Over The Hills And Faraway, Book 5. Paying The PiperChapter 33: Crisis ... What Mid-life Crisis? free porn video
April 20th, 2009: Mortimer Crippen's Clinic, Devonshire Mews.
"Good to see you, Des." Mort shook my hand with enthusiasm, "I've constructed what I believe is a feasible theory explaining the reason for your unusual type of ED."
It was over two weeks since my last visit to the clinic, and as I had a free day from driving the shagging waggon, and indeed from shagging any of the passengers, I had decided to make the appointment and discover what, if anything, Mort had learned from my two hour monologue.
"You remember I considered there were two emotional triggers: anger at being rejected/betrayed by those who you loved and trusted, coupled with a feeling of guilt, which had initiated this rare form of ED you have, namely now only obtaining one full insertion and ejaculation during a sex session, from previously enjoying several." He gave a wry smile. "Most men of your age would be content with that level of attainment, but you had been satisfying your partners three or four times a session until recently. Now, even if able to raise an erection and penetrate a female after your first climax, the erection vanishes after a few minutes of copulation?"
I nodded glumly; we had discussed this sad state of my libido at my last appointment.
He glanced at the sheaf of typed pages he was holding. "My first supposition centred on your first wife, Miriam. I had thought your anger at her rejection of you, beginning at the start of your marriage when she refused to accompany you to Germany, coupled with her adultery, being the first trigger." He tapped the pages in his hand. "However, on a closer perusal of this account I realised you have forgiven her, and laid all the blame for her behaviour squarely on her step-brother, Martin Hodge, whom you subsequently maimed for life. What anger you might have felt has been assuaged by your act of revenge."
He scratched his groin absentmindedly. "I now believe the first trigger was supplied by the married Welsh female, Ffion Probert, with whom you shared a passionate affair..."
"Ffion? She never rejected me, nor did she betray me..."
"She didn't leave her husband for you, although she was instrumental in you being reduced to the ranks. I would have thought that was a betrayal. If she hadn't seduced you into an affair you wouldn't have been with her when her husband hit her in a jealous rage. You, in turn, wouldn't have struck him, and would not have been stripped of your rank as punishment. Had you remained a sergeant you would have been promoted to staff sergeant well before your thirty eighth birthday, and would not have had to leave the army." He gave a rueful smile. "You have kept the anger of losing your rank, and then having to leave the army, bottled up, and you have subconsciously blamed her. Remember what I told you about the constant battle between id and super ego to control the ego? Whenever id digs up unpleasant emotions and memories buried in the subconscious super ego tries to keep ego unaware of those truths, by fair means or foul. Erectile dysfunction is a classic move by super ego."
Mort had gone on at length about all that psychoanalysis bollocks during my last visit, and he was still talking bollocks.
"Ffion stood by her husband," I said. "He was going to spend several years in a military prison, and after completing his sentence would have been dishonourably discharged, with no pension and no references. They had a son, and Ffion wanted to do the best for him. I admired her; I didn't hate her, or blame her for anything."
Mortimer lifted a lip in a sardonic smile. "Your id and super ego are still battling to control your ego, Des. Believe me, your anger towards Ffion was the first trigger."
"OK, so what is the second trigger?"
"Guilt," he said, emphatically.
I snorted in laughter. "With respect, Mort, you're talking cobblers."
He extracted a sheet from the sheaf of papers in his hand. "You have been a regular visitor to Wootton Basset, when the bodies of those of our servicemen and women killed on active service are repatriated to the UK via the RAF base at Lyneham, have you not?"
I nodded. "Yes, it's the least I can do to show my respect."
The government didn't want the repatriation of bodies to be a public event, and after the aircraft bearing the bodies had landed at RAF Lyneham whisked the coffins away quietly and surreptitiously, thereby hushing up the numbers of British casualties suffered in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The inhabitants of Wootton Basset took it upon themselves to show their respect when the coffins were driven through the town, which is situated close to the RAF base. They lined the route the hearses took, and in a respectful silence bowed their heads, and then threw flowers onto the coffins as they passed. Gradually more and more people became aware of the low key ceremony, and eventually TV and newspapers sent camera crews and reporters to cover the event. The great and the good, and the more oilier of politicians, soon followed.
"You've attended when bodies of members of your former regiment were brought home, which is where the guilt comes from. You feel guilty you were not serving with the men killed. Your subconscious thinks you might have been able to save them had you been with them. You may have given different orders, which might have prevented their deaths." Mort saw I was going to speak, and forestalled me. "I know it is all conjecture, and maybes and might haves, but guilt grows from a tiny seed to become a mighty oak ... with id fertilising the fallow soil with memories, and super ego trying to stunt ego's growing sense of realisation."
"It's true I've been at Wootton Basset when a couple of blokes I knew from the Greenjackets were passing in hearses. I was bloody angry, but I didn't feel guilty about their deaths." I paused, remembering Jazzer Cartwright's wife and kids throwing roses onto his hearse with tears in their eyes.
"I did prevent a bloke from deserting, who was later killed in Iraq. If I hadn't stopped him he might still be alive today. But he was killed nearly four years ago, surely id and super ego would have sorted themselves out before now?"
Mortimer shook his head. "Possibly not, but you admit some shard of guilt pricked you at the time?"
I thought how I had felt watching the hearse pass by me, with Ushi and her children sobbing fit to bust. "I felt sorry for Jazzer's wife and kids, but didn't feel any guilt for his death. He was in the army, and getting killed is one of the lesser perks of the job. My bringing him back when he went absent prevented him being chucked out of the army, but from then on it was fate which dictated what happened to him, and nothing to do with me."
