Imagine Dragons

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I can feel my orgasm — the start of it, the slow burning knot of beginning to unfurl behind my navel — at the same time I feel my stomach muscles protest at the tension I am pushing through them; I am still recovering from surgical slices, but I know the aches – though not the stings – will recede if I can just… get… 

There.

And so I relax, to the best of my ability, all the muscles that I can: my torso unflexes one segment at a time and my back un-tightens, even as my forearm stays in place over my hip bone and my middle finger exerts swirling pressure against my clit.

Breathing in, I tighten a new muscle group — engaging my thighs — and cast about my imagination for something that will help me stay relaxed in all the right places while I coax my orgasm out from its want-to-but-not-quite position underneath my skin. I need to soften. To float, to lay back, to give over push-pull-flex erotic burden to another entity.

And so, I imagine a dragon.

One that is holding me, prone, somehow light enough around my waist with its claws that I can’t feel it, but strong. One whose cock is entering me slowly while my thighs lift and my knees and calves wrap themselves around its waist.

Oh… I think as I relax with a slightly befuddled sense of erotic delight, This will do nicely.

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Listen To Yourself Churn

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Besides reading — for which I’ve had very little concentration during my recovery — I’ve not had the ability to do much besides sit for the past couple weeks. And while I’ve been sitting, I’ve been bombarded with Sky-Is-Falling chicken-little-isms and truly End Of The World As We Know It real complaints from people who, though held intentionally further than an arm’s length away and only on the periphery of my life, are family.

Which is all kinds of exhausting.

The biggest thing:

My niece is in a psych hospital.

Her mental health is a mess, which is a result of both genetics and circumstances, and her first stint was a little over a year ago. (After which, some things came out that started court proceedings against her father’s family. I stay out of it as much as possible, because I’d be homicidal if I knew too many details. But it’s bad.) And now, just a few short weeks into the school year — junior high, ugh, poor thing — and already on a continual regimen of mental meds and trauma therapy, she’s had a breakdown.

Another one, essentially.

And y’know…

I feel bad for the kid. I do.

But I also think my sister (my niece’s mother) is just…

@#*%&!

I mean, I remember when she (my sister) was born. I felt like, “What the fuck is wrong with my parents, having another kid right now?” (I’m a full decade older than her.) At the time, my parents were very obviously having very real problems. I was a tween. My younger brother was already a disaster in the making. And I could see that this squalling pipsqueak of an attention-hog baby sister was going to be a problem.

A problem for me to deal with, much of the time.

And for all kinds of reasons, both reasonable and not, I hated the little fucker.

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How Bizarre

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The padded, narrow table beneath me is real against my back in the way the surrounding white-light sterility of the room is not.

There is the nurse’s voice, an unattached floating nebulous rumble of sound — not cold, but certainly without warmth — clouding my ears while her fingers probe slight lightning strikes to my torso.

“Take a deep breath in,” she says.

Upon complying, I hear the command “Exhale slowly” and follow the direction like an automaton, feeling as I do the long length of tubing that has been coiled through my insides for the past week gradually be pulled through. When it is out, I feel as though a small tunnel within my body — like a rabbit warren or a worm hole — has started collapsing in on itself, smooshing together bits of structural debris, closing up the foreign intrusion like an underground zipper, closing off the entry to my insides.

I am pondering this, feeling the unusualness of this experience, while she explains about the hole.

I will have a hole in my torso.

Literally, I am hole-y.

It will close eventually, but for now it is a hole. A eye-peep to my insides, gauzed over and bandaged until it stops seeping, then — the expectation — it will be a gap, slowly closing. A yawn in my stomach, too tired to gasp wide-mouthed and too unhurried to release its breath into full closure.

And it is strange.

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PAIN (you make me a, you make me a believer)

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drawing of four skeletons surrounding a man on a table, performing surgery -- image via pixabay
image via Pixabay

SO. Guess where I’ve been?

If, based upon the image above, you are tempted to answer “the morgue,” I can’t say I blame you.

Close enough.

I’ve just gotten out of the hospital.

After having surgery, no less.

Emergency surgery.

And I feel better than I did when I went in to the ER, but I definitely still feel like hell.

Because, PAIN.

Ergh.

So this is what happened:

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