Hospital Cure: part one

  
  I  had a very profound experience in the hospital—an experience with another man. The situation I believed impossible occurring at the most unlikely time. Granted, had it not been for the meds, I would never have been so bold, so open—sitting in that hospital bed, once more attached to tubes and wires and poles I felt I was in my own surreal adventure, exotic Persian prince included. 

  It was my eyes he first saw, the rest of me was burrowed down in to a pile of six blankets (one is never enough in the hospital; if you're lucky they bring you a heated blanket; putting the heated blanket next to your cold limbs and feet can be close to divine). His initial remarks about my blue eyes sort of slid right by me. All I could fathom was that it was shift change, and here was the newest stranger that would be poking, measuring, asking, checking me every two hours. A male nurse, what a rare treat; some of these men are incredibly compassionate—Mike, in the ER, for example; years ago, a man named Brian—some are just efficient. But this one, was attracted to me, and I'm still trying to figure what it was. Hair pinned up, no makeup, dehydrated and nauseated—amidst all that he saw something he liked. His hands lingered on mine when passing medication, or beverages, or the red jello he brought me because he knew I was tired of green. 

  He offered to give me a shoulder massage—I can never resist a massage from a pair of strong hands. "You're so hot." "Well," innocently, not understanding, "I have been under six blankets all day." "Oh is that what you thought I meant?" Embarrassingly, yes, I thought he meant that my body was literally hot. That was the first moment when it occurred to me that this man was attracted to me, not just attracted, but that he wanted me, however briefly. He was standing behind me as I sat sideways on the bed, so close I barely had to lean back to be against his abdomen. He leaned over and whispered into my ear "You smell fantastic." Again, shock reeled me. Granted, I had taken a shower just before going in to the hospital, but I would have thought all the saline and plastic and latex would have overwhelmed any scent I might carry. Thank the goddess I had refused to wear that awful hospital gown, instead I was wearing a black spaghetti strap tank with a shelf-bra and a pair of purple jammie shorts, allowing at least a modicum of comfort and, I suppose, a more pleasing view. I began to make the small noises I do when pain and tension are being rubbed away. "Oh my god, do you always make those sounds? I can't believe this is happening. I've got you all day tomorrow, too."

  I said I was certain he showed this attention to all his pitiful patients. He told me to walk through the halls and look in the rooms and find someone else that looked like me. "What about all those cute little nurses and nurse techs?" "No way, not those snobs." Now, I was convinced that I was not the first patient he had ever thought was cute, nor would I be the last that received extra attention; but, at this time, in this moment, I needed, wanted, to experience seeing lust in a man's eyes. He leaned against the wall with his computer kiosk, clicking all the appropriate boxes,entering all the data that was required, all the while looking up at me and smiling, maybe even somewhat sheepishly. The ring on his finger hadn't gone unnoticed. I just kept my gaze on him, so that every time he looked up our eyes met. "I think you are trouble." "Me? I'm the one bound to this bed right now. How can I cause any trouble?"

  In between the administration of medicine and Sprite Zero, weaving around the looks and fingertips, we asked innocent questions. "Where do you live/" "Flowery Branch." "That's a nice area." "I like it."
"Where do you work?" At the College a few towns over. "I graduated from there!" small coincidences that add up to a fated meeting. Of course, there are things I think I said, responses I think he made, but the memory is now dulled by time and a different kind of insobriety. I confessed to him that I thought my face fucked up everything for me—I think he said "Your face doesn't fuck up anything." But I can't remember exactly, or for certain. 

  He asked if I was married. "Not yet, but in October I will be (hopefully). What about you? I see a ring on your finger." Married for seven months. Then what is he doing with me? What am I letting myself do, or letting him do? He offers another massage. "Let me know if I go too far." "It would be hard to go too far in this room; you never know who will pop in wanting to extract or insert more fluids into and out of me." His hands moved down to my biceps and squeezed, then they slipped into my shirt, and squeezed my breasts. "I think that might be too far..." I started to protest, but it came out a wordless breath. I brought my hands over his and removed them from my breasts. "We can't," I whispered, "we'll get caught." Caught by whom was the question. I certainly didn't want another staff member to walk in; but even more so there was You, beneath all of the flirting, I wondered about You and what You would say or do if You were to walk in while I was being fondled by another man, trying to understand the duality of my feelings—for the first time since being with You I was in the presence of another man I wanted fuck. 

  He grabbed my face in one hand and kissed me, once, twice. "I've got to go; but I'll be back later. can I bring you anything?" He looked down at his crotch and shook his head, "How can I go back to work like this?" The erection underneath his dark blue pants was unmistakable and flattering. As he wheeled his kiosk out of the doorway he said "Behave yourself in here," and winked at me. "Of course I'll behave, I'm all alone in here."