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Bed Knobs & Big Shits
By Bernie Bostik
Here we go again, it's Monday at last,
He's heading for the Waterloo line,
To catch the 8 a.m. fast, its usually dead on
time,
Hope it isn't late, got to be there by nine.
It was actually the 7:21 am and I had to be there
by 8, but that song would always filter in and out of my head as I was
buying the Mirror from the corner shop, on my way to the station to
catch the train to Hunts Cross.
Through a family friend I got a start with a fridge
firm in Speke. They were gonna start me off on the first year as a YTS
lackey and maybe if I showed any promise, they would give me a proper
apprenticeship. I showed absolutely no promise at all and ended up
leaving after six months. The family were disappointed to say the
least but what did they expect? I was a 17 year old yoof who had just
discovered sex, drugs & rock 'n' roll.
The train journey would take twenty minutes, which
give me and a friend (from round by ours who also worked in Speke),
able time to stick-a-spliff, read the back pages, have a natter about
the footy and then jump off the train to take a ten minute walk to the
Industrial estate chonging away. I hated the job, I hated getting up
early, I hated that train journey, I hated everything about it but it
had to be done. I needed the 35 quid pay-cheque every week for my
pills, thrills & belly ache escapades over the weekend.
The job was pretty easy as it goes but it bored me
to tears. Driving round in a van, going to fix the fridges in
supermarkets, doesn't sound that bad and it wasn't, don't get me wrong
- loads of perving on the check-out girls in the staff canteens and
spending hours in greasy spoons demolishing egg & bacon on toast with
loads of brown sauce. It was groundhog day again and again and again.
Turn up at the depot of a morning, get job, go to job, tell the
supermarket manager you're off to get some spare parts, go to cafe, go
back to depot for dinner, go back to job, go to cafe, go back to job,
finish job and go home.
It was during one dinner hour, fooling around on a
forklift truck, when my career in fridge maintenance ceased very
abruptly. I was sat on the front forks of the vehicle arsing around,
as another colleague was driving it, trying to do donuts in the
warehouse. Crash, Bang, Wallop! and I'm in a heap under a fridge with
my steelies in my mouth. I was in some mad position, with my head down
by my feet and severe pain in the back area. Half an hour later I'm in
Broad Green, smacked up on morphine, getting my clothes cut off me as
men in white coats prodded and poked me ( I still get a chill down my
spine and get cold sweats just thinking about it ). The parents soon
arrived and tears were in abundance from my mother but they soon
stopped after a Doctor came and gave us all his analysis of the
situation. The X-rays had showed a fracture of the L2 (lumba
vertebrae - the second bone up from your coccyx) and what he
prescribed was bed rest for 4 to 6 weeks until the bone had healed. He
also said I was very lucky and if the fracture had been a quarter of
an inch bigger, I would've been leaving the hospital in a wheel chair.
It wasn't all plain sailing though, the first two
weeks were a painful nightmare of; weird drugged up dreams as the
drugs took hold and uncomfortable bad tempered lapses as the drugs
wore off. I was on a timer thing that injected the morphine into my
drip every so often, but through the night, I needed extra to induce
some shut eye. After the first two weeks of agony the last four weeks
were a stroll in the park; lying in bed with not much pain, watching
the nurses going about there business on the ward.
The ward had six beds in and a TV. My bed was at
the end and from my vantage point I had a great view of the nurses
staff room. I would be making tents in me bed as I watched some young
student nurse fix her stockings before she started her shift. I was in
agony most days, with a throbbing member and no opportunity to relieve
the pressure. How could I? I was stuck in a room with five other
blokes and the only time I was alone was when I was having a dump
(which wasn't very often - see below) with the curtains drawn around
me. If I'd have been on the outside world I would've been knocking
three a day out for sure but here I was, six weeks of no wanking. I
was in fucking bits.
It wasn't just the wanking habits that had gone to
cock. My toilet routine had gone down the pan as well. For the first
two weeks I never took a dump and the medical staff got a bit worried
- I blame the cheeseburgers from the Maccies that my visitors would
bring in - then when it got to three weeks they decided to do
something about it and just my luck it was the fit student nurse who
got the unfortunate task of moving my bowls. She had to give me an
enema! After putting the tube in my anus and squeezing all the liquid
up into my guts, she told me as soon as I felt the urge to ring for a
bed pan. She'd not even pulled my curtains back when I screamed for
her assistance. Half an hour and three full to the brim bedpans later,
I was empty. The pain while i was pushing was excruciating and the
screams were deafening, according to the lads on the ward. As well as
the sounds I also left them a rather pungent whiff, which they got rid
of by opening every window available.
They even let me smoke on the ward, that was until
they put some mangled up fella next to me, who had come unstuck with
an iron girder. He was on oxygen and the bottle was right next to my
bed. So ten times a day one of the nurses had to wheel me out to the
smoking room and leave me outside while I sucked on an embo filter and
there was one time I shared a spliff with a kid from Page Moss.
The bed baths were a load of plop, here's me
thinking I'm going to get some nurse to fondle and stroke my under
carriage while I lay back with a cheesy grin. Not a chance! They would
scrub you all over then hand you the flannel and turn their back, so
you could clean your important bits yourself. I was tempted a few
times to go for a really on top danger wank but always lost my bottle
when the chance arose.
I did cum my muck once while I was on my six weeks
of bed rest. It was mid afternoon and I was day dreaming away - having
a delightful little film playing away in my conscience about getting
one of the nurses to come and strip and do dirty things to me &
herself. I must've drifted off and the next minute I'm waking up to a
full on orgasm as multitudes of lava spurted from my knob. It felt
great, infact it felt better than great, it felt fantastic. It felt
like I was cumming for about a minute as the spunk just oozed out of
my japs eye. After I'd finished , I lifted up the sheet and i had this
gigantic wet patch on the front of my boxer shorts. There was no way I
could take them off myself (I could barely lift my head off the
pillow), so there was only one thing for it and I rang for assistance
and just my luck it was the fit student once again!
'Could you help me I've had a bit of an accident?'
I sheepishly said to her.
I didn't tell her what type of accident and she
didn't ask but by the redness in her cheeks I think she guessed, as
she pulled down my rather sticky under garments.
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