Date: Fri, 17 Jan 2003 22:09:57 -0500 (EST)
From: Clark Gaybull <ClarkGaybull@webtv.net>
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.