#68c

In the first of these posts I said that “mostly things had been good.” Well, now I sit and try to explain what those 'good things' are, I cannot really think of anything. It was a true enough statement all right, but more in the comfort we feel alongside one another, than anything specific which has taken place.

One event though which I can relate is our little evening walks. At 8pm each day I wheel John out and push him around the shady streets for an hour until the light falls. With the heat down and feint breezes coming through the gardens we suck in the air and descend with the sun. On these walks we talk, listen to the city and look in peoples windows. Last night we were even shooed away! A tall, bony, conservative literary type (maybe a historian) turned around to find John and I watching him watching TV. He leapt up to the window and started driving us away with a rolled up copy of The Telegraph. John showed him a fist and then we left. But in a way these walks are the highlight of our day. When we speak seriously, it is usually on these little dallies.

“Do you think of sex, John?” I asked wheeling him around a large dog turd
“Fucking? With you? No.” he replied
“Not at all? Not even after all this time? Because I do!”
“I did,” he said sadly “before my paralysis I saw cocks with wings, rising like angels in great paintings. But since, nah, it no longer comes. Or it does, but it feels too much like a frustration... a conflict. My brain feels sexual but my body doesn't. It's hard to describe. Imagine being so sensitive that one touch could make you come, but by some freak of nature you don't have an organ to come with... That your body doesn't have anything that sensitive to relieve you from your thoughts. Well it's like that. It's like torture. So if a thought comes I chase it away. But it's not you, Tristy, please don't think it's you.”
“Oh, I can kind of understand that," I lied "When I was 15 i caught my cock in the zip of my pants and ripped a small gash in my foreskin. As getting hard meant cracked sores and a vile stinging pain, my body declined any excitement. But that didn't stop, just impeded me. In the month it took to heal I think I sucked more dick than any schoolboy EVER. It was a different satisfaction, that was all.”
“So you want to know will I suck your cock when we get home? Is that it?”
“Kind of, yeah. My cocks on guard duty right now!” i said sheepishly.
“You must give me time. You must let that come naturally and without pressure. It will, I know it, but not tonight. And that's another thing: bedding...”

And there another little dream ended. John went on to say he wanted to sleep alone, him in the bed and me down on the floor for any “late night emergencies”. On his first night out we had slept sitting. Him in his wheelchair and me in the green armchair. I suppose it was our solution to an awkward problem that no-one wanted to bring up first, but now John had said it. So since Tuesday I've been on the floor listening to Johns breathing from up above. I've had to skip my bedtime tranquilizer for fear of sleeping through his toilet call, not that he makes the call much. Usually, from out the dark, there is just a “pssssssssssssssss” and I know John's slept through another toilet. So I carry him out the bed like a child in a bomb blast, strip him naked in the shower unit and wash and change him. John delights in telling me there are two kinds of “mistakes” : SM (small mistake) and BM (big mistake). Well I'm yet to experience a 'BM' though I fear it can only mean one thing. It's true what they say “Love is tough”, but it's still much better than being alone.

3 comments:

  1. Tristy - may I call you Tristy?

    My increasingly bitter nephew informs me that your little missives use to remind him of something called Tales of the City by an Armistead Maupin (my you people have some queer names).

    He said it now reminds him of what happened to said Mr. Maupin.

    Apparently he nursed his Long Time Significant Other (my you people love your euphemisms) through years of The Gay Disease.

    When the companion recovered he immediately dumped his long suffering loyal nurse and went off with another degenerate.

    Take heed.

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  2. Mr. Spencer,
    I can't imagine the patience you are having with John. When I almost paralyzed myself (and the 'almost' only means that if eventually mostly wore off but, not that it wasn't awful) even though erections felt like my insides were ripping out I still tried my best to go at it. I guess I'm a little bit like you, with your zipper problem but, if I were John I would at the very least be searching for a mechanized organ as feverishly as I was hoping for a mechanized wheelchair.
    All the best,
    Dustyrose.

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  3. @ Abigail: Mr Maupin's John done that! I don't believe it! he was surely using his companions disability for selfish means... something I'd never do.

    Oh, and the first 'maybe' number is this: 25122010. I gave TBG the german equivalent last time, must have confused him silly.X

    @ Dusty: Yes it's hard not to turn rapist, but i have faith in his 'psychsomatic paralysis' and I have faith in 'man'. If he's alive down there, and his nightime boners says he is, it won't be long before it finds its way up my arse. Men are very clever until their dicks go hard, then brains, intellect and scheming all falls by the wayside. John may have come from God, but he is a man, and he's as prone to 'hard cock syndrome' as anyone other. Watch this space... X

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