Off Track Betting in Ocala, FL with Reviews - YP.com

TIFU by getting half my dick caught in my zipper on a double-date with her parents and meeting my mom's friend at the doctor's office.

This fuckup didn't happen today, it was back in 1992. But there’s a lot of stories about medical professionals and their quiet acts of often invisible heroism in the news right now. I thought that this week, I would share one of my own stories about them. Because while they are absolutely heroes in our midst, some of those life-saving stories and incredible acts come with a laugh or two along the way.
These laughs, as they often do, come at my expense. It’s a price I gladly pay to give you a much needed moment to breathe in all of the hell we are enduring together throughout the world right now.
Enjoy, Chris
Yes, I know, I’m a complete fucking idiot. Let’s just get that out of the way from the start. My only defense was that I was a teenager in the 90's at the time, and my dick was doing most of the thinking for me. On the whole, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy. My dick however, is much like one of those morons you meet who is all balls, no brains. Despite the fact that thinking with my dick got me through highschool at the top of my class, it has proven itself repeatedly to have no memory, no conscience, and what I will simply classify as “questionable moral fiber”.
An obscure, late 20th century English philosopher known for his ballistic dentition once said “Dicks have drive and clarity of vision. They’re not clever.” and he was correct. But like most people who are all balls and no brains, that kind of decision making invariably leads to collecting good stories, and occasionally being scarred for life.
This is one of those good stories, and it’s about a scar.
I was sixteen, vacuously stupid, and the world as I knew it revolved entirely around my radiant affections for one hell of an awesome girl. She was short, beautiful, built like a soccer player, and had curves in all the right places. Miraculously, she was also my steady girlfriend. We had a magnificent system that involved a standing weekly date. This almost always consisted of exactly three things: dinner, a movie, and the furious, passionate, awkward sex that only inexperienced young lovers can have in the contorsionistic confines of an automobile.
Good times.
On the right day of the week you could catch a 2nd run movie at the Alpine Twin for just a couple bucks. Urban sprawl hadn’t reached far enough yet to consume all the best spots for privacy, and we knew every one of them. It was a great time to be young and in love.
God is not without a sense of humor, however, and one particular week fate would throw me a curve. A movie had just come out that her father wanted to see. In a tormentative moment of parental schadenfreude, they decided it would be a great idea to join us on our weekly movie night for a wholesome double date.
I was trapped. I couldn’t say no, her dad was a towering giant of brooding scowls who instilled the fear of God in me. He was an incredibly kind and funny man, but he commanded my respect and there was absolutely no doubt he held the fate of my love life at his whim. I was a nerdy, country kid from the wrong side of the tracks and he made it very clear that I was dating his daughter only so long as both her and him deemed that acceptable. She adored me, he tolerated me, and it was my lowly position to be grateful for the opportunity.
I was fine with that. I was spending every Saturday night with her sowing my wild oats, and going to church every Sunday with him praying for crop failure.
So we all met at her house, the whole family piled into their car, and off we went. We didn’t go to our comfortable, low-budget, second-run theatre out on the north end of town with the thin crowds that encouraged sitting towards the back well away from anyone who could see wandering hands and notice the whispers of young lovers. We went out to the fancy first-run theatre, the gigantic cineplex and shining star of the lower west side, Studio 28, where we would be packed side by side with strangers and held to much higher standards of socially acceptable behaviour.
Studio 28 was massive. Thousands of people filled its acres of parking lots and watched the latest movies on twenty different massive screens with reclining seats in air conditioned comfort. One movie cost more than what we would spend for a month's worth of dates at Alpine - including food. But her dad was funding the entire expedition and I was happy to just be with her.
My lovely girlfriend however, was a hormone-driven, devious genius, and happened upon a simple idea that changed my life forever. She noticed that they list not only the start times of the movies, but the duration as well.
It had never for a moment crossed my mind that we didn’t all have to go to the same movie. Studio 28 was so massive that not only did they have a ton of different movies playing, many of them shared the same start times. She found a completely different show to catch, sorted out the details with her dad, and off we went on our own. She had stared into the bleakness and brilliantly wrought forth for us the greatest commodity of young lovers who live with their parents: privacy.
For such a monumental day in my life, I don’t even remember what the movie was. But I do remember spending an hour and a half in the dark getting each other as worked up as we dared. The lines of socially acceptable behaviour were a lot tighter back then, but we were enjoying them to the best of our youthful ability.
