No Penis, No Problem

It was a great 4th of July Weekend, wasn't it?  Although I've finally managed to heal from surgery to the point that I can walk pretty ok, I'm still wearing a chastity belt of imagined pain from any sexual act involving my bits.  Still, I've always been good with to-do lists, and the No-Penis list I wrote a few posts ago has been no exception.  In a scant few days, amidst the revelry and Grain Belt Premium drinking (it tastes like banana runts, we decided), I've knocked a few off the list (which doesn't mean I won't be doing them again soon).  A re-cap:

1.)  Oral

    Early on in the weekend, I found Jenny in bed, laying down with a book after a shower.  I laid down next to her, curving my torso as much as I could without rolling completely to my side.  We kissed, and our hands found comfortable places on one another, my thumb just in front of her ear, palm down, with my hand curling around it.  As our kisses grew longer and more involved, my hand wound up into her hair, my fingers curling into loose fists with her hair wrapped around them.  She moaned into my mouth, and I moaned back that I wanted her pussy on my face.  She obliged rather quickly, sliding her underwear down, her slip sliding up her legs as she placed them on either side of my head.

4.)  Hands

    Although we were both enjoying ourselves immensely, we found the position a little uncomfortable after a good chunk of time.  The only other position available to us was up laying on our sides next to each other, my hands reaching over to feel her.  I dipped my fingers inside of her, gathering her wetness on the tips of two fingers, and slid them back up and around her clitoris.  We had all day, and nothing else to do that would top what we were doing, so I took my time.  I leaned my head over to kiss her, and then down to kiss her nipples.  I took one between my teeth and pulled it up slowly, then released it, surrounded it with my lips and sucked.  I spent more time than normal with my fingers inside of her, pushing up and rubbing slow circles, watching and listening to her as little parts of me made her feel so very good.  She came as I was rubbing deep circles with flat fingers over her clit.  Her hand went down to hold my fingers against her while she orgasmed.  

5.)  Pictures

    On Saturday, while Jenny was working, my friend came over who needed dirty pictures for her website she wants to start (raising money for breast implants, remember?)  She had bags of outfits and makeup, but started in thigh high leggings, strapped up with a garder belt.  Her black bra was covered, at first, with a stretchy purple shirt, the kind that clings so tight it almost makes someone more naked.  We spent time in my basement, her standing, her laying down, her kneeling in front of me and looking up at the camera.  She bemoaned not being able to play with my cock.  I also was a little bummed about it.  We took video of her talking about how she liked to get rough during sex (this is true.  While making out for the first time, I grabbed her hair a little bit, and it was like hitting an ON switch).  We ran out of memory card space before we ran out of energy, so she stayed laying on the bed, her and I both touching her, me playing with her perfect smaller breasts before I have to say goodbye to them forever.    

7.)  Touching

    I got out enough to go to a party on Saturday, but wasn't up for the walk all the way to the park to see the fireworks.  Instead, we headed back to the house and threw our drunk asses down on the couch to watch Mystery Science Theater 3000.  For the first half of the movie, I put my head on Jenny's legs.  I touched her calves and thighs while she ran her fingers through my hair, pulling as much as she can with as short as it is.  She rubbed my neck and we laughed at SPACE MUTINY in all its glory.  For the second part of the movie, I sat up, and she put her feet in my lap.  I rubbed them all through the bizarre golf-cart-looking chase scene near the end.  We had plans to go out after the fireworks were over, but got ourselves so comfy and tired we decided we may as well just go to bed.  We fell asleep with my arm under her neck, wrapped over across her chest while our neighborhood sounded like it was blowing itself up until late into the night.

Oh, an internet. I've always wanted one of those.

Hey Party People!

 I've set up a Facebook profile and would love for you to be my fake friend on it.  You can find me at www.facebook.com/johnstarkwriting.  That's right...  www.facebook.com/johnstarkwriting.  I suppose you don't need to repeat that, huh?  When it's written and stuff.

The profile is paltry to say the least, but I'll be updating it with more info, more writing, and some frustratingly obscured pictures, I'm sure.  Also, it'll send you a little note on your wall whenever I post something new on here, so you can read it right on Facebook, which is pretty durn neat.

