MY GREATEST SHAME

When talking about my failed suicide I joke that I ‘bounced’. This is true enough; I am still alive, but there was a fair amount of ‘splat’ involved as well. I was in hospital for nigh on three months. When released to re-hab at my folks’ place, they kindly let me stay for a while, I had to learn how to walk again. I had to learn to read again. It was another six weeks before I could even go outside. The obvious effects of my plummet are my right leg and left arm, but I am a bit damaged all over. I was on pain killers for some time, Tramadol and Paracetamol, which were highly efficacious but did have side effects. I was impotent. Never a good thing. It was terribly galling that, not only could I not even kill myself properly, not only was I now disabled, but I was no longer a man. I blamed the pain killers. I desperately hoped it was them.
Having moved into my little flat I decided to wean myself off the legal drugs. This took quite a while as simply going ‘cold turkey’ was not an option. Unfortunately, my efforts to re-invigorate myself were only partially effective. I weighed up my options very carefully. I am of the very strong opinion that pornography is wrong, but needs must when the devil vomits in your kettle, and magazine therapy seemed to be the way forward in trying to solve my dilemma. I invested in three top-shelf magazines from a newsagent I do not normally use. Two months later my collection swelled to six magazines. I shall forever be grateful to those ladies and their minimal wardrobes. While I will never be accused of being a ‘stud’, it all works again, though just one drink is too many. I did consider throwing the magazines away as a statement of solidarity with the sorority, but decided that such a move would be self-defeating. I own the things now and I have not contributed a huge amount to the industry. It’s a bit like finding out that Primark uses sweat-shops; not shocking at all, but when it became news I bought a couple of T shirts before the prices were increased. Those poor children have made them now and their working conditions are nothing I can do anything about. Those communists have become horrible since they took up capitalism.
Thus I pottered through life for a while quite inured to my disability as at least I’m not impotent any more. The occasional thought of buying some more pornography appeared in my cranium but was always quickly dismissed. I am ashamed enough of owning the magazines, which reside in the kitchen cupboard underneath three packets of envelopes, well out of sight. Not that I have many visitors; there is no room.
I live in a house of five flats and there is always a large amount of post, often for people who do not live here. One day a small package arrived addressed to a man I had never heard of. It looked very inviting in a little present sort of way, and seemed to wink at me as I passed it on my way out for the next week. I finally succumbed to temptation and took it chez-moi one afternoon. Imagine my surprise to discover the parcel contained three porn DVDs, a collection of foul catalogues and many boxes of a tablet by the name of; ‘Kanagarra – keep the spark alive’, the purpose of which was all too clear.
This left me in something of a quandary. What to do? Every one of us has to live with ourselves and there is only ever one person in the mirror each morning. Although it would not affect anyone and no-one would know, I urged myself to stick to my principles and send the offending articles back to the return address without even viewing them. I’m not turned on by watching other people having sex anyway. One attractive young woman performing a gentle striptease is as perverted as I get. It is an example of how Americans cannot do subtlety. Having been to ‘titty bars’ across the pond, they are highly tedious and repetitive. If it were not for the alcohol sold, who would bother? Those places are the definition of mercenary, faux erotica.
I decided to keep the pills though; I might eventually meet a lovely lady who is turned on by penniless cripples. There is always hope.
Thus, while I am not proud of my six magazines, I like to think that I have not let the sisterhood down too badly.