Our movie got out, and we made the long walk to the back-forty of the parking lot hand in hand and hopped in the car. We had no concrete idea when her parents' movie would get out, so we were just hanging out, waiting, and of course sharing only the most chaste and pure of good Christian thoughts.
Just her, me, and our collective sexual tension that burned with the power of a supernova. It really was only a matter of time before it all reached criticality.
Because sitting in a glass bubble in the middle of a thousand cars is totally the best possible place to be doing such things. I was a little on edge, but that didn’t stop her. It certainly did, however, limit our options.
The good news was that I at least had a clear line of sight all the way up our row, and would easily see anyone approaching from the theatre. I kept a watchful lookout, and she decided to take action.
In a matter of a few seconds, she was sucking my dick like it was filled with her father’s acceptance. Not a moment later, I saw the crowd of people start pouring out of the theatre doors. It didn’t take me long to spot her parents, hand in hand. Her dad’s bright blue shirt stuck out in the crowd, even though they were still a quarter-mile away.
And then, at that exact moment, is when I fucked up.
That’s when I did one of the dumbest things in my entire life; I made a split-second trivial decision that would leave me scarred forever.
Now, what I could have done is simply reach down, gently pull her head out of my lap, and have a mildly disappointing end to some fun, gone on with my day, and been just fine. Hell, given how far away they were, the hair-trigger of a teenage boy, and her skillful abilities we could have likely finished without pushing our luck.
The problem with wisdom is that you don’t get it until five seconds after you need it.
What I did, in a moment of youthful stupidity, was say “Your dad’s coming!” and sit up straight in my seat.
And that, my dear reader, is the exact moment that shit got real.
Please understand that what I’m about to describe is much like a car crash. It will take me far longer to describe it than it took to actually happen. All of this transpired in just a moment, but that moment is burned into my brain forever. I apologise now, that it shall be burned into yours. When you share this story with your friends, you’ll know they got to this part when you see them adjust themselves in their seat. No man is immune to this effect.
In one smooth powerful movement driven by pure reflex and fear, without a moment’s conscious thought, she snapped her head up, bolted upright in her seat, and while making that transition from laying on me to sitting next to me she stuffed my dick back into my jeans and ran that fuckin zipper all the way home with the power of an angry linebacker.
The problem is I had never unbuttoned my pants, and it was a lot smaller when it came out ten minutes ago than it was when she decided to cram it back in through, what was now, much too short of a hole. She fought it in there in half a second, it just wasn’t situated as well as it needed to be.
Then, with the delicate touch of a bricklayer she had yanked that zipper though several inches of my most delicate sensitivities and made me one with my Levi’s.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
I was absolutely convinced I was going to die.
The pain was far worse than what you imagine right now. It was radiant and consuming. She had caught roughly…very roughly...the entire front of the most sensitive skin I own and interlaced it down nearly the full length of the zipper. I could glimpse a thin line poking out the front, and there was nothing I could do about it but sit there with tears running down my face and her parents approaching.
She immediately knew what had happened, subtlety is not a skill I possess even on my best days. I think it may be when I levitated, shooting to the ceiling, howling in pain that she got her first hint that something was wrong. She was mortified, I was in agony, and the shitshow had just begun. I untucked my shirt to cover the obvious injury, and wiped my tears.
It was hard travel across the great prairies of the parking lot. I heard they lost five good men, and at one point had to start eating the horses to survive. But eventually, months later, her parents finally made it to the car.
The first battle was the parking lot. Several hundred people had all gotten out when we did and had to find their way to the exit. It took half an hour of stop and start agony while we all shuffled into place and trickled out onto 28th street - a bustling busy main thoroughfare of the lower-west side.
And the fun was just beginning.
Florida makes oranges, Idaho makes Potatoes, and Hollywood makes movies. But Michigan, we make potholes. Northbound 131 is a washboard of suspension testing craters that can knock your teeth loose. Because of the complicated interaction of freeze-thaw cycles, capillary action of water retention in asphalt, and the fact that we run snow plows for a third of the year there is a regular pattern of patched sections on the highway spaced at predictable intervals for miles on end.
And I felt every one of those sonsabitches as we launched and bounded from pock to pock, all along my dick.
