SHITTING SLEEPING WANKING EATING

NOW FREE: Age turns our former pleasures into torments.

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(Picture: Inshoku Yojo Kagami (飲食養生鑑) by Utagawa Kunisada. Late 19th C.)

I used to enjoy shitting. In the morning, after two hours’ work and several coffees, I would retire to the bathroom with a cigarette. Having taken a natural laxative the night before, if everything was working as it should, I would relish the relief. Often, this procedure would be repeated after lunch, before my nap. Unlike modern people, I didn’t scroll through Twitter while doing this; instead, I enjoyed my own thoughts and memories, and would consider what I might like for supper. When your shitting is regular and solid, you feel reassured. The Swiss watch of the body informs us that we are, for one cleansing moment, perfectly made.

Now, it’s highly probable, but not inevitable, that I will take a big shit in my pants at some point during the day. As I have explained before, my morning begins with a suppository pressed into my rectum. If I haven’t opened my bowels within half an hour, I am hoisted into my wheelchair, certain that I will defecate within the next few hours. There is not much I can do about this, since I can’t go to the toilet or control myself. It is inconvenient, because my carer then, with the assistance of a reluctant family member, has to get me into bed, turn me over, remove my trousers, and clean me up. This gruesome business takes at least forty-five minutes and is particularly unpleasant for my kids, who never expected to be pulling down their father’s shit-smeared pants. Nevertheless, I did the same for them.

If Isabella is away and I’m alone with my carer, I may have to sit in my shit for long periods of time while my arse becomes painfully sore. By now, this procedure is neither embarrassing nor humiliating, but it’s certainly inconvenient and a waste of time.

Taking a shit is no fun anymore.

I used to enjoy going to bed. For two hours in the evening, Isabella and I would watch TV and gossip, growing slowly sleepy. Then I would put the dishwasher on, open the kitchen window, and think to myself: there will be a moment when all of this will end. I had no idea how soon.

I’d go upstairs, slip into our luxurious bed, and doze, waiting for Isabella to complete her ablutions. We’d fall asleep almost immediately. It was a joy to feel her warm body next to mine, and to wake up before her, to see her still sleeping innocently. I’d make two coffees and take her one, putting it next to the bed. In the next room, I’d sit at my desk and work, while she, an Italian, would lie in until ten, reading the papers. To sleep next to her—that was everything; it was enough.

Now I am put to bed by “the government.” The local authority carer arrives at seven, helps me into bed, and leaves. I have to sleep on my back because I can’t move. Isabella and I still watch television; she sits on a wooden chair beside the bed. Kissing me goodnight at ten, she goes upstairs to our old room, one we once shared. I wish I could follow her.

Then the nights. I have terrible nightmares now, and wake yelling and thrashing. Eventually, I hear her footsteps on the floor above, coming down to kiss and calm me, and I fall back to sleep, grateful and faintly ashamed—a grown man calling out like a child.

It is common knowledge that masturbation is quicker and certainly cheaper than sex. Most people, I am sure, prefer it. Before my accident, I would happily and healthily clean my pipes twice a week, keeping the devil of desire at bay. Additionally, my doctor told me that masturbation reduces the risk of prostate cancer, and so I was happy to please at least him. In another blog, I wrote:

“I can’t remember the last time I ejaculated. But there would have been a last time, and I wouldn’t have known it was the last time. I guess you’ll never know with anything when the last time will be: the last cigarette, your last kiss, a last look at your children’s faces.”

My sexuality hasn’t entirely died. I have memories and even fantasies. Sometimes these fantasies haunt me all night. I can’t get rid of them the usual way, by masturbating, and so they go on and on until, mercifully, I fall asleep. But they do pursue me into my dreams.

You’ll be happy to hear, dear reader, that I have had a couple of semi-hard erections lately. However, the welcome swelling could not be accompanied by any release.

I content myself with the knowledge that there is barely a single friend of mine whose genitalia is in good working order.

A dad tells his son, “If you masturbate too much, you’ll go blind.”
The son replies, “Dad, I’m over here.”

As for eating, it was many years into the last century before I realised that not all food came in a tin. From steak and kidney pie to cream and even peaches, the most essential item in our house, when it came to food, was the tin opener, of which we had several. The tin opener was our air fryer, our Nutribullet. I was never a chef, and for a lot of my adult life I lived alone and was responsible for my own grub, which for years consisted of cheese on toast, baked beans on toast, or pasta with a side of toast. Delicious. God’s own food.

Now I am disabled, diabetic, and live in a city replete with organic and exotic produce. I am fed all kinds of unpronounceable food. I had no idea you could eat squid, but I have it every week and even enjoy it. All kinds of weird things are shoved into my mouth by my family and carers: fennel, samphire, and purple sprouting broccoli. One of the few benefits of being tetraplegic is that I am no longer in charge of my own diet. My gut health, whatever that is, is apparently better than ever.

Shitting, sleeping, wanking, eating; I can no longer take any of them for granted. But there isn’t a person on the planet who doesn’t have an issue with at least one of these pleasures. Age turns our former pleasures into torments. If I were you, I’d enjoy them while you can.