Dream Big, Baby: Part 4



Civilized conversations about bodily misfortunes.


bionic woman

bionic woman

Mom: You just have to tell me what button to press.

Me: The icon that looks exactly like a camera. Do you remember what cameras used to look like?

Mom: Okay, found it.

Me: What IS this? Why is it so blurry?

Mom: It looks blurry to me even when I’m not looking at it through the camera.

Me: Are you saying that your daughter has a blurry back? I can’t even photoshop that!

Mom: But I did such a great job accentuating the contours of your waist. What a figure!

Me: This was supposed to be a surgical wound photo session, not a fashion shoot! Oy vey, I think you need glasses or I need my cat to take these pictures. She already knows how to press ALL the buttons.

Following my surgery, Niall checks in periodically to see how it went, wish me a speedy recovery, and offer a visit if I’m up for it. Nine days later, he texts THIS. Which is half-joking half-serious, I believe. Way to up the ante.

Niall: How’s things? Getting better? Need a visitor? Lox? Books? Oral?

Me: Ha ha, oral. If only you knew yesterday was the first time I showered in 9 days.


Niall: Perfect. How about you let me know the next day you plan to shower and I’ll come hang out?

Me: Aw, I hate to dash your hopes and dreams. I really enjoyed hanging out with you, felt like we were on the same wavelength, and would make good activity buddies. But I thought the sex was kind of a disaster. Not the stuff of stories or anything just nothing worth repeating.

Me: Which isn’t to say I don’t want to hang out just that I assume you don’t want to hang out if it doesn’t involve nudity.

I was sort of tentative about the rejection; didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Accordingly, I was sooo relieved when he agreed the sex was terrible. Best-case scenario! Either that or a new low. The same but different.

Niall: Yeah the quick pre Girls watching with parents, pre surgery sex did not go well at all! I assumed we just both knew that and wanted to give it another try based on the aforementioned shared wavelength.

Ohhh, huh. That wasn’t what I was expecting. At all. In retrospect, it’s exactly what I had asked for: second time, same guy. I wasn’t sold yet. But I was willing to entertain the notion. For now, an emphatic phewww. Finally something has gone well. Mutual feelings, of disappointment!

Me: Yeah, the circumstances were not ideal. Glad you aren’t offended. I don’t know, while I’m not totally opposed to the idea once I’m grossed out I’m sort of grossed out. The part I found most objectionable was the fingering.

Niall: Well I have know idea what you like so please explain!

Good, he’s amenable to constructive criticism. The problem: things were so bad I’m not even sure where to start. Shaping someone works only if there is some foundation to build from.

Niall: I’m not used to bad sex, and I feel a pretty decent attraction to you, so I assumed it was a fluke.

Me: I’m very accustomed to bad sex. I expect most of it to go in the discard container.

Wow, I’m brutal.

Niall: Also, let me precede the rest of this conversation with the statement that I don’t need to sleep with you to want to hang out with you again.

He’s sweet. Good thing at least one of us isn’t an arsehole. I give him as detailed and colorful a list of complaints as I’ve given you, lecherous readers. Keep in mind that throughout this whole conversation I’m on post-surgery narcotics. So if I’m already blaringly blunt, I have no filter whatsoever on them. He apologizes for my troubles even though they aren’t any more his fault than mine.

Niall: Wow I’m sorry you had such a bad experience!

Niall: So I think despite our intellectual wavelength we were on a very different sexual one. Bummer!!

Me: No need to apologize it wasn’t aggressively bad, like you weren’t mean to me.

Me: I’ve seriously never been fingered like you’ve fingered me in all my years of slutitude. I did like the position you fingered me from torward the end. The oral was okay but not award worthy. Maybe it would have been if I weren’t so distracted by having to protect myself from your fingers.

Niall: Hahahaha I like the openness of this conversation despite its unfortunate topic.

Totally, that’s the most important part. Being able to talk about it without getting defensive.

Me: I delight in civilized convos about body misfortune.

No kidding, do I ever! What follows is the most hilarious and cruelest part of my commentary. One more special message to go. And then I’m done and I can go home.