-John

The No Penis List

You know how when you're a kid some things just seem easy, but they get harder and harder as you get older?  There's no way I could climb the trees I climbed as a kid as high or as fast right now.  We used to play a game called "bike tag," where in order to make someone else "it" you had to rub the front wheel of your bike against the back wheel of their bike.  No way I could pull that off now.  I used to be able to watch the same exact movies (Wayne's World and Demolition Man) every single weekend, sometimes multiple times in one night, with the same friend in the same room, and still find them enjoyable.  That sort of thing is the sort of thing ONLY a 12 year old boy can handle.

    The older you get, the more the less tangible things get harder too.  People laugh less easy, trust less freely.  If people fell in love in their late twenties as easily and completely as they did in their early teens, I'm not sure society could survive for longer than a week or two.

    Still, all of these things (except perhaps the bike tag... actually... especially the bike tag, as long as kid bikes were involved) are, I think, things to be reached for now that I've officially reached adulthood.  Love and trust more?  That seems like a good idea.  Climb some trees?  That sounds pretty awesome.  Pack a movie watching night with pixie sticks, hot pockets, and the combined star power of Wesley Snipes, Dana Carvey, Sylvester Stallone, and Mike Myers?  That sounds damn fine, sir, damn fine.

    There's one thing that I haven't done since I was, oh, probably 11 or so, that I am currently bringing back to my life.  I'm about to go an extended period of time without masturbating.  How extended?  Probably about two weeks.  I haven't gone two weeks without jacking off since... well... since I was 11, and I started jacking off.  So, maybe that's not quite the magical experience that climbing a big tree or openly loving people for having the same favorite color as you could be, but I've got to make the best of it.

    I just had a wee but of surgery down there, where things were flipped over, spun around, and tied to other things.  I've had it explained to me a few times, but always seem to black out somewhere around the phrases "quite tender down there" and "suture your testicles."  I'm home, I'm healing, and I can't imagine anything in the world I'd want to do less than tug on my johnson.  It hurts just thinking about it.  Well, it hurt anyway, but it continued to hurt while I thought about it.  So, it's not just masturbating that's been tucked away for a few weeks, it's anything involved the boys.  No hands, no oral, and absolutely, certainly, no fucking.  Jesus, ow, no fucking.  No masturbating, no orgasms, no ejaculation for two weeks.  Maybe more, depending on how I heal up.

    I'm over it.  Way over it.  Beyond over it.  Until it bugs me again, and then I'll be cranky.  But right now, for whatever reason (and it may be that since I'm not on the bad-boy painkillers anymore I can have a beer tonight) I'm in a decent mood, considering, and willing to take a positive look at things.  No masturbation and no orgasms for me isn't going to mean the end of my sex life for two weeks.  That just wouldn't be right, and it just wouldn't be fun.  Nope.  Instead, I thought I'd make myself a list of all the things I can do without my penis, and see how many things I can cross off the list by the time my dick's off the D.L.

The No-Penis List:

1.)  Oral Sex

    Not for me, mind you, but for others, or, in accordance with the rules (no oral sex on others without physical barriers like a dental dam or thick wool blanket), with Jenny.  Dental Dams are all well and good, but if I'm going to really enjoy going down on some one (and I do), it's going to mean getting to really feel and taste them.  Jenny gets the honors there.  I love tasting her as she gets wet against my mouth, and love the change in taste as she gets close to orgasm.  I love feeling and hearing her reactions to small variances in pressure, location, or technique.  I love letting go of everything in the world that is not my mouth and her pussy and focusing only on the sensations and sounds of giving really good head.

2.)  Massage

    I'm not entirely mobile enough to give a good massage yet, but I think I'll be coming around in the next few days.  This is another thing I can do and really let go of everything that is not contact.  I particularly love new backs and legs, and I love getting to explore them and make them feel good.  Given half a bottle of red wine and a movie of any decentness, I will rub a back for a long, long time... and though I certainly have given plenty of backrubs with sexual intentions, I also can be very content to get someone in front of or under me and get to feel very connected, get to touch, touch, and touch them, and call it a night.  I don't rub Jenny's back nearly enough, which is unfair, but there's something about massaging someone I don't usually get to touch that gives me all sorts of energy for it.  Still, Jenny's earned a big long back rub as soon as I'm ready for all the extra taking care of me she's had to do over the last few days. 

