Date: Fri, 14 Nov 2003 18:27:23 -0500 (EST)
From: J <burlguy@excite.com>
Subject: The Night the Lights Went Out

The usual disclaimers: this is a work of fiction.  I am not I, and you are
not you.  I always welcome comments, compliments, complaints, even
criticisms to burlguy@excite.com

Copyright 2003 Jeff Blitzer


The Night the Lights Went Out

by

Jeff Blitzer


	I never saw the other car coming.

	I got hit blind-sided.  The only memories are those vague,
slow-motion feel of the car slamming into something, the glass shattering,
the airbag erupting like in slow motion, and me sitting there in the car
because I could do nothing else.  I could not move.  I was in pain.  And
the car was crumpled around me.

	It took EMS almost an hour to get me out.  I was scared.  But bless
those guys: one of them was good enough to tell me -- while they were
working to get me out from the twisted metal -- that I would be OK, that I
looked pretty lousy (he grinned ... I don't think I've ever appreciated a
grin so much) but that I would be all right.

	They moved me gingerly to a stretcher.  The pain was still there, a
fierce ache in both arms, and cuts and bruises all over.  I don't remember
the next few hours well.  I vaguely remember the ER, the docs and nurses
working me over, and me scratching a consent to treat on a form somebody
gave me.

	It wasn't until the next day that I knew all that had happened to
me.  Both arms broken.  Badly.  But apart from cuts and bruises all over, I
was OK.  And a black eye.  Damn, I didn't want to think about what I must
have looked like.  But by the time I was fully aware, there was something
else to worry about.

	Because my first memory of being awake was that my nose was
itching.  Involuntarily, I moved to scratch, and something didn't work.  I
looked over.  Both arms were in casts, and were suspended from ropes and
pulleys.  I could barely move them.

	One of the nurses had just walked in.  "Hi," I said weakly.

	She smiled.  "So you're back with us?  We were beginning to wonder
when you would talk.  Good morning, Mr. Priestly."

	"'Dan' is just fine," I responded.  She was probably all of 25, and
I'm sure that calling me Mr. Priestly just seemed natural.  But -- having
just had my 48th birthday 2 weeks before the crash -- I always tried to
keep the respectful older adult image at bay.

	"Then Dan it is," and she smiled again, "Are you OK?"

	"I could be better.  What's with the arms?"

	She looked sympathetic.  "You got several complicated compound
fractures.  They had to be completely stabilized, and that's the reason for
the system.  We'll take care of everything for you.  But it's going to be a
headache for you for the next few days.  We're suspecting we'll be able to
get those off of you in a week or so.  Anything you need right now?"

	"Yes," I responded quickly, "My nose is itching," and she laughed.
"Consider it done," she said, and she carefully scratched where I told her,
and I was much relieved.

	The days passed in a string of boring hours.  I am from a large
family, and my 7 brothers and sisters were there frequently, along with
nieces and nephews and friends.  The nursing staff, aware that I was bored
to tears, helped me to work the remote for the TV so I could at least have
that.

	What no one helped with was a nearly insatiable erection that began
not long after I became conscious again.  I am pretty highly sexed, and I
have grown accustomed to nearly every day activity.

	I had been in long-term relationship until 2 months before the
accident.  Jack and I had met seven years before and had fall instantly,
voraciously in love.  The love had been good, the sex hot, and we were best
friends, and nearly inseparable companions, whether hiking, doing weights,
or -- our big vice -- football.  We loved the stuff: watching pro on TV,
local high school in person, or -- when we dared -- playing pickup games
with teens in the neighborhood, boys we were used to being around, and who
were used to being around us, even as they teased us mercilessly, joking
that we were so old that they would have to bring wheelchairs on the field.

	But I could hold my own.  If nothing else, I was blessed with sheer
size advantage over them.  I'm 6'5, and weighed (at least before this
accident forced me into total non-activity!) 253.  I've got the classic
football build, broad shoulders, broad hips, and it's no accident that I
was a starting lineback in college.  Not good enough for the pros, but
still not bad.

