The usual disclaimers: this is a work of fiction. I am not I, and you are not you. I always welcome comments, compliments, complaints, even criticisms to burlguy@excite.com
Copyright 2003 Jeff Blitzer
The Night the Lights Went Out
by
Jeff Blitzer
I never saw the other car coming.
I got hit blind-sided. The only memories are those vague, slow-motion feel of the car slamming into something, the glass shattering, the airbag erupting like in slow motion, and me sitting there in the car because I could do nothing else. I could not move. I was in pain. And the car was crumpled around me.
It took EMS almost an hour to get me out. I was scared. But bless those guys: one of them was good enough to tell me -- while they were working to get me out from the twisted metal -- that I would be OK, that I looked pretty lousy (he grinned ... I don't think I've ever appreciated a grin so much) but that I would be all right.
They moved me gingerly to a stretcher. The pain was still there, a fierce ache in both arms, and cuts and bruises all over. I don't remember the next few hours well. I vaguely remember the ER, the docs and nurses working me over, and me scratching a consent to treat on a form somebody gave me.
It wasn't until the next day that I knew all that had happened to me. Both arms broken. Badly. But apart from cuts and bruises all over, I was OK. And a black eye. Damn, I didn't want to think about what I must have looked like. But by the time I was fully aware, there was something else to worry about.
Because my first memory of being awake was that my nose was itching. Involuntarily, I moved to scratch, and something didn't work. I looked over. Both arms were in casts, and were suspended from ropes and pulleys. I could barely move them.
One of the nurses had just walked in. "Hi," I said weakly.
She smiled. "So you're back with us? We were beginning to wonder when you would talk. Good morning, Mr. Priestly."
"'Dan' is just fine," I responded. She was probably all of 25, and I'm sure that calling me Mr. Priestly just seemed natural. But -- having just had my 48th birthday 2 weeks before the crash -- I always tried to keep the respectful older adult image at bay.
"Then Dan it is," and she smiled again, "Are you OK?"
"I could be better. What's with the arms?"
She looked sympathetic. "You got several complicated compound fractures. They had to be completely stabilized, and that's the reason for the system. We'll take care of everything for you. But it's going to be a headache for you for the next few days. We're suspecting we'll be able to get those off of you in a week or so. Anything you need right now?"
"Yes," I responded quickly, "My nose is itching," and she laughed. "Consider it done," she said, and she carefully scratched where I told her, and I was much relieved.
The days passed in a string of boring hours. I am from a large family, and my 7 brothers and sisters were there frequently, along with nieces and nephews and friends. The nursing staff, aware that I was bored to tears, helped me to work the remote for the TV so I could at least have that.
What no one helped with was a nearly insatiable erection that began not long after I became conscious again. I am pretty highly sexed, and I have grown accustomed to nearly every day activity.
I had been in long-term relationship until 2 months before the accident. Jack and I had met seven years before and had fall instantly, voraciously in love. The love had been good, the sex hot, and we were best friends, and nearly inseparable companions, whether hiking, doing weights, or -- our big vice -- football. We loved the stuff: watching pro on TV, local high school in person, or -- when we dared -- playing pickup games with teens in the neighborhood, boys we were used to being around, and who were used to being around us, even as they teased us mercilessly, joking that we were so old that they would have to bring wheelchairs on the field.
But I could hold my own. If nothing else, I was blessed with sheer size advantage over them. I'm 6'5, and weighed (at least before this accident forced me into total non-activity!) 253. I've got the classic football build, broad shoulders, broad hips, and it's no accident that I was a starting lineback in college. Not good enough for the pros, but still not bad.
But work had taken Jack to Atlanta. A promotion he could not turn down. And we agreed to break things off. A long-distance relationship was not for either of us. Still it hurt. My family had called him, and he was kind. Wanted to know if he needed to come back to help me. I'm fine, I told him, though tears came to my eyes, as I remembered his love, and the hot feel of our bodies against each other. I missed him. But it was good to be loved.
I tried to ignore the horniness that dogged me those first two days. There is nothing like a hospitalization to reduce a man to total helplessness, in my case having every physical need taken care of by others. I'm independent and self-reliant. But I was not above being taken care of. But for this one need. There was no one there to care for it. I was sorely tempted to tell Jack to drive up for the weekend. But that would be making my buddy into a whore. I would not do that. I could not do that. Besides, he was working on a project this weekend, and it would be tough for him to get away. But the nagging, unrelenting need remained. Damn, it was hard. Literally.
