florence

there are people here lying in days old shit. lined up on the cold, hard floor, wounds weeping onto the tiles. if one man stretched out his arms both ways, he would hit two more. quite simply, there is no room, no sanitation and no proper sustenance. men are fed less than a crust of bread each day. we sent these boys off to war and we are leaving them to die without a rifle being lifted. those that come in here for minor issues invariably get cholera, typhoid or worse. miles and miles of gray faces. no one cares. the noise is the worst of it. a constant hum of brown anguish. no-one screams or shouts, rather everyone softly moans. it is suffering in its most basic form, a horrible wet thing, and i will bring it to an end. i had learnt certain ‘techniques’ while in britain before the war. the worst cases – the ones where any form of survival is impossible beyond a few hours or days, were always given to me and my magical hands. when my superiors learnt that i could wank a man so well i induced a cardiac event, i was naturally a popular asset. when a family comes in to check a body, they are always that much happier if he has a smile on his face.

by night i creep out from the barracks and visit the patients. every night, at least one or two die. i have taken it upon myself to see that their passage into the infinite is preceded by pleasantries. you can tell who is closest to death, for they are the quietest. i take my lamp and lay it on the floor beside the dying man. firstly, i excuse myself to the soldiers who are close by. some of them cannot even move their heads in order to turn away from the debauched spectacle. now, if the soldiers were in robes, which they should be given that this is supposed to be a hospital, then things would be easier. but, of course, most of the men in here are in the clothes they wore when they were brought here – days or even weeks before. most are caked in dried blood, shit and urine. this makes removing their trousers and undergarments the least pleasant of my duties. the effluence often sticks to the hairs of the dying men. i often feel it is a cruel irony, as i remove their underwear and the hairs begin to pull out, that just minutes before their death they finally understand how a woman feels when we wax our legs for a first date.

the whole affair of taking off the clothes can be rather taxing, this i will admit. but here is the truth dear readers. a penis is a penis. and once it is out and has been cleaned, as long as it has not succumbed to some form of rot or syphilitic boil, then when moved in a specific way it can ease the suffering of even the most catastrophically diseased young man. a man is a simple creature. you can have many things running through his mind, but rub your little finger around the head of his penis and he will forget all but the most pressing.

and so my lamp was met with mixed feelings by many of the men. as it drew close, the men sensed the black dog of death with the excitement that holds in any mans mind when he thinks he may be pleasured to eruption. as my light floated above the dark ghast of the hospital floor, i expect they drew a sharp, pained breath before the blood was sent, quite against their will, to the genitals. perhaps the fear made the erection more exciting. were they disappointed if i drifted past? no death today. no final cumming. a strange life, the one we choose to live.

eye contact is key. some like me to pretend i am their mother. i can understand this, to an extent. when you are dying, or mortally wounded, thoughts naturally turn to the womb, the milky teat, the warm embrace of the one person above all else who was able to ease your suffering. if this is the case, i have some pre-prepared lines i like to wheel out. there’s a good boy always goes down well. poor baby. show me where it hurts.

a good technique is a must. often the men cannot move and enjoy being teased. slow is best. no need for a hurry. there is a tale among nurses. almost a fable. it goes like this. once a man decided to research the best way to masturbate. after spending his life in this noble pursuit, he came to the conclusion that the best way was this –- lie in a bathtub with only the tip of your penis crowning above the water, like an obscene island with an abandoned well in the middle. once you are relaxed and fully erect, find a fly and pull the wings off. quite where you should look for a fly in this situation is not explained but go with the flow. pull the wings off the fly and place him on the tip of your erect penis. the fly will panic and, unable to take to the air, will run around the perimeter of your helmet, avoiding the water at all cost. and this is how you must remain, until the wingless fly makes enough of a commotion to ensure that you ejaculate. all of this is just to say. slow down. take care. mummy is here.

when the deed is done, wash your hands immediately, then close the soldiers eyes. please remember to wash your hands. i have glued up several young men’s eyes with their own semen in the late of night and it is no way to be presented to your family. i tell you these things not as an expert, but as an apprentice still learning her art. my only hope is that they remember my face. my smile. that as they pass into the arms of the lord, coated in thick white shame, they remember my name.