	But work had taken Jack to Atlanta.  A promotion he could not turn
down.  And we agreed to break things off.  A long-distance relationship was
not for either of us.  Still it hurt.  My family had called him, and he was
kind.  Wanted to know if he needed to come back to help me.  I'm fine, I
told him, though tears came to my eyes, as I remembered his love, and the
hot feel of our bodies against each other.  I missed him.  But it was good
to be loved.

	I tried to ignore the horniness that dogged me those first two
days.  There is nothing like a hospitalization to reduce a man to total
helplessness, in my case having every physical need taken care of by
others.  I'm independent and self-reliant.  But I was not above being taken
care of.  But for this one need.  There was no one there to care for it.  I
was sorely tempted to tell Jack to drive up for the weekend.  But that
would be making my buddy into a whore.  I would not do that.  I could not
do that.  Besides, he was working on a project this weekend, and it would
be tough for him to get away.  But the nagging, unrelenting need remained.
Damn, it was hard.  Literally.

	And it was Friday.  This was an orthopedic unit.  Lots of patients
here were for elective stuff.  Believe me, the horniness had not been
helped by the sight of the hunks on crutches who had had knee and other
surgeries from old sports injuries.  The unit was a flurry of activity
during the day, discharges all through the morning and early afternoon.
But it would be next week, at least, before I saw the outside world again.

	The silence that evening was deafening.  After my visitors had
left, I watched games on ESPN.  Even that was beginning to bore me.  Tired
of fighting the tedium, I went on to sleep around 9, a deep and dreamless
sleep.

	Until I woke up.  Suddenly.  A little disoriented.  There was a guy
standing at the foot of the bed.  He was slight, and I thought for a minute
that he was one of my nephews, or the brother of one of the boys I
sometimes played football with.

	"Oops," he said quietly, "I didn't mean to wake you."  I stared at
him for a minute, wondering who he was.  Then I realized he was wearing a
uniform.  He went on, "I'm Jason Cooperman.  I'm the nurse on duty tonight.
I'm in grad school, so I only work weekends.  And you must be Mr. Priestly.
I'm checking on the readings on your pain meds.  Good to meet you."

	"Good to meet you, Mr. Cooperman, but Dan is just fine."  He
smiled.  "And Jason is fine, too.  You OK?  Anything I can get for you or
do for you?"

	"No," I responded, "I'm OK.  Don't need anything right now.  Can I
ask you a nosy question?"  "Sure," he returned, looking puzzled.  "Don't
take this wrong," I went on, "But you're an RN, right?"  "Yep," he
answered, still looking puzzled, and I kept on with my questions, "Did you
just graduate from nursing school?"

	"Oh, that," he laughed.  "To answer the question I think is behind
your question, I graduated 2 years ago, but I'm 26.  I know I look young,
but I'm perfectly legal."  And he grinned very big.  I smiled back, but was
a little sheepish.  He must have gotten this question before.  He was
friendly, open, and cute, and small.  Probably no more than 5'5 or so, and
no more than 125 or 130 pounds.  Still, he had a well-built look for his
size, and I could see in the dim light that his arms were strong, and his
chest developed.

	"There is one thing you could do," I continued., "Would you mind
scratching my face?  I'm embarrassed to ask, but I didn't get shaved this
morning, and the itch is about to drive me crazy, and I can't take care of
it."  "It's no problem," he said, "Just tell me where," and I described it,
and the relief was intense.  I sighed contentedly and laughed, "Many
thanks, my friend.  It's amazing how something so simple can be so
satisfying."
	He looked a bit puzzled, and asked, "Are you growing a beard?"

	"No, it's just that they were busy with discharges today, and
nobody had time to take care of that this morning."

	He looked a little irritated, "And I'll bet they skipped your bath,
too, right?"  "Yeah," I said, "But it's cool.  They were really busy."

	"Things like that still need to be taken care of, Dan," he went on.
"When you can't get up -- like you can't -- getting you cleaned up is
important, not just for psychological reasons.  It's not good for your
skin, too."

