For the entire day, I have been obsessively going over John's visit, trying to decipher whether or not he has actually been here, but the more I try to defog what happened, the mistier in my mind it becomes. Here's what I think happened.
John (or someone kind of resembling him) drives past me, down the hall and into the kitchen. I am shocked at his appearance and shocked that he is in a wheelchair. Outside the night is bright and weird. The street seems eerily deserted and modified, like it is a film-set or something.
I close the door, fumbling to put the chain in its catch. Whether I succeed in doing so or not, I don't know or care. My concentration is on my feet, trying to make them move me down the hall. I have the sensation that I stumble back twice as much as I stumble forward. I am no longer sure what is the floor and what is the ceiling.
I pass the bathroom and flag it as a marker, proof that I am indeed advancing. I am urging myself on: “kitchen.. kitchen... kitchen!” For a moment I entertain the idea that all that has passed is an hallucination, or a drunken/drugged up fantasy. It is only when I reach the kitchen and see the seated shadow of a man in a wheelchair that I sway back into reality (or insanity).
I flick the light on and the man I will now refer to as 'John' is sitting there with his back to me. On registering the light he starts spinning his chair around like it is some crazy toy. When he finally stops he is facing me. He is in his hospital gown and his legs are pressed tightly together and collapsed a little to the left. They look like they could be strapped. In contrast, his head is flopped to the right and there is a string of dribble hanging from his mouth. I feel so out of it that I am not shocked, more bemused, as if I don't know whats going on. I don't say “Huh???” but I look as if I have. Then John sits up, straight as an arrow, completely normal, and smiles. He manoeuvres his chair backwards and forwards, stops/spins, etc, demonstrating he has full control over his vehicle. “Well, aren't you gonna give me a welcome home blowjob?” he asks “It's me, John!”
Now completely composed, not only does he look like John, he sounds like him too. I peer in closer. I want to find something that will emphatically prove it is him, but his features keep falling in and out of focus and the only thing I can register is his bleached blond hair. That is the only constant reference point in all this madness.
I hear the flint of a lighter and then smoke is being blown my way. My head feels badly weighted and it is becoming hard to keep focussed. I feel sick, and then there is more smoke. It is swirling around my head and the floor is rushing. Johns slippered feet keep spinning in and out of picture.
I need a chair. My upper body is threatening to take my legs from me. As I make my way past John, steadying myself on the table, I hear: “Blowjob!” But this time it isn't Johns voice, rather something that sounds like it is being powered by his wheelchair battery. As sick as I feel, I slump down at the table and instinctively reach for the bottle of wine. I can see my arm, the bottle tilted against the glass and the wine pouring out, but now it seems like there is a few seconds time delay on movement and sound. I blink and squint and try to shake my head clear.
“Wuld'jew like uh drink?” I slur at John with my eyes staring somewhere off his shoulder. “Blowjob!” he says spinning around “I.want.a.blow.job!” For a moment his syncopated words bring me to, like some terrible fright that shocks a man sober. He spoke as if there was a full.stop.after.each.word, just as he has done in comments on this blog. .
After crashing my empty glass down on the table, things became even more dizzy and indistinct. In fact, from that point on I only have the vaguest recollections of what actually passed.
I remember crying, but emotionless, drunk, self-pitying tears. Real watery things that just added to my haze. I remember pathetically flinging myself around John and trying to raise his gown up with my head so as I could suck his cock. My tears and cries rising into a crescendo as he pushed me away... denied me a fantasy, a pleasure, a moment. I finally gave up and sunk into his soft crutch crying tears through his dress, and begging his dick to forgive me. I remember being slumped on the floor, crawling, begging and collapsing again. Then the kitchen disappears.
We are in the living room. I don't know how we got there. I am trying to calm John down, apologising. I don't know why. I am pleading with him. The next thing his right hand is dripping wet and he is clenching something. I am hysterical. I hear a thud and see a small wet bump on the wall. Jaws is on the floor stunned. He looks pretty dead.
Flapping. I remember that. I am bending down reaching out but I am off balance. I have a tremendous urge to overcome my drink and drug handicap and reach what it is I am straining at.
Something is pulsating in my hand like a little tiny heartbeat. I am clutching my fish to my chest. Plop. Swooosh. Bubbles. Jaws is scooting away, down low, to a safe place.
John is on the floor. He is half out his wheelchair and both are on their side. My eyes are on his neck. Kill, KILL!!!. Then we are kissing. I have a dick pressed to my face and poking up towards my eye. I am moving my head like a cat, trying to get it down and in my mouth. A pair of Elvis Costello type glasses moves in close and I lose consciousness.
I am pushing John down the hallway. The bedroom is dark. I am thinking of upturning his wheelchair so as he tumbles out onto the bed. I haven't the strength to lift him up.
Bed. Empty Hospital gown.
Chest. Stomach. Hairs. Cock. Arsehole.
The room is spinning. I am on my back. I am a woman. John is thrusting in and out of focus. He doesn't seem very handicapped. I am Puzzled??? Don't matter, it feels too good.
8” multi-speed moulded penis. Remote control. Suction pad. Battery operated toys. Wheelchair.
My bottom is curled up against John's crotch. I am happy. Then I am spinning.
Vomit. Floor. Distant bulb. Lights out.
And thats it. When I awoke in the afternoon I was alone. There was no wheelchair, no arms, and no John. All I had for company was a pile of sick and an 8” rubber cock. It was laying besides me and the batteries were dead. The place was trashed and my mind was shot. I turned over onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. Four cracks, eight pieces of old tape and an air-vent. I wanted it to collapse on top of me. As I crossed my fingers and wished, a warm, desperate tear rolled across my cheek and curled up behind my ear. John, John John... For you I will wait forever.