And it was Friday. This was an orthopedic unit. Lots of patients here were for elective stuff. Believe me, the horniness had not been helped by the sight of the hunks on crutches who had had knee and other surgeries from old sports injuries. The unit was a flurry of activity during the day, discharges all through the morning and early afternoon. But it would be next week, at least, before I saw the outside world again.
The silence that evening was deafening. After my visitors had left, I watched games on ESPN. Even that was beginning to bore me. Tired of fighting the tedium, I went on to sleep around 9, a deep and dreamless sleep.
Until I woke up. Suddenly. A little disoriented. There was a guy standing at the foot of the bed. He was slight, and I thought for a minute that he was one of my nephews, or the brother of one of the boys I sometimes played football with.
"Oops," he said quietly, "I didn't mean to wake you." I stared at him for a minute, wondering who he was. Then I realized he was wearing a uniform. He went on, "I'm Jason Cooperman. I'm the nurse on duty tonight. I'm in grad school, so I only work weekends. And you must be Mr. Priestly. I'm checking on the readings on your pain meds. Good to meet you."
"Good to meet you, Mr. Cooperman, but Dan is just fine." He smiled. "And Jason is fine, too. You OK? Anything I can get for you or do for you?"
"No," I responded, "I'm OK. Don't need anything right now. Can I ask you a nosy question?" "Sure," he returned, looking puzzled. "Don't take this wrong," I went on, "But you're an RN, right?" "Yep," he answered, still looking puzzled, and I kept on with my questions, "Did you just graduate from nursing school?"
"Oh, that," he laughed. "To answer the question I think is behind your question, I graduated 2 years ago, but I'm 26. I know I look young, but I'm perfectly legal." And he grinned very big. I smiled back, but was a little sheepish. He must have gotten this question before. He was friendly, open, and cute, and small. Probably no more than 5'5 or so, and no more than 125 or 130 pounds. Still, he had a well-built look for his size, and I could see in the dim light that his arms were strong, and his chest developed.
"There is one thing you could do," I continued., "Would you mind scratching my face? I'm embarrassed to ask, but I didn't get shaved this morning, and the itch is about to drive me crazy, and I can't take care of it." "It's no problem," he said, "Just tell me where," and I described it, and the relief was intense. I sighed contentedly and laughed, "Many thanks, my friend. It's amazing how something so simple can be so satisfying."
He looked a bit puzzled, and asked, "Are you growing a beard?"
"No, it's just that they were busy with discharges today, and nobody had time to take care of that this morning."
He looked a little irritated, "And I'll bet they skipped your bath, too, right?" "Yeah," I said, "But it's cool. They were really busy."
"Things like that still need to be taken care of, Dan," he went on. "When you can't get up -- like you can't -- getting you cleaned up is important, not just for psychological reasons. It's not good for your skin, too."
"Well, you're the professional here," I smiled at him. "Look," he said, "Believe it or not, you are the only patient on this unit tonight. I have some paperwork that has to be completed by 1:30, but I can come back and get you cleaned up, if you want to. Or if you want to go back to sleep, that's cool, too. Either way is fine. But you might feel better if you're cleaned up a little."
No way I was going back to sleep. Our conversation had awakened me, and though I had not complained about it, I was feeling pretty grimy. "Sure," I told him, "If you have time, a clean-up would be good. I'd really appreciate it. But the orderly or somebody could do it. I don't want to impose on you."
"Look, even us big-shot nurses can occasionally get our hands dirty. As quiet as it is here, I was planning to read most of the night, and I'd probably just end fighting sleep, and my boss would catch me dozing, and read me the riot act. So let me get my paperwork done, and I'll be back here in about 20 minutes."
There's not a lot to do when you can't use your arms. Especially when it's dark, and you're in a hospital, and every minute drags. But I had a while to think. What was the tension there between this young man and me? I am not anything approaching a dirty old man. I have consistently enjoyed the favors of men who were roughly my own age. And while I am flattered by the young men who stare at me in bars, and appreciate that they still notice a man barreling in on 50, I don't think about them, ponder them, or seek them out. But there was a tension here. An electricity. I liked it.
And I don't go for guys a lot smaller than me. Now, when you are as tall and broad as I am, most guys are smaller, at least a little. But Jack was 6'3, and was very typical of the men I dated and those I mated. But I was lying here talking to Jason and the sight of his body had brought me to fulsome erection.
Not that I thought something would happen. This guy was friendly, open, even courteous. But professional. Completely so. Still, I was intrigued.
It could not have been much longer than 20 minutes later that he arrived. "Damn, I hate paperwork," he laughed, "And you know what the bitch is? They want it in 2 places now. First on the computer. Then on paper, just in case the computer fucks up. Doubles your time. But I'm glad you woke up. You gave me a good reason to get the paperwork done quickly."