	"Well, you're the professional here," I smiled at him.  "Look," he
said, "Believe it or not, you are the only patient on this unit tonight.  I
have some paperwork that has to be completed by 1:30, but I can come back
and get you cleaned up, if you want to.  Or if you want to go back to
sleep, that's cool, too.  Either way is fine.  But you might feel better if
you're cleaned up a little."

	No way I was going back to sleep.  Our conversation had awakened
me, and though I had not complained about it, I was feeling pretty grimy.
"Sure," I told him, "If you have time, a clean-up would be good.  I'd
really appreciate it.  But the orderly or somebody could do it.  I don't
want to impose on you."

	"Look, even us big-shot nurses can occasionally get our hands
dirty.  As quiet as it is here, I was planning to read most of the night,
and I'd probably just end fighting sleep, and my boss would catch me
dozing, and read me the riot act.  So let me get my paperwork done, and
I'll be back here in about 20 minutes."

	There's not a lot to do when you can't use your arms.  Especially
when it's dark, and you're in a hospital, and every minute drags.  But I
had a while to think.  What was the tension there between this young man
and me?  I am not anything approaching a dirty old man.  I have
consistently enjoyed the favors of men who were roughly my own age.  And
while I am flattered by the young men who stare at me in bars, and
appreciate that they still notice a man barreling in on 50, I don't think
about them, ponder them, or seek them out.  But there was a tension here.
An electricity.  I liked it.

	And I don't go for guys a lot smaller than me.  Now, when you are
as tall and broad as I am, most guys are smaller, at least a little.  But
Jack was 6'3, and was very typical of the men I dated and those I mated.
But I was lying here talking to Jason and the sight of his body had brought
me to fulsome erection.

	Not that I thought something would happen.  This guy was friendly,
open, even courteous.  But professional.  Completely so.  Still, I was
intrigued.

	It could not have been much longer than 20 minutes later that he
arrived.  "Damn, I hate paperwork," he laughed, "And you know what the
bitch is?  They want it in 2 places now.  First on the computer.  Then on
paper, just in case the computer fucks up.  Doubles your time.  But I'm
glad you woke up.  You gave me a good reason to get the paperwork done
quickly."

	He had a basin of water, some towels and soap.  He was talkative,
friendly, and I realized that there was more than electricity there: we
genuinely liked each other.  Still, it felt odd.  I felt strangely intimate
with this guy I had not met an hour before, and here I was, helpless, and
he would be touching my body.

	He got my face and hair washed, and got me shaved.  I felt a lot
better with just that.  Then he pulled the sheet back to uncover my chest
and stomach.  The building was over-heated, and the it was not
uncomfortable.  He was washing my chest, and as his hands went across it, I
wondered what his chest looked like.  I noticed that his arms were smooth.
My old rule that smooth arms usually means smooth everywhere was probably
true.

	"What ya thinkin'?," he asked softly, and I realized that I had
grown quiet, pondering the situation.  "Oh, nothing," I said, embarrassed.
He got down to my stomach.  I laughed, "No washboards there!" and he
smiled, "No washboards here, either," but I went on, "You have the genetics
for it, Jason.  I'm built big, but unfortunately, the big chest usually
entails a not-flat stomach."

	"You have genetics," he said, "that I wish I had.  Guys who are big
like you have no idea what you look like to small guys like me.  There's a
bit of an envy factor going on."  He changed the subject.  "Did they remove
your rings after your accident?"

	"Rings?  I don't wear a ring," I told him.  "I noticed," he
responded quietly, "that there was no wedding band."  His voice was
toneless, unemotional.

	"Jason."  Our eyes met.  "Men don't usually give each other rings.
Not yet anyway."

	He was silent for a minute.  "I wondered.  And I made myself not
look at your personal information on the computer.  From your looks, I was
sure you were married with 5 kids.  And then I wondered why you were alone.
And I kept thinking that a wife was downstairs getting something to eat."
He seemed lost in thought.

