By: Wishdokter

The location was perfect. I’d been told just how beautiful this vista was, but I couldn’t take any enjoyment from it. I couldn’t see anything because it was night and pitch-black. I really didn’t have any inclination towards enjoyment at the best of times. Every minute feels like borrowed time. My life, much like the deleted scenes on a bonus DVD, pointless, after you’ve watched the whole film.

I knew what to do. I knew why too. Earlier that day I’d spent a few hours making sure that any items in my room which may cause offence, after the event, were removed and discarded, so as not to cause embarrassment to my parents or sully my good name. I gathered the tools I needed and dumped them on the back seat of the car.

Sitting at my steering wheel, facing out into the blackness of night, I contemplate what I am doing.

I am about to take my own life in a manner so favoured by city-traders, paedophile uncles and psychotic ex-boyfriends, car-exhaust. I am none of the above I might add.

I am about to end it all, kill myself, take my own life, do away with myself, die by my own hand, commit hara-kiri or suttee. The wording is not important. And, should my life flash before my eyes, I probably won’t be featured in it anyway.

The hose pipe, gaffer-taped to my exhaust pipe, leads into the car via a slight opening in the window, the rest of the gap is plugged with my jacket. Having slid the seat as far forward as possible, I have my right hand on the ignition key, with my left white knuckle gripped on the steering wheel.

On the boundary between life and death, I am alone on a cliff side. I am numb. Someone taps on the passenger window but initially I don’t hear it. I’m shaken from my final moments by someone opening the door.

“Hiya sweety.., isn’t it cold? I’d best get me hands warm first… No need for your name, but my name’s Brian.”

A large, bald and exceedingly camp man, speaking incessantly, climbs into the passenger seat of my car. Jovial and full of energy, he proceeds to speak at great length about everything, except why he’s inside my car when I am about to make the forever decision.

His rambling has ceased. He spoke for about ten minutes until he noticed the fleece jacket stuffed into the gap in the window, and my hand on the ignition key. He opened the door again but remained seated, silent now, and that hush seemed to last a billion years.

I thought I could sense his judgement. When he did speak it was slow and deliberate, and his voice carried a level of compassion I’d not heard in a long while. He was deadly still, and I’d almost forgotten he was there.

“I don’t know who you are, or what’s brought you to this. I only know that for the moment, you’re here and I’m here, and that’s good. I can assume that you’re here because you’re troubled and considering ending your life. If truth be known, I would prefer to be here with you, at this moment, for the reason I came up here for, and not for your intentions, but, hey-ho, we’ll just have to make do with this.” Silence again.

I take my hand off the key. We both just sat there for a while.

By: Wishdokter

I arrived somewhat later than I’d intended. It was nearly mid-night and the house party was, as the kids would say nowadays, in full swing. As soon as I’d walked in, most people were aghast. I fought my way through the crowd and took my place, in the front room, where most people were dancing. They had to clear a space. I stood there for two hours.

Earlier on in the day was especially busy for me. I knew I’d have a lot to prepare for the fancy dress party, and it was imperative that I made an impact.

Finding all the components to my costume was easy, well relatively. I already had all the cloth and foliage I’d need, but the lengths of balsa wood was going to prove difficult. I’d already been to the local timber merchants and they’d basically laughed me out of the shop. In the end I opted for a light pine wood bought from B&Q, which in hindsight was probably not a good idea, because of the weight.

When I arrived it took me several attempts at getting into the house, past the large rugby-types hoarding the space in the font garden. Twice I was spat at, but some party-goers standing by a car were quite visibly amused.

This morning had not been any different from any other morning, only that I’d deliberately not washed. I hadn’t brushed my teeth in a week. After breakfast it was time to assemble my costume. Wearing a pair of garden gloves made it a lot easier, and less painful, to twist the rose branches, already stripped of leaves, into a circle.

So, here I am, stood, arms out wide, nailed to a cross at a fancy dress party in Fulham, wearing only a loin cloth and a thorn of crowns made from rose branches.

The nails I used were obviously sterilised, and the thorns had the desired effect, causing enough blood to drip down my face, but not enough to obscure my vision. It was the gash to my abdomen that was causing most discomfort.