3.)  Spanking

    Spanking hasn't been a first-sexual-reflex for me ever, but there are times that I've really enjoyed it.  The next few weeks seem like a fun time to explore that a little further, see what all the fuss is really about.  I've always done spanking by including it with a whole lot of other stuff.  It may be fun to just give someone a good spanking.  Of course, when I was halfway through the spanking, I'm not sure I'd be totally unable to avoid using my...

4.)  Hands

    Handjobs are my favorite thing, really.  They feel good, they're hot as hell, and there's next-to-no worry about STI's and babies and stuff.  Guilt free good times.  I like using my hands about as much as I like getting hands used on me, and damnit, I'm fucking good at it.  It's great to kneel above someone and watch their body, their face, while using one or both hands to get them off.  Every girl is different, and some girls have been an awful lot of work, but I've also had times when I've given a girl her first multiple orgasm, or her first from another person, or her fastest, or one of her best orgasms, just from my trusty digits.

5.)  Pictures

    I met a girl online.  We've seen each other a couple of times.  She's smart as hell and really good looking and we kiss well together.  She has internet plans that involve lots and lots of sexy pictures of her.  She wants to raise money for breast implants (I won't go there right now... because how are they different than a tattoo?  But how are they not?  Her breasts, her deal), and there's a site that does something with pictures and profiles and money and something (Again, her deal.)  Point being, these are the pieces of a fantasy I've written out in detail in my book (Small Things, coming soon!):  Girl needs picture for website, wants them to be sexy.  Wants me to take pictures for her.  Pictures get sexier and sexier as inhibitions fall away.  I give direction, she comes up with new and surprisingly sexy ideas.  Sort of a ridiculous fantasy, except that this girl is real, and she wants to do this as soon as possible.  This sounds great.  The one kicker?  She really wants to get some pictures of her giving head.  That sounds especially great, except that, you know, I can't be the penis.  trying not to get cranky trying not to get cranky trying not to get cranky

6.)  Watching

    Yeah, this could get thrown into the pictures thing, but just watching could be really nice too.  A girl alone, or two girls...  I suppose I'd even watch three girls together, you know, if I HAD to.  I'm not sure about watching a couple just yet.  There's some bullshit machismo thing going on there in my head that I haven't addressed yet.  I'm not nearly as comfortable with naked guys as I am naked girls.  I think watching is fun, and it's especially fun because there's crazy energy built up by not touching.  This could be really fun in the next few weeks, because I really have to just watch.  No touching myself, no trying to get anyone to touch me.  I can't get off anyway, so I really can just sit there with my pants on and enjoy the show, whatever show that may be.

7.)  Touching

    Surprisingly enough, there are plenty of places that I love to be touched other than my penis.  Normally, I suppose, I enjoy those places being touched while mentally willing hands towards my penis, but now that I would pay NOT to have my penis touched, I can concentrate on being felt feeling good.  Those place I like to be touched include:  my neck, my chest (but not my nipples, my stomach, my legs, my arms, my head, my head, my head.  Head rubs are magical things, especially when my hair is long enough to be tugged on (which it currently is not).  I love touching too, jut letting fingers wind around someone and find little curves and little dips.  There's communicating that happens with touching that can't happen with talking.  There's connecting that happens with touching that can't happen without it.  I'll throw in this kissing and cuddling as well.  In all those some places, and for all the reasons that those things are good.  It's nice to feel close.  It's nice to touch.

8.)  Fantasy

    This may take place in some erotica, or maybe some dirty chats online, or, who knows?  Perhaps I'll just start talking about it under the fireworks on Saturday.  One thing is for certain:  while my body remains a little wonky, my brain is still firing on all cylinders (or as many cylinders as I ever had), and seeing girls walk by or come over or wander through my thoughts during the day, I'm going to engage in some healthy fantasies of all the things I'd like to do to welcome my penis back to the world.

When I Read Your Internet Dating Profile...

You Get Plus Two Points If...

You Get Minus Two Points If...

     You identify yourself as "open minded" (smart), "crazy" (fun), or "inquisitive" (smart).     

    You identify yourself as "normal" (boring), "smart" (not), or "a belly dancer" (?).  Also, if you say something in your profile anything about being "messed up" or "fucked up," I've learned at this point to believe you.       

    You like good movies and good books, things that are interesting (like David Sedaris or Little Miss Sunshine), but not so interesting that they're on there just to seem smart (like David Foster Wallace or Koyaanisqatsi).

    You have listed as your favorite movies "Gone with the Wind," "I love Disney Princess Movies!," or anything with Sandra Bullock in it.