	"I'm not alone," I responded, "Well, I guess I am now.  I had a
mate, but we broke up 2 months ago.  My family is here in town.  I have 7
brothers and sisters, and lots of nieces and nephews, and loads of friends.
But I didn't need anyone to stay with me.  All of you guys have taken good
care of me.  Thank you.  It means a lot."
	He smiled evenly, and said, "Now we need to get to the basics," and
he started to pull the sheet down to fully expose me, and I said, "Wait."

	"What's the matter?," he asked.  "I ... well, I haven't got off in
several days.  The man down there has been asking for attention.  Please
don't get the wrong idea."  "OK," he said, softly again, and he pulled the
sheet back.

	My cock is big, and there in the soft light of the room, it was
huge and sticking back toward my stomach.  I'm uncut, and I have a lot of
skin, but still, the head was big under its cap.  Jason stared at it,
hypnotized.  "Wow."  That was all he said, and then again, "Wow."

	He hesitated a minute, and seemed for just a second coldly
professional.  "It's OK, you know.  I've dealt with stuff like this
before."  Suddenly, I felt oddly ashamed.  I had always been proud of my
size, loved to show it off, loved the stares it got, but now it felt
pornographic with Jason staring at it.
	He turned around, dipping the washcloth into the basin.  He seemed
distant, and I thought I had offended him, that perhaps he didn't
understand.  But then I realized: I am talking to someone who is 26.  He
surely understands hard-ons.  But that wasn't all that was going on now.
Yeah, I had been horned for a couple of days.  But there was an intensity
now, an urgency, a demand that had grown in the last hour, and my cock
seemed to be straining, begging, demanding attention.

	Jason washed carefully, professionally around my balls, and then
noted, "I need to clean around your foreskin."  Which he did.  Or began to.
He peeled the skin back.  There was some build-up there, and I apologized
for it.  "No problem," he said, distant and clinical sounding.  And as the
skin was pulled back to reveal the head, the head enlarged even further,
that total, beautiful erection where the slit flares open.  There was an
animal-like feel to its hardness now, and I felt Jason's hand hesitate, his
small thumb and forefinger wrapped around the thick shaft.  I felt spasms
going through it.  It was an unbelievable feel.  "Wow," he said again.  And
suddenly, as if a switch had turned on, he began rhythmically, slowly, but
urgently to masturbate me.  Not often do I get the feeling of being taken
outside of my body, but it was here, now.  A feeling of being taken care
of, and of power at the same time.  Because if I was hypnotized, so was
Jason.  His breath was shallow, urgent.

	And suddenly, he stopped.

	"I'm sorry," he said.  "I'm really sorry.  I shouldn't do this.
I'm wrong to have done this.  I could lose my professional license for
this."

	He looked suddenly smaller, little boy like.  I felt a wave of
sympathy for him.  "Jason, it's OK.  You're not doing anything against my
will.  I know what you're saying, but I want this.  Believe me, this is
unbelievable, this is good.  No one will know.  I am not the type to get
regrets in the morning.  Don't do it if you don't want to, but trust me
when I say that my only regret is that my hands are not available to take
care of you, too."

	He sat down in a chair by the bed.  He looked chastened, whipped.
"Are you cold?," he asked.  "No," I responded, "This place is hot as hell."
"That it is," he laughed, and he breathed deep, "Can I ask you a personal
question?"

	"Sure," I responded, not knowing what was coming next.

	"Your mate, as you call him, what did he look like?  How was he
built?"

	"Oh, like me.  Maybe an inch shorter.  A big guy."

	"Hairy?," he asked.  "Yeah," I answered, "All over.  Like me.  Why
do you ask?"

	"Because ... have you ever been interested in someone like me?  A
small guy, a smooth guy?  I mean, Dan, I have hair around my cock, hair
under my arms, nothing more.  I shave every couple of days.  That's all."

	I waited a minute.  He looked like a puppy sitting beside me.  I
wished my arms were free, to hug him, to hold him.

	"Interested?  Long term?  No.  But Jason, I think we both realized
that there was some electricity that switched on from the minute we met
tonight.  I like that.  I have no stereotype man that I enjoy, no `type'
that I look for.  And I find you extremely hot.  And -- because of the work
of you and others like you -- I will not be in this bed forever.  There's
no reason we couldn't explore these matters further when I am a little
less" -- and I laughed here -- "encumbered."