Funny, most people left within thirty minutes of my arrival, but I had a thoroughly good time, though I didn’t smile once. The only words I’d spoken all night were “I am here to die for your sins”.

Despite those people wanting to go home early, I would say that Methodists really know how to party.

By: Wishdokter

“My year in India was a major turning point in my life… I think I’ve found my spiritual home, the people there are so friendly…” Serenely beautiful and waif-like.

She’s the only one in the room who is speaking. Every now and then a couple will whisper something to each other. But, apart from that she is the one doing all the talking. Flicking her fringe from her brow with her pinky, and stroking her pointy nose, far too many times, suggests to me she’s hiding a crippling insecurity covered up by celestial beauty.

I have to say something. I can’t keep it in any longer. Blinking through the thick bong smoke, my thoughts shift to the fact that I’ve not heard a word she’s said. I listen intently for another hour.

“You really ought to leave all your Western hang-ups at the airport when in India, they’re so spiritual, when I returned home it was all so… like… so drab, nobody smiling, it’s so depressing… we stayed at the palace of a Maharajah you know…” I say nothing.

Any minute now I’m expecting her to pull a projector and laptop out of her cute ass and start a slide-show of her ’year in India’.

Six long hours pass by, and the handful of people left at the party are asleep. I pretend to do the same until I know that no one will stir. I raise myself from the floor very slowly. Trying not to knock over any ill-placed wine bottles or ashtrays. She is fast asleep, and naturally looks more gorgeous when silent.

I creep towards her on my knees. Slipping my hand into my jeans pocket, I remove the tools of my trade. The small plastic swastika feels warm in my hands. I unscrew the cap off the super-glue and trace the outline on the reverse of the symbol. I lean forward and press the glued side to her forehead. Pressing firmly enough to make it stick, but gently enough not to wake her. Then I pop the cap off the marker-pen and draw a stylish Hitler moustache on her top lip. She barely moved.

My work here is done. I left the party having raided the fridge of anything worth eating and taking some underwear from her mother’s room. I may well return the lingerie one day, after I’m done with them, naturally.

By: Wishdokter

Just the other day, travelling upstairs on the empty bus from work, I was astounded by the sight of a woman masturbating. Now this may seem like an unbelievable tale told around a pub table by coarse friends.

The two of us sitting opposite sides, me with a clear view of her actions. Somewhat shocked at what I was witnessing, I struggled to hide my obvious interest.

The woman, no older than thirty, had her eyes closed for most of time, which made the whole scene seem even more erotic. I switch my gaze from her face to her hand, which was frantically working away down the front of her jeans.

She is aware of my presence, but not at all fazed by my attention.

The act of self-love lasts for nearly ten minutes, and the woman finishes up with a wet-wipe for her hands. She then stands to leave, smiles and ends her journey with a“thank you”.

By: Wishdokter

I’m not going to let this one get away. I like to have fun. I approach with an inane grin on my face.

I know he recognises me from school, but he certainly won’t remember my name.

Uncomfortably he slowly stretches out his hand to shake mine. I limply grip his fore-finger in an attempt to seem feeble, forcing a little bit of spittle from the right side of my mouth.

“Hey, it’s Paul, right?” he struggles to feign sincerity. I don’t make eye contact for any length of time.

“No, it’s Pete, we went to school together.” My voice is monotone and suitably unwelcoming in contrast with my asinine grin.

“Yeah, yeah, Pete, right. What you doing with yourself now Pete?”

I respond, at great length, about how I decided to come off the medication with a hope in becoming a ‘real’ person, but living with my mother and aunt only causes me more anxiety, so I have to walk about at night to avoid their criticisms and hurtful scorn. I tell him that I’ve stopped all that with the cats, and that he ought to come to the house one day to meet mother. He shifts his feet uncomfortably. I’m still holding his fore-finger.

“Anyhow Pete.” He pulls his finger away. “I best get… going… you take care pal…” I let the spittle drop from my mouth onto my muddy shoe without replying.

When he turns the corner, I slip my hand into my trouser pocket and remove his wallet, phone and and a comb. On my way home I drop each item into a storm drain.

