Tag Archives: tears

SORE

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SORE

There could be nothing worse. They’re all looking up. I can already smell their adrenalin and the puke. They look up and as they are distracted they remove one more cog. Hurray, they scream. It’s exploding in the sky. No it’s exploding in your face. They are plugged into a system. A virtual world of people tracked and trained by a need to be accepted. The sweet smell of gunpowder will show them that there is still beauty

She handed me a book on positive thinking. I picked it up and read the back-cover to be polite. I seemed interested and pretended to read it a second before I handed it back to her. I’m sorry, I said, but I just won’t read it. But, she pleaded, last week you were talking about wanting to commit suicide. This book could help you. I already helped myself. I was talking about it, I replied. I’m all talk. Save your thoughts for the quiet ones. They’re the ones you have to watch out for

I think most reasonable people will contemplate suicide at one time or another. Nearly all people will get themselves into a situation that they think can’t be resolved in any other way. Be wary of somebody who hasn’t. If someone tells you that they never have they are lying or have had an incomplete life. There was a tetraplegic who’d come off his motorbike in the hospital with me. He could only move his head. I asked him if he’d ever considered it? No, he said. Liar, I thought to myself. Newtown taught us that everything that goes up comes back down. Anybody who says that they haven’t is lying

My forearm was getting sore. I’d been wanking for over forty minutes. My penis kept oscillating between soft and hard. I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking of my internet bill as I went from page to page looking for something that would turn me on. I pulled my pants back up. I’d taken three naked pictures of a girl I’d known. I’d shown a friend of mine who asked me where they were when I’d woken up? I’d asked her when she brought all of my possessions to my new apartment. I said, where are all my photos? She told me they were not all mine to have. It was probably wise that she didn’t give them back. I’d already taken them down to the NZ *** ***** store and had shown them to the man that ran it. Her breasts were so good that the owner gave me free ***** ****** for a month

The old man had invited me to his place. I didn’t respond so he got one of his underlings to accost me. He asked for my mobile number so I gave it to him (oh why?) and it was by the time that I got home he’d invited me by text. I ignored it. I would rather spend the day by myself than with people that I don’t know. I went and grabbed a beer. I’d bought imported in celebration of the season. I was drinking the third when I heard my phone beep again. It was an invitation to the same party. I pressed delete and put the phone down. I drained the last of the bottle. I heard my phone beep again so I swore before I went and picked it up. I put the phone on my lap while pushing to the fridge for another beer. I picked it up once I’d opened the bottle. It was the young buck inviting me again. He told me I was invited and to not reply if I didn’t want to attend. I deleted his message and turned my phone off. I did not want to attend

The landline rung and it was my mum. We talked for several minutes and it reminded me how I miss her. I tried to tell her that I missed her but only broke into tears. My mum asked me why I didn’t come back to New Zealand to live? I sniffed and told her it would be too hard. I told her I only just function in the suburb I live in now. It would be too hard getting used to a new location. I told her I’ve been lost in Bondi many times when I’ve lived here over ten years. I could tell my mum was crying silently. I told her I was sorry but the only way I’ve progressed as far as I have has been through repetition. I told her coming home would make it worse. Mum choked back her tears until it was okay to say goodbye

I put the phone back in its cradle. I picked up my mobile and switched it on. I had seventeen missed calls. I didn’t go to his party because I wouldn’t have fit in. I’ve been drawn into a trap. There is no way out. Hope is a bitch and she strangles me. I am by myself but at least I like my own company. I used to take her but now I’m drawn. Now I am something different

now i am only me

Andrew Stuart Buchanan

SITTING AND CRYING

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SITTING AND CRYING

 

 

 

I had to go out and buy a pair of size fourteen shoes to fit them in. The only pair the shop had was a bright fluorescent orange. Someone today told me that people would now see me coming. I never like ordinary statements. I had to get them custom moulded in an orthotic’s clinic. They come all the way up the back of my calves and this time they are built of a thicker plastic. I have a wardrobe full of size twelve shoes. My new orthotics won’t fit in any of them.

 

It’s like some sort of magic. I can stand for just under a minute with my hands by my side. I always have to look down at a point on the ground. I cannot look straight ahead. I don’t have the balance. I stand and look where the metal post meets the concrete and I try. I try and I try and I try. I am stubborn. Somebody told me that I was not stubborn but persistent. I told them they were wrong. I am stubborn. My heart has gone from being filled with ladies to being filled with desire. My heart is filled with an endless pain. It’s not that I don’t know her yet it’s that I don’t even know myself.

 

I have lay awake for countless hours at night willing my legs to move. I have made my face burn crimson from having a body not responding. I have soaked the sheets with my tears. If I can’t sleep at night I will imagine myself walking down a street. The street is somewhere I’ve been before but I never remember where I am. I will start striding. I will be walking and start to walk faster. I always end up running. Every time I am imagining myself walking I will wind up in a sprint. You have to walk before you run.

 

Someone asked if the improvements they saw in my standing and walking were due to the new orthotic’s. They asked if it was cheating? I said yes. They told me to not wear them everyday but alternate. I told them I didn’t have properly functioning legs. I told them that I couldn’t feel much from the waist down and told them that I am not able to wiggle my toes, move my feet, or use my ankles. I told them I am improving from wearing them. I told them that it’s better to be stubborn and walking than sitting and crying.

