that feeling of rubbing close to a body. Sliding over that silk. I want to remember her breathing and steaming my eyes up. I want to remember.

Stop this “you can’t help me” bullshit. Stop it. There ain’t nothing wrong with longing. I want to let go of this world fucking. When I can’t breathe no more I want to be breathless, go out on a bang. But you don’t hear me. Just switch me out with soft channels and talent shows. Don’t press the Discovery pages – I don’t want to think myself to oblivion. What is the point of all that knowledge? I want to feel. I want to feel wet pussy. I want to feel pointed tits. I want to feel her little death in my arms, her heart miss a beat. I want to remember coming apart and sticking back together in an instant. I want to remember pumping until it hurts. I want hair in my teeth and the back of my throat.

Please, just five minutes. Make an old man happy. The banter – that old banter running around until the lips meet, that first accident, that first smile with teeth touching, that first smile with eyes melting together, and then a wander around the edge of her tongue.

Don’t let me die now, not just yet. Five minutes more – no, ten – make it a whole hour, just one more hour, just time enough to remember what flesh is like. Just a bit more time to hold on, a bit more time to hold her, to roll her, to fold her flesh, to bite it, lick it, suck it, just a bit more time before I let it go.

I can feel my spirits lift – oh yes, there is life in this old man yet. Oh yes, I can feel my heart picking up, I can feel my breath getting deeper, my chest rise. I love life, I love every day, I love walking, I love talking, I love eating, I love reading, I love looking at people, I love jostling with crowds, I love hard rain, I love being angry, I love shouting, I love screaming, I love running, I love throwing money away, I love getting on the wrong bus, I love it when it’s freezing cold, I love being a child, I love growing up, I love knowing more than I did then, I love knowing that you don’t know what I am thinking, I love the moments when you do, I love staying out late, I love wine, I love drinking, I love wishing that I didn’t, I love working, I love hating bits of my life, I love hating bad food and terrible films. I love not wanting to let it all go.

And now I’m in and we’re down to it. Wow she’s wet – I had a great time drinking her. And now we’re pros we’ve been here so many times, and it’s never without colour, even though the red rouge of her cheeks is slowly growing dull and the pitch black of her hair has long since passed grey to white. This is one land that I don’t mind walking again and again and again.

Please, nurse, just turn the porn on. I want to enjoy these last few breaths, because I can’t let my body go. It doesn’t work like that. Each one of your tubes, in my body, is holding me to this earth like a ship to the shore, keeping me here with nothing to do, except remember. So turn the porn on. Please, turn the porn on. I want to remember. I want to remember it all. Before it stops . . . Before it stops . . .

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