By: Wishdokter

Self immolation is the term for the act I’m about to carry out. I walk to the park, the same route I do everyday, this time though I am looking at all their faces, noticing their expressions, seeing the dead eyes seeing nothing. I’m not noticd.

The park green is empty. People congregate at the café and cling to the edges of the park where the benches are.

I stride confidently to the middle and sit down crossed legged. Unscrewing the top of the canister seems harder that I thought it would be, but I am deliberate and mindful of my actions.

I lift the heavy canister above my head and smell the petrol as the liquid runs down my face and chest. I am not aware of anyone else now.

I slip my hand into my breast pocket and pull out the lighter.

By: Wishdokter

My legs are burning. I’m pumped and running on empty as I ride up to the police cordon tape that’s been stretched across the road. An aggressive policeman approaches me and tells me that I can’t go down this way, and will have to find another route.

I ask what’s occurred but he’s already moving having just spotted a couple ducking under the blue and white tape.

I ride around to the other side of the street to where an elderly man is stood watching. I ask him what has happened, but he only manages to grin. I’m guessing he knows as much as I do.

In this crazed and fucked up world I’m imagining some great catastrophe, whereby the death toll slowly increases as time ticks by. There are five police cars, one ambulance, nine officers and a dog.

A young chav approaches me enquiring, enthusiastically, about the incident. I tell him that four people have been shot whilst trying to steal popodums from the Indian restaurant. Two people died instantly. The police shot dead the restaurant owner because he’d shot the three thieves, killing one of them.

“dat sick man” he replied.

By: Wishdokter

I know that at my age, one year from forty, I ought not to think about sex as much as I do.

Men of a certain age, fathers and uncles, are perceived less as sexual beings.

I am not quite sure if it is my perception of our sexualised society, which is clearly skewed, or the possibility that from the many years of being a bit-part actor in a play without direction or script causes me to ponder, often, this age old question. Some of the actors in the love play are trained Thespians, taking centre stage, but most are marginalised extras, waiting in the wings, awaiting passers-by to fall, finally, in love with.

Towards the very end of our lives we, heterosexual men that is, will be concerned only with how we were viewed by the women in our lives. Mother, sisters, lovers et al. Proud to say that I’ve had a modern amount of sex, but loved few. Does that sound cold and unfeeling? I believe that Love is a commodity much like any other, traded across markets of time and effort.

Can I say that I was in love with my seventh girlfriend more than my eighth, but not as much as the current one? Both sexes will adapt to incorporate a hierarchy of values for their loved, and their unrequited.

Reciprocation is usually deeply rooted. When a couple truly feel a bond it most definitely feels like the world exists for you two only. But, when one’s love should come to an end, indeed, we should both just move right on by to the next potential inamorata. The crippling feelings of loss which are experienced are, truthfully, the feeling of lost time, coupled with a conceited regret at not having been the person they expected you to be, or more importantly, them having not lived up to your expectations. The endeavour of relationships can’t be underestimated when viewed as a trade good.

Ineffable as it is, love comes to most of us via conventional means. Commercialised in blood-red hearts and flowers. Within the trashy magazines they will often tell you, in ten easy steps, that the way to deal with being in love with somebody who doesn’t love you is to learn to appreciate yourself, realise that you don’t need anyone to validate you, and that you are still the wonderful person you were before the breakup.

You do, of course, require validation from another, we all do. I would go so far as to say, we crave the endorsement of being in love and being loved, constantly throughout our lives.

According to The Urban Dictionary a Love Sponge is the term for a person so sweet and charming, not to mention magnetic and captivating, that they soak up and attract others, with their enchanting ways. In contrast, it is somewhat of a sad fact of modern life that other individuals will never experience true romantic love, settling for the ad-agency approach.

Some of us may have been lucky enough, often in our youth, to have been romantically linked, and more often than not, for a very short period only, to what I affectionately call a butterfly. A painful game that hurt so good. They were the kind of person that simply oozes with desire. We all know of the alpha-female type, flitting from one flower to the next, spending just enough time there to keep every bloom happy. I invested a great deal of effort, and a generous amount of time, thinking about the butterfly. Though soaking up love like a sponge does denote a certain amount of neediness on their part, I’m often reminded of just how much my adoration fuelled their return attention.
But what of emotion? Feelings are raw, messy and often guardedly kept secrets. Express your feelings at your peril.

