Date: Tue, 27 Apr 2004 02:18:50 +0200
From: Richard Girth <dick_girth@fastmail.fm>
Subject: The Hospital

There's something strangely erotic about the sight of a young guy
temporarily incapacitated by injury. As the nurse parked my wheelchair in
the corridor outside the room I caught a glimpse of him -- or, at least,
of his legs. One was plastered and raised in traction; a sheet was draped
over the other and failed to disguise the fact that he had an erection.

"Voila, tout s'arrange: vous allez partager une chambre avec un autre
anglais," babbled the nurse, wheeling me in, my envelope of x-rays
balanced in my lap and my saline drip held aloft on its stalk. "Il
s'appelle Mark. Ca sera sympa, non?"

Yeah yeah yeah. Fucking sympa. I wasn't in the mood for enforced
socialising. Nor was Mark, by the look of things. He lay there, sleeping,
or more likely feigning sleep. Again, that question nagged at me: how
would the spectacle of someone suffering, his body subjected to pain and
injury, lead us to think of sex? Well, I say "us": that might be a little
presumptuous, but I've been around long enough to realise that few
thoughts are unique -- and few fantasies are so far-fetched and downright
sick that nobody's thought of them before. I guess it has something to do
with the gladiatorial thing, with notions of youth and pride and heroism
and insouciance and beauty and invulnerability... and fragility. I was
reminded of the colour plates in the children's illustrated edition of
the New Testament depicting suffering saints, usually stripped to the
waist, and had a fleeting thought of updating them with the aid of modern
medicine: The Happily Brief, Non-Fatal And Eminently Treatable Passion Of
Saint Mark.

They got me into bed and eventually left me alone. I had to admit it was
a pleasant room, even if I wasn't there by choice. To my left, through a
large window, beyond the sleeping (or sleep-feigning) figure of Mark, you
could see all the way to the Alps. To my right, the bathroom blocked out
a corner of the room. Beyond that lay the door and the bustling
orthopedic department on which this hospital had built its reputation and
probably most of its funding.

I looked over at Mark. He was about my age, 23 or so, and like me was
wearing a hospital gown that hung off one shoulder or the other, but
there the similarity ended. I was fair, tall and wiry, with a climber's
build and a high power-to-weight ratio. He was shorter, dark-skinned,
solid and densely-muscled. His close-cropped hair was barely any longer
than the stubble on his face. His bedside table had an eclectic stack of
reading matter: a Mickey Spillane, something by Henry James, an anthology
of poetry, a manga comic, several skin magazines, yesterday's edition of
Le Monde and, on top, a bound sketch pad. He didn't look like he was
really sleeping but he certainly didn't look like he wanted to talk. I
turned away and drifted off to sleep myself.

I woke up to a sort of slow, rhythmic chafing sound. I know the sound of
wanking when I hear it so I didn't bother to look. He must have realised
that I was awake, though, because he said:

"Not bothering you, am I, pal?"

"No."

"Fuck all else to do. Least, not till Sister Pethadine comes round."

"Yeah. It's alright for you, at least you can use your hands." I held out
my arms and showed my hands, wrapped in bandages as big as boxing gloves.

"Fuck. What happened?"

"Friction burns. Climbing accident. The other guy fell."

"Fuck. What happened to him?"

"Oh, he was fine. He drove me to hospital."

"Hey. So you're a hero. You'll have to ask the nurses to take care of
you."

"Yeah, dream on."

"Oh, they'll take care of you all right."

"Come on, " I said, "You believe in that fantasy? They're busy girls with
jobs to do and homes to go to."

At that moment the door opened and a male nurse came in, checking our
medication charts and adjusting our drips.

"Yeah, sure," said Mark. "Busy girls... and boys. This one'll give you a
blow job if you ask nicely."

The nurse hurried out of the room, saying something about lunch being
served in half an hour.

"Hey, you're really working through all those stereotypes", I said. "How
about asking some convent school girls to come over and gang-bang us this
afternoon?"

"No smoke without fire," he said mildy, and without much discretion went
back to his wanking.

This is the point at which I say, without wishing to protest too much,
that I am not gay. I'd have nothing against being gay, if I were. At that
particular time of my life I felt I was on a voyage of discovery,
reacting against five years of medical school by immersing myself in
travel and dangerous sports. I wanted to experience everything, and I
think that had I given it any thought I'd have welcomed the idea of
trying out man-on-man sex. At that moment, though, I didn't give it any
thought. I just found myself getting horny and angry that I couldn't do
anything about it.

"For fuck's sake," I muttered, under my breath.

"Sorry, mate, I suppose I am bothering you." He stopped masturbating and
lay silent for a minute or two, then started to show signs of
restlessness. He sighed, he drummed his fingers, he picked up the
newspaper and put it down again. I looked over at him and laughed: his
erection was still there, holding up the sheet like a tent pole.

"Oh, sod it", he said finally. "Come over here, I'll give you a fucking
hand job if you can stand up."

I could stand up. My legs were working fine. I swivelled out of my bed
and went over beside him. He reached out and held my fast-growing cock
through my gown, massaging the fabric over my glans. "Wow, that's a big
boy," he said, reaching under my gown to take it in his hand. That was
one expert hand job he gave me. "You do this well," I said. "Got a lot of
practice," he answered.

He guessed well when I was about to shoot my load and held a wad of
Kleenex for me to cum into. Then he did something odd. He drew me closer,
leaned down and briefly took my cock into his mouth, bathing it in his
warm saliva. Seeing my surprise, he said: "Well I can't ask you to do
something I wouldn't do myself. My turn."

I thought he was kidding. "Yeah, I'm sorry I can't return the
compliment."

"Oh, but you can," he said. "Come on, no such thing as a free lunch."

I figured out what he was asking me to do. I moved down towards his groin
and he drew back the sheet, exposing his belly, his thick dark pubic
hair, balls the size of a pair of small avocados and his cock. I wan't
sure what reaction I'd have, but it turned out to be one of curiosity and
wonderment. It as as if this penis was the symbol of his entire being,
rangy and full of life. Everything he was, it was. It was dark, and
strong, and proud. Suddenly I understood the word "cocky", which I felt
summed them both up. It was outrageous, presumptuous, demanding,
unashamed... and beautiful. I went down on him without a moment's
hesitation. I expected it to taste something like the musky aroma I got a
whiff of as I approached it, but it didn't. It was more a matter of
texture: I tasted its smoothness, its moisture, its hardness. And I
fucking loved it. He squeezed it at the base with his hand and I felt the
rim of his glans flare and fill my mouth. He let go and, feeling it
diminish slightly, I started sucking and pumping up and down on it like
my life depended on it.

"You do this well," I heard him whisper. I came up for air. "Can't say
it's because I got a lot of practice," I said.

I remembered everything I liked about getting sucked off and did it to
him. I teased my tongue into his piss slit, tasting a hint of pre-cum. I
gently grazed my teeth around his helmet. I sucked till I thought it must
be cheating to vacuum his spunk out rather than wait for ejaculation. I
took it in as far as I could and wanted more. Then I felt his cock
stiffen further, I felt it twitch and dance, and he filled my mouth with
his hot spunk. I had a brief "What the fuck do I do with this?" moment,
then swallowed. It felt good.

Now, I thought, there's a defining moment for this voyage of discovery.

There's more to come.