Date: Fri, 17 Jan 2003 22:09:57 -0500 (EST) From: Clark Gaybull Subject: One of Many Escapades #8 I feel compelled to submit one more installment in the "Escapades" series. This is in response to those who don't believe what I've been through - my best friend killed and casts on my two arms and left leg. They say, "You couldn't have shit." Oh yes I could. "You couldn't have eaten." Ever hear of straws? Besides, my right wrist was only cracked, not immobile. "How did you keep clean?" All kinds of personal stuff. I didn't find it sexy but some (I suspect doubting) e-mailers say it would be stimulating (and increase credibility?) to read about the convalescence. It'd probably be more appropriate to ignore the critics. I think it's kinda gross to talk about. So this is gonna be real short. I question whether this is appropriate subject matter; but I want to deal with the accusations of untruth. When I was in the hospital, a nurse helped me deal with my "disposal system," using either a bedpan or getting me to and from the toilet. Nurses also periodically washed anyone who couldn't bathe himself. Thirty-one days of that, then mom became my nurse when I got home, where it was always me who wiped myself as well as I could. No more bedpan. But she helped around the porcelin and the bod. THAT was embarrassing: I felt self-conscious in the medical center but imagine popping a rod while your mother's scrubbin' your 18-year-old crotch! THAT happened more than once. I couldn't control it. And it ALWAYS happened after she passed the baton to my neighbor-friend, Matt, a high school senior. (This is the ONLY part of the entire ordeal that I MIGHT think of as VAGUELY sexy, although that was far from my emotion at the time.) Matt and I had had a few experiences that I'll recount in a later series. (But my mom doesn't know that.) It'd probably be difficult to tell who started talking first - her or me - after Matt said, "Any way I can help, let me know." I didn't think twice about sounding queer when I shot right back, "Do my baths." "What does that involve?" "Just what it sounds like." "How often?" "Once a week." "Okay." So, my Saturday morning routine for probably a dozen weeks included Matt (instead of mom) handling my privates. There...ya happy? Want more details? We had a rubber (very cold) sheet that we put on my bed after I hopped to my wheelchair. Then, I stood up, allowed my cut-off sweats and tank-type undershirt to be removed, and hopped back - naked - to the bed. Often I was erect while doing this and my dick would be pained by the slaps against my gut when I hopped. I would usually lie first on my stomach so Matt could wash my ass crack. Soapsuds and fingers rubbing back and forth along there. No insertion. No intention of being sexual. But I gotta agree that it sounds like a turn-on now that I pencil it down onto paper. My penis was sliding on the wet rubber sheet. No wonder I was always hard when I'd turn over for my shampoo. Next, he'd lather my pits, feet and groin. It kinda tickled when he cleaned beneath my arms. If it was a challenge to resist my pointed member, then that challenge was met, because, as many times that it was at attention, and as much as Matt and I had messed around previously, we were completely serious about this task at hand. In fact, we were so serious - especially the first five times - that I didn't even mention things to a Thanksgiving- weekend visitor who, as I said in my previous article, afforded me my first sexual release in three months. In retrospect, yes, I now wish that those sessions would have evolved into a good wanking. But I couldn't have reciprocated. Lord knows I needed a good climax. When I blew my nose, I swear it was part snot, part semen. When I rolled around for the head job (the shampoo, you perverts), it probably wasn't only the moisture from the mat which caused my phallus tip to glisten. And those towels with which Matt rubbed my stiff winkie dry, undoubtedly mopped more than just water, although the masturbation was unintentional. In addition to Matt, I had visitors 'most every weekend - some even from my former neighborhood ten blocks away from where I had moved more than three years earlier. I don't know if it caused me to regret less or more the lack of another visit around the year-end holidays from that Thanksgiving guest. How did it all turn out? Well, January's scarsely half-over and already it's been an eventful month: All casts and wraps are history, with unrestricted weight-bearing. The wreck inflicting these injuries resulted in a one-hour civil court session in which a judge blessed an agreement reducing my dead passenger's life to a dollar amount within insurance lmits. There've been other developments, too, but they'd be of interest only to people who've kept in touch via e-mail. (Maybe not even to them.) Hopefully, everybody'll enjoy reading about my Mess-Around Buddies, to be introduced during the next eight weekends.