Me: So here is the last open thing I will say before I have to go do other stuff like maybe nap. I hate that your bike tattoo hand is your jerking off hand. The wheels look like swirly eyes and I felt like I had a surrealist nose protruding towards then retreating away from me menacingly. Like some fucked up Pinocchio shit and I just wanted you to unfib or consistently fib to make your nose-peen stop growing then shrinking.

Oh my!

Niall: Usually my left hand is my jerking off hand because my more dexterous right hand is a waste in that application.

Hahaha, that made me laugh ten thousand! Something about the matter-of-factness. The shrewdness. I like a man who can be practical about his penis! Conservative, almost. Reminds me of a guy who claims in his okcup profile that his ordering deodorant and coffee filters online isn’t lazy; it’s efficient. Totally. Don’t work harder; work smarter. Niall ends the conversation by labeling what happened “a rushed struggle void of communication” and reiterating that he is open to whatever: “If you want to share and try what is right I’m down! And if not, that’s fine too.” Except he adds a bizarre condition to a simple proposition.

Niall: And, in a rare personal request, (I don’t like to ask people for things) I’d appreciate you letting me know which direction you’d like to go sooner rather than later so I can tailor subsequent conversation appropriately! 🙂

Niall: Like if you just want to be buds I don’t want to continue cute offers to lick your disabled and unshowered vagina. If otherwise, I will!!

I half pondered what he meant by it. And fully passed the fuck out on painkillers for the next six days. Six days later I got back to him to let him know that I intended to respond eventually. And then I grew curious about my vagina, that thing down there between my legs. I wondered how long it would take to revive. Good thing I keep a vagina diary! No seriously. After my series of digestive surgeries, since there was a dearth of information on the internet about what to expect post-surgically, I attempted to fill this struggle void by keeping track of how frequently I was getting off and how (like, with what equipment). Doctors know nothing, and I guess for patients it’s either too taboo or depressing a topic to broach. Or else others think of sex less systematically and consciously than I do. The verdict was that after my second digestive surgery—which was purely abdominal and thus did not encroach on reproductive real estate—it took me close to three weeks to start up and another three to be back on pace. For the first few weeks it felt like I was being punched in the stomach every time I orgasmed—but whatevs! Still totally worth it. Except, with spinal surgery I had an additional concern. Orgasms are a spinal reflex. What that meant I was unsure. Seemed scary. Like, are my orgasms gonna ping off the screws in my back like a ball bouncing off targets in a pinball machine? Are my fingers equivalent to action flippers keeping the ball in play? How long can I hold off for, anyway? Two days after my placeholder text, I send Niall a message that contains actual content.


I guess the oblique and rather unsatisfying answer to your request is that I can’t even wrap my mind around the concept of sex or anything sexual right now. Though I like the idea of not explicitly sexual physical affection. It has been two and a half weeks since my surgery… Because pain and pain killers and mvmt restrictions and other physical stuff it will just take a while for my body to get back on track so it feels silly to make any kind of commitment or statement of intention in the abstract…

Pertaining to what went wrong btw us, yes, it was rushed and I’m sorry for that. Obvs I wanted some kind of encounter before my surgery and maybe that wasn’t fair to you. That said, I am physically attracted to you and enjoyed spending time with you and was planning on eventually sleeping with you anyway… What I think we might disagree on is the following: I tend to think communication as an excuse or explanation is the folly of the intellectually enlightened. Often there are differences in sexual compatibility that can’t be fixed through verbally or physically demonstrating preferences and no matter how hard both of you try and how sincerely both of you want it to work, it’s just never gonna be super pleasing to both people. I’m not sure we are at that point…

The communication problem, if we are going to refer to it as that, is what you were doing was so far from my preferences and what I’ve experienced with other men that I didn’t know how to express how to fix the situation or if it was even fixable. I’m not unwilling to try to get naked with you again once I’m feeling up to it physically. But perhaps it would help if we set up the expectation that if either of us isn’t enjoying it we can just say so and stop so we don’t feel obligated to persist in doing something to please the other person when they aren’t going to be pleased anyway…

In a way I think [our first encounter] is a textbook example of “pluralistic ignorance.” Anyway, if you wanna hang out soon and just watch movies or listen to music and maybe even snuggle let me know. It will prob be a few weeks before I can really leave my apartment and roam the streets.