    You have listed as your favorite books "I don't read much," or a list of books that are all commonly assigned in high school.

     You are looking for "someone to do some fun things with," "someone who likes whiskey and zombie movies," or "someone to take pictures of me and my friend naked together."

    You are looking for "a man to take care of you," "a man who knows how to take care of a woman," or "someone to watch my husband and I have sex."

    In your pictures, you are wearing a bike like it's an accessory, but not a bike that looks like one.

    In your pictures you are wearing an accessory that is ironic, but a facial expression that isn't.

    Your whole profile is full of things that are equal parts embarrassment for being on a dating website and things that are interesting about you.

    Your whole profile is about the kinds of guys that you are looking for, but never goes deeper than a hipster makeover and the will to wear it could provide (tattoos, glasses, and skinny jeans).

    There are pictures of you dressed as a zombie, or laughing.

    There are pictures of you dressed as a naughty nurse, bunny, cop, or looking very seriously into a camera when you are all alone in your bedroom.

    You like art, writing, creating, and new experiences.

    You like feeling like a princess, feeling like a "normal person," or feeling better than other people.

    You like people in open relationships.

    You don't.

    You like hypocrites who get mad at girls for being shallow and elitist while writing blog posts that are shallow and elitist.

    You don't think that's cute at all.

Evolution

I am evolving.

On Friday, at about 1:00, I was a life mass, unconscious of myself and my surroundings.  I was primordial goo.  

By 2:40, I had formed legs and arms and a head, though I was unsure what any of them were for, and I certainly couldn't get them to do anything for me.

I took my first steps, shaky and awkward, around 4:30.  They were painful, but I hear that growth is like that.

At this point, my evolution slowed way, way down.  I had done a few millennia (or, what, 48 years, depending on how you read the bible?) in a matter of hours.  I was a (mostly) upright mammal.  I was scavenging food, using my thumbs to release the most nutrient parts of graham crackers from their not-so-nutritious casing.  I had come a long way baby.  Not quite capable of true two-legged balance or advanced mathematical thinking, but capable of trying to coerce my mate to make out with the nurse who was gathering more crackers, as me and my thumbs were going through them at an astonishing rate.

I was mostly monkey.

For the rest of that day, I found that I could get myself from point A to point B by spreading my legs wide, bending them down, and waddling myself where I needed to go.  When there was anything around to grab, I used my hands for extra balance and to pull me from place to place.  I spoke mostly in grunts and screams (especially when my monkeys ways got me swinging a bit too much).  I could be easily confused as something comical or goofy, even when my facial expression was one of furious concentration.

Since then, I have evolved from mostly monkey, though the changes are becoming more and more refined, harder to notice.  If you imagine that famous "evolution of man" graphic, with homo-sapien at the far right, and something chimp-ish way off to the left, I'm somewhere squat in the middle of that.  I think the cowboy is third from the right.

I am more cowboy, less monkey.

I walk bow-legged.  I am surly, but full of rugged wisdom.  I'm alone more often than not, but when someone is around, I call them "pardner."  My arms are no longer used for locomotion, as I am now completely knees anywhere that I am walking.  I walk slowly.  I don't have much of anywhere to get to, and I surely don't need to get there quickly.

I spend time now, looking out of my little habitat.  I have that cowboy roam sickness.  I wonder what's going on out there.  I want to go see it for myself.  I hear crazy stories of pride parades and bar gatherings, but they are too far for these old cowboy legs to take me there.  I need to keep evolving.  I need to walk upright before I can walk away from the safety I have.

I can feel it now, not far off, a day away maybe, at the most two, before I reach that guy at the end of the graphic, the one with shoes on, and real underwear.  The guy walking, maybe, to a place with beer in it, or girls that smile at him.  The guy who could handle a bumpy car ride, or even a brisk walk.  The guy without a laptop or game controller attached to him with such frequency that an alien race may suspect they were vital parts of a breathing apparatus.

I am evolving, but I'd love my evolution to hurry the hell up.

Dessert (fiction)

Her taste has changed, over the years.  At first, I noticed the quick changes, that of arousal and after orgasm, but over the years, she has changed slowly, glacially.  I have changed too, at first tasting her only occasionally, and then, as my body was capable of less and less of the acrobatics I thought had been so pleasing, tasting her more and more.  It became routine, my long kiss goodnight to her, soft and slow and pleasurable.  Only twenty minutes in every day, twenty minutes that replaced us reading the same books we always read before bed, and I would taste her, and I would feel her legs shudder against my shoulders.