 

 

 

Andrew Stuart Buchanan

ADAM ATE THAT APPLE

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ADAM ATE THAT APPLE

My dad told me not to worry about it. He told me it’s the world’s oldest profession. He was right. Ever since Adam ate that apple we’ve been chasing her. Every man pays for it in some way. It could be buying dinners or rings. For some men it just comes down to cash. I never had to pay for it before the accident. It was the opposite. Women chased me. From the age of sixteen I’ve always had a woman after me. I had three different women ask me to move in with them. I did. I was a non-professional gigolo. Now I sit in my wheelchair wondering what women are thinking when they stare. They stare at me but I no longer know why. I wink and flirt but none of them want me… the good ones that is. The bad ones want me. There’s been a succession of the bad ones. By the bad ones I mean the broken ones. But you’re sitting half-deaf in a wheelchair, I hear you say. Well by broken I mean emotionally broken. But aren’t you emotionally broken yourself, I hear you ask? Well ok, I mean a succession of wrong women. I have a silver bearded and bilingual neighbour who told me I was crazy for turning any woman down in my position (no legs, no memory, no job, no money, no hope). He was right and I am wrong but I am happy and wrong. I can tell by looking a woman in the eye if it’s going to work. I can tell by looking at a woman’s body if it’s going to be worth the effort. The feminists and angry women are shouting SEXIST PIG!!!! I can hear them. Angry women and feminists don’t live in the real world. They say it’s a man’s world but it’s the woman who chooses. Most women haven’t figured that out. The feminists haven’t figured that out.

I keep meeting women who want to be my friend. They keep giving me their phone numbers. I want to fuck all of them, even the ugly ones. Everybody wants a friend but me. I’m not a misanthrope but I don’t need people the way they do. I’d be happy with one person if they were the right person. I have a phone and wallet full of people’s names and phone numbers I’ve forgotten. When I say people I mean women I’ve forgotten. I should be more careful. My mother tells me off. She tells me that I’m too picky and also tells me that by going for looks alone I am missing out on some really special women. She is right and I am wrong but I am happy and wrong. I keep meeting nutters. I keep meeting the strangest women. They’re drawn to me. Maybe it’s the wheelchair or maybe they can just smell my pain. There was a beautiful woman just the other week. She stood in front of my wheelchair to block my way. I smiled at her and she burst into tears. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t say why she was crying. She just stood crying while I sat wondering. I sat wondering if she was crying with me, for me or over me? Again I know I shouldn’t be so picky. Maybe if I got to know her and cuddled her she’d stop crying but I didn’t want to find out. I’ve cried enough of my own tears.

Women. I thought I knew them before the accident that almost killed me. I did know them as I was then. I don’t know women as I am now. A Female Friend told me off a while ago. She is a mother of two and took the tone of a mother of two as she told me. She told me off as I told her of the women who’ve turned me down since being in a wheelchair. I said that heaps of women had flirted with me so I’d asked them out but none wanted to get to know me. I’m always asking women out after they’ve flirted with me to be told they’ve got a husband or boyfriend at home. I asked Female Friend if they were flirting with me at all or was I misreading signals? I told her I thought that they were. Female Friend took that mother tone as she almost screamed, they’re not flirting with you; they’re probably just impressed and want to get to know you. Impressed with and want to get to know what, I asked, the wheelchair, the hearing aids or the buggered brain? Andy, she said again like a mother, they’d be impressed because you’re pushing yourself up hills and not giving up. I told her I’d rather they were unimpressed and still wanted to fuck me. She said, well they’re not are they? She is wiser than me. My mum always says, don’t you know mothers know everything? Female Friend knew it. Mothers do know everything.

I still need sex as much as I always have. Not being able to get it has turned me into a wanker. I wank like a horny boy. I wank four or five times a week. My spinal injury has affected my legs bum dick and mind. Some nights as I lay wanking my cock goes limp. Some nights as I lay wanking my cock goes limp from thinking too much. The animal in me pauses as it peers out of the woods. I start to question why I’m doing it? I wonder why I’m laying on a bed with a box of Kleenex waiting to come on to sheets of 2-ply. It’s really my mind that goes limp. Just last week my mind took over as my Macintosh was connected to Melons Tube. The first image made me swell. I fell in love with the girl on my screen. Somehow my love of the girl on the screen was killed. I lay watching busty teen sex videos while my erection faded. At first I didn’t know why my erection was shrinking. The images turned me on. It was only after the pitch of my lust was quietened that I could hear what my mind was saying. My mind was reminding me of the excitement of a woman’s breath on the side of my neck. My mind was reminding me of cuddling a woman until she falls asleep snoring. My mind was reminding me of waking up and still being in love. My mind is at war with my heart and my soul. My mind is at war with love. I miss love. I still need love as much as I always have. My body needs love as much as my mind.

They’ve agreed to pay for two visits to a sex worker specialising in spinal injuries. I looked at her website. The photo on her page made her look like she works in a fish and chip shop. She looked old weathered but happy. I rang my case manager and told them I would rather have my penis lowered into a deep-fat fryer than put it in that dirty old thing. It took a lot of ringing around before they found me a younger version. She’s a hot Asian. The photo on her site makes her look like an engineering student. I rang her on a Wednesday afternoon. She picked up so I introduced myself and told her the name of my insurance company. She told me she’d heard of me and the complications related to my injury. A friend had given me a list of things to ask her. I launched into them. I asked her if I could expect penetration out of an encounter? I told her I’ve only managed a three quarter hard since the accident. I told her that might be because I haven’t been turned on properly or that it could be because of damage to the spinal cord. I asked if I would be allowed to penetrate her or not? She paused a second before she answered. She said timidly that she couldn’t really talk as she was actually on the bus. I laughed and asked her again, come on tell me what can I expect and am I allowed to fuck you? She laughed and I laughed again. It made me happy to think I could still relate to the opposite sex but sad to think that I now had to pay for it.

I still can’t decide wether I should go through with it. It feels dirty having to pay for sex. It also feels dirty laying on my bed with a hand on it with 2-ply at the ready. They say money can’t buy love. Money can’t buy love but money can make it feel like it.

Andrew Stuart Buchanan