Mort just grinned, and whispered, "Id and super ego still fighting it out."
"OK, super bloody ego, why has it taken so long for my ED to show? A couple of months ago I was shagging for England, and then..."
Mortimer couldn't suppress a triumphant smile creasing his face. "By my reckoning you visited Wootton Basset two days before you suffered your first one shot session with the sexy bank cashier. You had been delivering as many as four shots a session up until that time."
He was correct with the timeline. I had gone to Wootton Basset on a Wednesday, when Gwen spent the night with her kids in Slough, and it had been the following Saturday night/Sunday morning when I failed to deliver the full goods. At the time I had put it down to a long day's night delivering drunken casino punters all over Berkshire.
"Yes, I was there, but it was the bodies of six RAF blokes being repatriated. Their Hercules transport aircraft had caught fire and blown up over Iraq. I felt sorrow for them and their loved ones, but not anger or guilt."
Mortimer laid a sheet of paper on the desk before me."Read this, Des, and then tell me you didn't feel any anger."
The sheet was one of the last pages of my transcripted monologue; I had forgotten I had told Mortimer of that particular visit to Wootton Bassett.
March 18th, 2009: Wootton Bassett, Wiltshire.
I took up my usual place with members of the local British Legion branch when I arrived at Wootton Bassett. Their standard was proudly carried by an old fellow who had stormed ashore at Normandy on Sword Beach, and I usually stood behind him. He would lower the flag in salute as the cortege paused for the friends and family of the dead, and anyone else who wished, to lay wreaths and flowers on the coffins. Alongside me was a tall thin fellow, ramrod stiff, showing him to be ex-military, former RAF Regiment as it happened, but I've not got any prejudices towards Rock Apes. After the cortege had passed we stood watching the TV and newspapers people buttonholing some of the families of the deceased.
"Bloody vultures," the tall bloke standing alongside me spat. "Why can't they leave the poor souls to their grief?" He pointed to a well-dressed man surrounded by microphones and TV cameras. "Now there's a bloke who really loves the limelight, when it suits him; the hypocritical shitehawk."
The man being interviewed was vaguely familiar; maybe I had seen him on the telly. I asked the bloke standing next to me if he knew who he was.
"Oh, yes," he said, "I work for the smeghead." He held out his hand. "Stan Davis. I'm a driver with MoD, and that tosser is Jeremy Gadding, a junior defence minister for the RAF."
I shook Stan's hand. "Des Desmond, pleased to meet you."
It was only then the name rang a loud clanging bell in my memory.
"Gadding? I thought he was in the army department of MoD?"
Stan snorted derisively. "He is one of the trade union sponsored MPs, so the Labour Government have to give him a junior minister's position as a sop to the union he represents," he explained. "The smeghead has been in every department of government since being elected to Parliament over ten years ago. Gadding couldn't run a bath. He is as thick as two short planks, and as much use as a tie salesman in Tehran." He gazed at me. "So how come you know the turd?"
I explained how my application to remain in the army had been dismissed by Gadding, and the reason why.
"Yeah, that sounds like our Jeremy ... the slimy, vindictive arse wipe."
He stared towards Gadding, who was speaking to camera wearing one of those plastered on 'sincere' faces politicians are trained to show. "He's telling the TV how the government are doing all they can to support our brave boys and girls in Iraq and Afghanistan, and how he and his department are working around the clock to ensure the RAF has the best equipment, regardless of cost ... blah, blah, fucking blah. The truth is the Hercules caught fire and blew up after being hit by ground fire when doing a slow approach, low level drop. A fuel tank was punctured; had it been a self-sealing tank there would have been no fire and no explosion." Stan shot a glare of pure hatred towards the still prattling politician. "To save money Gadding ordered a cut back to the program of fitting the Hercules fleet with self-sealing fuel tanks, and only about ten percent of the Herc' fleet are fitted with the safer, self-sealing tanks. Our aircrews are dicing with death every time they do a low altitude drop. Gadding is brown nosing his way towards a higher position in government, and gained kudos with Treasury ministers by cutting his budget." He drew a deep breath. "That bastard is responsible for the deaths of the six men who have just passed by in their coffins."
He had just finished talking when Gadding walked over to us. He gave me a quick glance, saw I was no one of any importance, and addressed Stan.
"I shall be going into Swindon for an hour or so, Davis. I won't need the car as a friend is picking me up from the car park in five minutes. Meanwhile I don't want you going in the pub with any of your drinking, drunken, acquaintances." He glared at me as if I was a member of alcoholics unanimous. "I shall expect you to be ready and waiting when I return." He strode off towards the car park.
"Well, at least he turns up to pay his respects," I said.
Stan gave a harsh laugh. "He comes here every time there's a repatriation, making sure he's seen, and that he gets interviewed by TV and the Press. It's got fuck all to do with respect. An expensive whore meets him in the car park and takes him back to her shag pad in Swindon, where she fucks his brains out for an hour, although with the brains he has five minutes would be more than enough. He puts her fee, which is somewhere near five hundred pounds an hour, on his expenses."
As Stan finished speaking a red Mazda MX-5 drove slowly past us then turned into the car park. "That's the call girl's car," he said, "she's a stunning looking woman, much too good for that shitehawk."
As the car passed me I saw that Ffion Probert was the driver.
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