    At dinner tonight, as with dinners on every anniversary, we talked about our wedding, so many years ago.  We talked about how my mother pulled me aside, about how her older sister pulled her aside, about how they gave us "the Wedding Talk."  The Wedding Talk says that marriage is one of the largest things you will ever do in life.  It goes on to say that everything will change, everything in your life will be different, from the day of your wedding after.  The Wedding Talk says that marriage is full of sacrifice, compromise, and conflict.  

    The Wedding Talk can be discouraging, but not so much as the discussions at and around the wedding.  Uncles and cousins and friends all joke about marriage, the ball and chain, and all that.  If they were joking about it then, they're surely joking about it now.  Everyone seems intent on making you think that getting married is the worst thing ever.

    At dinner tonight, as with dinners on every anniversary, we wonder about where these people got all this animosity about marriage.

    We've gotten lucky, it would seem, but haven't had anything that we wouldn't expect for anyone else.  Our marriage has been easy.  Not our lives, mind you, but our marriage.  Being together has always been like breathing to us, effortless and mandatory for living.  Our marriage has changed, as surely it must over these many years, this full hand of decades now, but we have changed with it, changed for it.  It is our most comfortable clothes.

    We had dinner at home, because as we got better and better at cooking, going out seemed less and less a treat, and besides, there's still something so sexy about making and enjoying something together.  Young couples talk about pre-marital counseling now.  I think they should just cook together until they can make something delicious.

    We don't move fast anymore, but an anniversary is all day long, and so we didn't need to move fast.  We started early with pasta from scratch.  We picked tomatoes and basil and peppers from the garden in the back.  We let things simmer so long it seemed sinful.  We drank wine in deep glasses, because cooking without wine isn't nearly as fun.  We got flour and sauce marks on each other because we can't keep our hands off each other long enough to clean them.  We got phone calls from our kids and their kids.  We answered them drunk and passed love around like an appetizer.  They asked what we had planned for the night.  We said not much.

    We had dinner in the dining room.  I set the table, and she, like she has for fifty years, picked the music.  She, like she has for fifty years, picked something perfect and soft and beautiful.  We lit candles.  We held hands while we enjoyed, slowly, this thing that we made together.  I looked in her eyes, still warm and lively and mischievous.  We are no different than we were fifty years ago, except maybe happier, maybe better at this.  

    We left the plates on the table so we could dance together.  I suppose that has changed.  I let her talk me into that enough times that I enjoy it now.  We just stand close and sway, nothing fancy, but that's about right for us.  With her dress all low cut and her body against mine, and all our touching and flirting and laughing all day, we didn't make it through the first song before led her, still dancing, to the couch in the living room.

    We kissed there, the kiss that singles the start to many more things.  The kiss that I always rushed, but I'm better at that now too.  We have the whole night ahead of us, and I know now to enjoy long kisses with the woman I love with everything I have to love.  So we kissed there, in the living room, our dancing slowing as our arms wrapped more around each other, as our lips said all those things you can only say with lips together, fifty years of those things.

    We said we loved each other for the millionth time and for the millionth time we meant it.  Couples seem to want to judge marriages by how often they have sex, or how often they fight or not.  More telling, I think, is how often you say that you love each other with sincerity, and how often you take the time to really hear it said back to you.

    I laid her down on the couch, running my hands up her soft legs, feeling the muscle of gardening and yoga under her skin, feeling my mouth begin to water in expectation.  She took the cushion from next to her and gave it to me, so I could sit comfortably on my knees in front of her.  I pushed her dress up and kissed along the inside of her thigh, hearing light moans mixing in with her deep breathing.  My mouth found her underwear, black and see-through and new for the night, and kissed her through the fabric, faintly getting my first taste of her as I ran my tongue lightly up and down the silky netting.

    She reached down and pulled her underwear aside for me, showing me her pussy, shaved and wet and opening for me, and I brought my mouth to it.  I separated my lips and pushed my tongue out, running it firmly against her clitoris, her lips, teasing it inside her.  She put her hands on top of my head, pulling my hair firmly as I started to suck her lips between mine, suck her clit between my teeth, swirly my tongue around her.  After all this time, all these years, I've never gotten tired of the sounds she makes when she gets off... whether during those hour long fucking sessions of our youth, or those late night times when she touched herself and thought I was asleep, or now, on the couch, biting her bottom lip and moaning for my finger.