He had a basin of water, some towels and soap. He was talkative, friendly, and I realized that there was more than electricity there: we genuinely liked each other. Still, it felt odd. I felt strangely intimate with this guy I had not met an hour before, and here I was, helpless, and he would be touching my body.
He got my face and hair washed, and got me shaved. I felt a lot better with just that. Then he pulled the sheet back to uncover my chest and stomach. The building was over-heated, and the it was not uncomfortable. He was washing my chest, and as his hands went across it, I wondered what his chest looked like. I noticed that his arms were smooth. My old rule that smooth arms usually means smooth everywhere was probably true.
"What ya thinkin'?," he asked softly, and I realized that I had grown quiet, pondering the situation. "Oh, nothing," I said, embarrassed. He got down to my stomach. I laughed, "No washboards there!" and he smiled, "No washboards here, either," but I went on, "You have the genetics for it, Jason. I'm built big, but unfortunately, the big chest usually entails a not-flat stomach."
"You have genetics," he said, "that I wish I had. Guys who are big like you have no idea what you look like to small guys like me. There's a bit of an envy factor going on." He changed the subject. "Did they remove your rings after your accident?"
"Rings? I don't wear a ring," I told him. "I noticed," he responded quietly, "that there was no wedding band." His voice was toneless, unemotional.
"Jason." Our eyes met. "Men don't usually give each other rings. Not yet anyway."
He was silent for a minute. "I wondered. And I made myself not look at your personal information on the computer. From your looks, I was sure you were married with 5 kids. And then I wondered why you were alone. And I kept thinking that a wife was downstairs getting something to eat." He seemed lost in thought.
"I'm not alone," I responded, "Well, I guess I am now. I had a mate, but we broke up 2 months ago. My family is here in town. I have 7 brothers and sisters, and lots of nieces and nephews, and loads of friends. But I didn't need anyone to stay with me. All of you guys have taken good care of me. Thank you. It means a lot."
He smiled evenly, and said, "Now we need to get to the basics," and he started to pull the sheet down to fully expose me, and I said, "Wait."
"What's the matter?," he asked. "I ... well, I haven't got off in several days. The man down there has been asking for attention. Please don't get the wrong idea." "OK," he said, softly again, and he pulled the sheet back.
My cock is big, and there in the soft light of the room, it was huge and sticking back toward my stomach. I'm uncut, and I have a lot of skin, but still, the head was big under its cap. Jason stared at it, hypnotized. "Wow." That was all he said, and then again, "Wow."
He hesitated a minute, and seemed for just a second coldly professional. "It's OK, you know. I've dealt with stuff like this before." Suddenly, I felt oddly ashamed. I had always been proud of my size, loved to show it off, loved the stares it got, but now it felt pornographic with Jason staring at it.
He turned around, dipping the washcloth into the basin. He seemed distant, and I thought I had offended him, that perhaps he didn't understand. But then I realized: I am talking to someone who is 26. He surely understands hard-ons. But that wasn't all that was going on now. Yeah, I had been horned for a couple of days. But there was an intensity now, an urgency, a demand that had grown in the last hour, and my cock seemed to be straining, begging, demanding attention.
Jason washed carefully, professionally around my balls, and then noted, "I need to clean around your foreskin." Which he did. Or began to. He peeled the skin back. There was some build-up there, and I apologized for it. "No problem," he said, distant and clinical sounding. And as the skin was pulled back to reveal the head, the head enlarged even further, that total, beautiful erection where the slit flares open. There was an animal-like feel to its hardness now, and I felt Jason's hand hesitate, his small thumb and forefinger wrapped around the thick shaft. I felt spasms going through it. It was an unbelievable feel. "Wow," he said again. And suddenly, as if a switch had turned on, he began rhythmically, slowly, but urgently to masturbate me. Not often do I get the feeling of being taken outside of my body, but it was here, now. A feeling of being taken care of, and of power at the same time. Because if I was hypnotized, so was Jason. His breath was shallow, urgent.
And suddenly, he stopped.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm really sorry. I shouldn't do this. I'm wrong to have done this. I could lose my professional license for this."
He looked suddenly smaller, little boy like. I felt a wave of sympathy for him. "Jason, it's OK. You're not doing anything against my will. I know what you're saying, but I want this. Believe me, this is unbelievable, this is good. No one will know. I am not the type to get regrets in the morning. Don't do it if you don't want to, but trust me when I say that my only regret is that my hands are not available to take care of you, too."
He sat down in a chair by the bed. He looked chastened, whipped. "Are you cold?," he asked. "No," I responded, "This place is hot as hell." "That it is," he laughed, and he breathed deep, "Can I ask you a personal question?"