Sometimes I think I understand women. I certainly adore them. I think I’ve been in love four or five times and I get terribly desperate for their company. At other times, I don’t think they register on the proverbial scale at all.

Most of my muses wouldn’t give me the time of day, not any more.

By: Wishdokter

11th January 2010

On this day, 39 years ago, the very first ‘Quickie Divorce’ was granted in the UK. It was also the day of my birth.

I’m telling you this because I know you’re NOT going to make a fuss, wish, or worse still sing, me a happy birthday, or feel sorry for me because I’m at home with nothing planned for the day. I am telling you this only because I’ve not told, or reminded, anyone else. Now I feel able to rant about it, to you, without fear of sounding like I’m bothered… I ain’t bovvered!!

Most of my close friends know not to bother doing anything special for me on this date, some feel compelled to do something, even if they can just mention it…! DON’T!

I’ll be honest with you, I like spending this date alone, but I’m never lonely. My long time school friend, Tony, was born a few hours after me on the 12th, as schoolboys we used to celebrate it together, until we turned 14 or so. Nowadays, the day will pass unnoticed, which I like tremendously.

Anyhow, I have a free day, no DWP appointments, no counselling meetings, or shopping to be done. I don’t need to do any chores, or go visit anyone. I can choose to do as I please. Not because I was born on this date, but because I have free will, and some time to exercise it.

That said, I’ve been looking out of my window at the streets today, I even went to inspect the road surface, when speaking to the postman this morning. I could go cycling.

So, I’m going to take my iPod, borrow Joe’s MT bike and head up the road towards the woods, build a fire and listen to some tunes.

I’ve just had a call from my GP, asking me if I needed or wanted to change my sleeping tablets to a new trial drug. That’s quite normal. But, at the end of the conversation, he says ‘Ah, I see from your records it’s your birthday – HAPPY BIRTHDAY’.

I slowly returned the phone receiver to its cradle without saying anything in response. Rubbing my furrowed brow, lowering my head in mock pain, I suddenly realise that even though I’m home-alone, I still can’t avoid my fucking birthday. Fuck digital calendars…!!

By: Wishdokter

As of yesterday, I’m wearing a new hat, proverbially speaking.

It is somewhat true, that if one thinks positively blah blah blah… No, in a case like this I will get away with believing this truth to be self evident, despite what personal history tells me.

My new hat consists of a great deal of wider-thinking. That is to say, mein weltanschauung has broadened: not by geography, religion or politics, but by the personal outlook of another. And, of course, outlook determines reality.

Or, put simply, I am in love. No, no, no: did I really just type that? Yes I did, but it is only a half truth. But yes, my outlook has been influenced by the fairer sex. You see, like most of us, I want (not need) somebody to share my world, to share my innermost thoughts and know my most intimate details. And I firmly believe that I have met that somebody.

It may have been prudent for me to have said, from the outset and for the benefit of our readership, that I do not believe in Romance. My inamorata is an amazing woman, but I wont be gushing-over with an overload of literary sentiment on these pages. Rest in the knowledge that my words are marked in sound judgement, and that I am notafflicted with the fanciful and unrealistic malaise called Romantic Love.

That aside, can I ask if you’ve ever met anybody that just gets you, someone whose opinions matter to you more than the words of your worried mother, dismayed priest or disappointed school teachers?

Are you the sort of person who staggers blindly towards the mirage of longed-for love, or, like me, usually skip lightly, skirting around the issue of amour?

Am I now willing to plunge headlong into sharing my world with another? Yes.

You see, my world-view now has an additional person to consider. My life, at the risk of sounding schmaltzy, now has new focus and additional meaning. For someone like me, used to thinking solely of myself, this is a very new chapter in my book. But, I am not projecting, as my therapist would suggest. I’m merely exploring the notion of being in a relationship.

There, it is written, I cannot take these words away.

This has proven to be far more difficult to write than I initially thought it would.

Wish.