    I felt her taste change as she got more and more wet against my tongue and lips, as my fingers slid deep inside her and brought the taste of her vagina up to my lips.

    I concentrated on my breathing, matching hers.  When I stopped having erections, I started focusing more and more on her orgasms, and found that if I really let myself feel them, if I breathed with her and focused on her pleasure, her orgasm became both of our orgasm.  I started to breath with her, moan with her, pressing my lips against her as I moaned. 

    My other hand wandered over her body, so familiar to me, but so different from when I first touched her more than half a century ago.  I remember being worried as a young man about wrinkles, about sagging old bodies and what that would be like.  As we grew older, I always naturally held her in my mind as the image of beauty.  As our bodies shifted, we still looked beautiful together, her body still looked beautiful to me, still felt soft in all the places you would want softness, still contained all the sensuality and confidence and playfulness as it did when we were in our twenties.  I was silly to be worried.  My wrinkly saggy woman is still the sexiest woman I can imagine, and she'd say the same about her wrinkly, saggy man.

    My hand found her nipple under her shirt, hard, waiting, and I squeezed it hard between my fingers, tugging and twisting in the way I know she likes it.  Her moans turned to grunts, and so did mine.  I could feel an orgasm building in the pit of my stomach.

    Just before orgasm, her taste switched again, to something like peaches and white wine, except when I taste those things they remind me of her, and not the other way around.  I tasted only the taste of my wife about to orgasm with my mouth sucking hard on her clitoris.

    We came together, as we tend to do now, my body taking so many cues from hers.  We sat like that, her leaning back in the couch, me on my knees in front of her, kissing her lightly between her legs.  She brought my head up to hers and we kissed again, her tasting herself on my lips and smiling with her mouth pushed against mine.  She brought her lips up to my hear and whispered, almost inaudibly, "happy anniversary sweetie.  Time for dessert."

Recovering

Well, the recovery has begun and is going quite well.  So far in day two, I haven't taken a single pain killer (swapping a dull pain for the ookieness the painkillers were giving me).  I spent most of yesterday evening icing my balls, watching Star Wars, and wearing a jock strap. Today, it's just the jock strap.  It actually doesn't look so bad on me, if I may say so myself, and every time I look at it I giggle because I think of the person putting it on me while I was asleep.  If me laying around in only a jock strap isn't enough of a mental image for you, know that I can only walk without pain if I walk like a monkey... or like a baboon with a very white ass.

    The surgery went just fine, with Jenny and I doing what Jenny and I do... laughing in the prep room at the ridiculous warmer they had in my hospital gown (like a giant vacuum hose that made my gown poof out everywhere), and joking around with everyone who came in.  If you can't have fun with testicle surgery, when can you have fun?

    I got some valium on the way to the surgery room, and they didn't make me count from 10 when they turned on the real good stuff... which is fine, because I think I would've gotten to "Te-" before passing out.

    I woke up awhile later, really upset that I couldn't get myself really awake, and in quite a bit of pain as well.  I asked them to go get Jenny so she could rub my head, and then went back to sleep for another forty minutes.  When I was finally up, they gave me some graham crackers that were among the most delicious things I've ever eaten (seeing as it'd been about 20 hours since I had eaten or drank anything).

    The parking ramp was about to be really expensive, as we'd been there for about five hours, but Jenny told the guy she had just come to pick me up.  He asked for the parking slip so he could see how long we'd been there and Jenny said, "well, we've been here for awhile, but I was just here to get him," and motioned to me sitting in the passenger seat, equal parts white and green and holding a giant ice pack to my crotch.  The parking attendant actually left his station, walked to the gate and unlocked it manually so we could leave right away.  I'm sure this guy seems sick and recovering people all the time, but there's just something about a giant ice pack on a crotch that implies so many different narratives and inspires so many gut reactions, that he really didn't seem in the mood to fight anything.

    So, I'm still a little sleepy, still a little achey, and really getting used to how I look in a jock strap...  all in all, not so bad, considering it hasn't been a full day since they cut my balls open, flipped some stuff around and sewed them back together.  I imagine you'll hear a lot from me in this next week of laying around.