He responds favorably and reasonably.


I totally understand your views on sexual communication and agree that sometimes people just aren’t sexually compatible. This can be true even despite good connection in various other areas or strong sexual attraction at first…

I’m also attracted to you physically and intellectually and of course also wanted to sleep with you (else I wouldn’t have). I did make the assumption that sex before surgery would be nice for you so went with the little bit of rush because the attraction was already there. It did affect me some during though despite feeling comfortable with you.

Also I don’t need any abstract statements and understand you aren’t really in a place to…be anywhere besides your apartment 🙂 I just never want to be the annoying person on the wrong page…as I’ve been the annoyed one plenty of times when I didn’t want the type of attention I was getting. All that said, hanging out with a movie or music soon sounds fun to me!

Oh, I get it: he doesn’t want to be a sex pest. That’s admirable. As if I am competing against myself in an absurdity pageant, I am stupidly relieved when he concurs that he wanted to sleep with me or else he wouldn’t have. Not because I doubted his interest. But because it settled a dispute I was having with myself. I had been wondering whether the attempted sex even counted as sex, and was hesitant to think of it as anything more than alleged. Because women are taught not to trust their own accounts. My brain kept doing that dumb heteronormative thing: “Did we, or didn’t we?” I mean, does it even matter?


Breaking news.


February 1st

After almost three weeks I thought it would be rushed release. Instead, pure pleasure. The kind you want to last forever and ever, and take pains to prolong to infinity in spite of your body’s elastic resistance to permanence. Inside me, it felt a bit stabby at first, my double-headed dildo poking the amorphous area that swelled and radiated red like ET’s heart, backing up against the dim dead-end drive of my Frankenpelvis. Until I tilted back, opened wide, and swallowed around it—sliding further and further in with each contraction, gulping it down, glub glub glub, my breath quickening gaspy and gapey in my ear, clicking and popping to my pressure chamber beat. The shower soothing, I got distracted from how fast I was coming, gripping the handle hook hard with my deadbolt pussy, like clamping down on a stress ball or squeezing my mom’s conscience while watching me get an injection. So tight and knuckle-white I had to shake it out afterwards, my cramped hand and legs, my taut butt hammocking my pc muscles. Shaking it all about, doing the hokey pokey sitting, only slightly less silly. My nerve-tension twitching and my pussy continuing to chug chug past the finish line, summoning the next dildo to suck dry and swallow whole. Three weeks parched, it was already thirsty for more, ravished in peachy glow and spellbound by possibility. Saying fuck off to disability. Spent and awash, I issued a news flash to myself. Here it is, verbatim.

Breaking news:

Orgasms feel better than heroin!

Let’s all take solace in that fact.

Last time I had surgery it literally felt like I was punched in the gut every time I orgasmed for like weeks after. Which proves that people will do anything to orgasm. I mean Genie will do anything to orgasm. I mean it felt great before and after. Just had to bite my tongue—but not literally—during. This time around I was scareder though because it wasn’t only about the pain. Orgasms are a spinal reflex and I had spinal surgery. So it’s like I hope all the screws are firmly in place while I screw myself!

Seriously, now I feel 500 percent better, not simply because I know everything works (game on!) but because I’m filled with happy chemicals. Today is world happiness day. Namaste. Two weeks and five days is a long time to go. Horny or not, here I come!

Of course, the fallacy being that an orgasm after two weeks and 5 days is not synonymous with an orgasm on average. And I bet heroin is ofttimes superior to the latter, if my week on morphine was any indication. At least drugs fuck you up too bad to remember about sex and the delightful automaticity of guzzling peristalsis, your body filling itself with exactly the sustenance it needs. Post-orgasm, I felt stiff but floaty. Unable to bend, twist, or lift, I levitated on adrenaline and oxytocin—sprawled out and numb, staring into the full-spectrum lamp sun and feeling forever anew. Two months later, the orgasmic bliss sizzled, I feel sunny still. And I’m waiting for a man or woman to give me a gut-crunching, dildo-crushing orgasm that will lace itself through my mind and multiply into gushing gulps that reverberate off the walls. Sex, more sustainable than drugs. Take that, morphine!

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