"Sure," I responded, not knowing what was coming next.
"Your mate, as you call him, what did he look like? How was he built?"
"Oh, like me. Maybe an inch shorter. A big guy."
"Hairy?," he asked. "Yeah," I answered, "All over. Like me. Why do you ask?"
"Because ... have you ever been interested in someone like me? A small guy, a smooth guy? I mean, Dan, I have hair around my cock, hair under my arms, nothing more. I shave every couple of days. That's all."
I waited a minute. He looked like a puppy sitting beside me. I wished my arms were free, to hug him, to hold him.
"Interested? Long term? No. But Jason, I think we both realized that there was some electricity that switched on from the minute we met tonight. I like that. I have no stereotype man that I enjoy, no `type' that I look for. And I find you extremely hot. And -- because of the work of you and others like you -- I will not be in this bed forever. There's no reason we couldn't explore these matters further when I am a little less" -- and I laughed here -- "encumbered."
"No shit," he said. It was more a question than a statement. "Because I wonder if you realize what you look like to somebody like me. You're like a god: you're almost a foot taller, you are big, you are hairy, you are a man. I always stare at guys like you, and they never give me the time of day. When we started talking tonight, I couldn't believe the conversation. You were nice to me, you talked to me. I thought you would be a real butt like a lot of big guys. But to get this close to you -- that was amazing to me. That's why I got carried away."
"No," I laughed, "I was the one who got carried away! You are fuckin' unbelievable with the hands. I thought I was going into orbit."
"Well, let's just say there was the right equipment to work with, Dan. The most beautiful of equipment."
"Jason, this is something I want. Something you want. Let's do it, buddy."
At that, his hand gently caressed my chest, my abdomen, and then moved to my crotch, where my cock was again fully, hugely erect. His hand gripped the shaft, and began again that rhythm that pleasured me so. "Kiss me," I told him, more an order than an invitation, and as his smooth face came upon mine, my tongue invaded his mouth, and he was on my mouth as much as he could. I lay there, both helpless, and in charge, as his hand continued, strong and steady, masturbating my shaft, the pleasure intense, like something I had not had for a long time.
Then the powerful spasms began, and the spray from my thick cock hit us, him on the back of his head, me on the side of my face not covered by his head. They continued while his hand, soft and gentle on my flesh, caressed my cock, now lubed by the cum whose odor filled the room.
He sheepishly lifted his face from mine. "What's the matter?," I asked, and he boyishly replied, "Oh, nothing."
"Sit down, let's talk," I encouraged him. "Oh, you're not one of those guys who get weird after he shoots?," he asked.
"Not me, my friend. Talk. Unless you have stuff you need to do."
"No," he said, "There will be more paperwork in an hour or so, but I'm cool for now."
And we talked. One of those times when you could not believe that you had not known this person for years, because the talk flowed so easily, so smoothly, so effortlessly. But we talked. And when I fogged out a little, he crept away, and got his paperwork done, and I slept quietly and dreamlessly. The pain of my injuries somehow eased by what someone as old as I am could easily recognize as love or lust or a crush, or maybe all three. Did Jason recognize it for what it was? I didn't know. All I knew was that there was something very special going on here.
He left that morning a bit after 7. He had stopped in for a minute to say goodbye before he left, and he yawned several times, and joked that he was getting too old to stay up all night, and I warned him that if I could use my arms, I'd throw something at him for that. Too old. Right.
There were admissions that day, emergencies, and while Jason was back at work that night, he was busy the whole night, and there was little time to talk, much less repeat our previous night's activities. And that was his last night, for a week. He stopped in as he was leaving early Sunday morning. He looked oddly sheepish and shy, as though he had something to say, but was afraid to say it. "I just wanted to tell you goodbye," he said, "I know you'll be going home in a few days, and you won't be here when I'm back next weekend."
I realized what he was asking, and I broke in. "Jason, do you have a piece of paper? `Cause I want to give you my phone number. Write it down. And here's my email. Jason, I want to see you. I want to continue this. I want to know you better. There's something very special here. We met under very odd circumstances, but that just means we'll have a good story to tell our friends."
"Our friends?," he asked dreamily. "Yes," I responded, "OUR friends. Friends you and I could have together. I would like that. Besides, when you're a big guy like me, you have to have a king-size bed, and there's room in there for a guy your size."
His eyes twinkled. "Bastard!," he softly hissed, and he kissed me on my forehead. "I'll see you in a few days," he continued. "No accidents on the way home. And save the space in the bed for me. I think we have some work to finish."
end