Sunday, January 11, 2004

Blue (Not In The) Mood

I've always been private about sexual matters. Hell, I've always been private about even crushing on someone. What if I confided in someone that I liked a boy, and then he didn't like me back? It felt like there it would be, my unrequited crush hanging there like a stained sheet on the laundry line, for all to see. Oh no, can't have any of that. My shame and humiliation battle constantly with self-esteem and happiness all day, every day, and usually the former two have the edge. No need for me to give them any ammunition.

Well, I told you all that as a prelude toward discussing something decidedly private and embarrassing. (Stop rubbing your hands together like that, or at least do so discreetly. I've being vulnerable here.) If you are feeling queasy right about now, and fear that I may just venture into the realm of "too much information", you should probably go look at a site likethis fluffy kitties page, a friendly, this porridge is just right! website right about now, because this is the last warning you get here.

Okay, now that Sister Mary Francis is gone, the rest of us can talk. See, things have not been, shall I euphemistically say, "looking up" as far as when J and I have embarked on post-operation bedroom experiments. Before the operation, barring illness, exhaustion or certain indelicate female conditions (aHEM), we never seemed to have any problems whatsoever, both being enthusiastically willing and able, and pretty damned compatible in this area. And the doctors and WebMD and every pamphlet we read all mentioned that a certain period of , er, "downtime" is to be expected after removal of the prostate, even after the most successful nerve-sparing procedure by one of the best doctors in the country, on a relatively healthy young man. It wasn't like we were worrying about it, as this was all normal under the circumstances. We were just being patient and working around it, resourceful little rabbits that we are.

After some encouraging signs of life, we were feeling pleased with his recovery. And the doctor seemed pleased with the stories of J's progress too, but also felt that some pharmaceutical incentive for J's friend was in order, to speed things along towards normalcy. J was presented with a prescription for the well-known, excruciatingly oft-spammed about little blue pill. I don't need to name it here, as you all know the one. And if you don't, just read one or two of those emails you've been getting slammed with, with subject lines such as these: "Pleez ur girrlfrend." "Enlaarj ur sausage." "Get biggr N bettr!"

The anticipation was great on both our sides when he called and told me that he had filled the prescription. We giggled on the phone like conspirators, and cleared out schedules for that evening, hoping for the best possible results.

Well, maybe we should all have read that spam and bought some of this stuff, because DAMN, those pills really do work. After a little encouragement, there was little to indicate that there had ever been an interval of trouble. Things sure looked back to normal.

Uh, for him anyways. Maybe I needed to have taken one, too.

What the hell was wrong with me? I had so looked forward to that evening, as I secretly hoped that this would help him with his self-esteem, as much as anything else. And I looked forward to having things be back to normal for us, because let's just say that there were certain things I missed and leave it at that. But as much as he was up to the challenge in a major way, I was finding that I was not responding in the usual way, not even a little. I was so nervous about how things were going to go, that I could not get in the mood, no matter how he tried, or how I wished it so. Jesus, after all this, and now I'm broken. (Deep sigh).

We chalked up the evening as a qualified success, now at least knowing that the promised effects are just as they claim, and the rest will hopefully fall into place. Now that I know that things are looking up, and I don't have to worry about how he'll feel if it isn't successful, maybe I can relax enough to get back to being myself again, too. I'm hoping, because it would be so nice to just be back to normal. I'm not looking for porno-ish Tommy and Pamela escapades, just normal, fercryinoutloud!

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