	"No shit," he said.  It was more a question than a statement.
"Because I wonder if you realize what you look like to somebody like me.
You're like a god: you're almost a foot taller, you are big, you are hairy,
you are a man.  I always stare at guys like you, and they never give me the
time of day.  When we started talking tonight, I couldn't believe the
conversation.  You were nice to me, you talked to me.  I thought you would
be a real butt like a lot of big guys.  But to get this close to you --
that was amazing to me.  That's why I got carried away."

	"No," I laughed, "I was the one who got carried away!  You are
fuckin' unbelievable with the hands.  I thought I was going into orbit."

	"Well, let's just say there was the right equipment to work with,
Dan.  The most beautiful of equipment."

	"Jason, this is something I want.  Something you want.  Let's do
it, buddy."

	At that, his hand gently caressed my chest, my abdomen, and then
moved to my crotch, where my cock was again fully, hugely erect.  His hand
gripped the shaft, and began again that rhythm that pleasured me so.  "Kiss
me," I told him, more an order than an invitation, and as his smooth face
came upon mine, my tongue invaded his mouth, and he was on my mouth as much
as he could.  I lay there, both helpless, and in charge, as his hand
continued, strong and steady, masturbating my shaft, the pleasure intense,
like something I had not had for a long time.

	Then the powerful spasms began, and the spray from my thick cock
hit us, him on the back of his head, me on the side of my face not covered
by his head.  They continued while his hand, soft and gentle on my flesh,
caressed my cock, now lubed by the cum whose odor filled the room.

	He sheepishly lifted his face from mine.  "What's the matter?," I
asked, and he boyishly replied, "Oh, nothing."

	"Sit down, let's talk," I encouraged him.  "Oh, you're not one of
those guys who get weird after he shoots?," he asked.

	"Not me, my friend.  Talk.  Unless you have stuff you need to do."

	"No," he said, "There will be more paperwork in an hour or so, but
I'm cool for now."

	And we talked.  One of those times when you could not believe that
you had not known this person for years, because the talk flowed so easily,
so smoothly, so effortlessly.  But we talked.  And when I fogged out a
little, he crept away, and got his paperwork done, and I slept quietly and
dreamlessly.  The pain of my injuries somehow eased by what someone as old
as I am could easily recognize as love or lust or a crush, or maybe all
three.  Did Jason recognize it for what it was?  I didn't know.  All I knew
was that there was something very special going on here.

	He left that morning a bit after 7.  He had stopped in for a minute
to say goodbye before he left, and he yawned several times, and joked that
he was getting too old to stay up all night, and I warned him that if I
could use my arms, I'd throw something at him for that.  Too old.  Right.

	There were admissions that day, emergencies, and while Jason was
back at work that night, he was busy the whole night, and there was little
time to talk, much less repeat our previous night's activities.  And that
was his last night, for a week.  He stopped in as he was leaving early
Sunday morning.  He looked oddly sheepish and shy, as though he had
something to say, but was afraid to say it.  "I just wanted to tell you
goodbye," he said, "I know you'll be going home in a few days, and you
won't be here when I'm back next weekend."

	I realized what he was asking, and I broke in.  "Jason, do you have
a piece of paper?  `Cause I want to give you my phone number.  Write it
down.  And here's my email.  Jason, I want to see you.  I want to continue
this.  I want to know you better.  There's something very special here.  We
met under very odd circumstances, but that just means we'll have a good
story to tell our friends."

	"Our friends?," he asked dreamily.  "Yes," I responded, "OUR
friends.  Friends you and I could have together.  I would like that.
Besides, when you're a big guy like me, you have to have a king-size bed,
and there's room in there for a guy your size."

	His eyes twinkled.  "Bastard!," he softly hissed, and he kissed me
on my forehead.  "I'll see you in a few days," he continued.  "No accidents
on the way home.  And save the space in the bed for me.  I think we have
some work to finish."

end