It took about thirty minutes to get from Studio28 to their house. That was the longest half hour of my life. I felt every bump in the road in between my own heartbeats as I throbbed in agony sitting awkwardly in the back seat. The only saving grace was that her and her mom were making small talk about the movies they had each seen and my opinion didn’t matter. I sat there sniffling and rubbing my swollen, red eyes. When her mom asked me if I was okay I uttered the only word I could manage on the entire ride home.
“Allergies”.
We made it to her parent’s house, said our goodbyes, and she walked me across the street to my car. It took more work to get into my mom’s old boxy beige Pontiac Grand Prix than it did to get out of her parent’s SUV, but I made it, tenderly.
Mission two accomplished, her parents had no idea. So that crisis was averted.
Now, I had to choose. I was on the edge of The City. If I went East, I could fight my way through traffic to the giant gleaming state-of-the-art hospital located right downtown and wait in line in the emergency room. If I went West, I was heading towards home and in my own small country town was a little Med Center staffed with only a handful of people whose main job was helping people with minor bumps and bruises, and keeping the critical patients alive long enough for the ambulance to get there and haul them off to one of the much larger neighboring cities.
I headed towards home. It was farther, but faster. I hopped on I-96 and blasted into the night more scared of hitting a deer than being pulled over for speeding. I figured if any cop pulled me over, all I had to do was show him my situation and there wasn’t a man in the world who would fault me for being in a hurry. I had a much higher chance of getting a police escort to the Med Center than getting a ticket, so off I went as fast as Mom’s old Pontiac would carry me.
I arrived without incident and walked gingerly through the front door. I’d never been to the Med Center before. My parents were on the rescue squad of the local volunteer fire department so anything short of a sucking chest wound in my house was dealt with by someone running for the jump-bag in Dad’s truck. Any sort of injury was handled on only the best of equipment: the kitchen table.
Life’s different in a small town.
That’s why I wasn’t even slightly surprised when I walked in the front door and the triage nurse at the front counter stopped typing, looked me straight in the eye with genuine concern on her face and said “Chris, are you ok?”.
It was my mom’s friend. Not only did this woman know me, she’d known me since I had training wheels on my bike. I knew she was a Nurse. Half the women in my world were Nurses, my mom was a Nurse. She worked at a nursing home filled with other Nurses. How the hell was I supposed to remember that one of her best friends just so happened to work at the Med Center.
I should have gone East.
“No Ma’am” I said, and quickly added, wincing, “please don’t tell my Mom”
“What happened, show me what you did”
Now, I grew up around trauma and emergency medicine. Back then they were dispatched with one-way pagers the size of a brick that looked like walkie-talkies. There was only one channel for the whole county, and every department had its own unique series of musical tones that told us who the message was for. It squawked and whistled all day and night and you never even noticed it.
But when the BEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEE-DOOOOOOOOO-----DEEEEEEEEEEEE sound that designated our unit came over that radio, it would take you out of a dead sleep before they got to the “COOPERSVILLE UNIT TWO-OH-FIVE” part of the message and Mom, Dad, or sometimes both, were headed out the door on a dead run before it stopped talking.
If this happens while you’re out somewhere with Dad in the truck, you’re along for the ride. It was somewhere around age twelve when “stay in the truck” just didn’t work for me anymore. I’d learned where babies came from by watching a screaming Asian woman have one on the tailgate of a Subaru in the McDonald’s parking lot. I’d seen bodies mangled and I knew first hand why they called the people who ride crotch-rocket motorcycles “Organ Donors”. I’d learned the smartest and most heroic humans alive fly in AeroMed, and I knew that rescue crews have no problem working up to their elbows in your blood and then going out for pizza half an hour later. It’s just meat.
I was also well aware that the strongest, hardest, most stoic, most unimaginably un-fucking-fazed woman you’ll ever meet, is a Triage Nurse.
So I lifted up my shirt.
And, for just a moment, I saw her humanity crack through her professional stoicism.
I pray that you go your entire life and never once hear a Triage Nurse say “Oh Dear” when she looks at whatever injury you have. It’s up there with getting a prostate exam and hearing the Doctor behind you say “Aw, fuck!”. You don’t want any part of this situation.
There was no paperwork, and my ass never touched one of the beige plastic chairs in the tiny waiting room. She stood up and walked me through the door behind the counter and ten seconds later I was sitting on the crinkly butcher paper of an examination table with my legs dangling over the edge.
A Nurse who was only ten minutes older than I was came in just a moment behind me. Thankfully, I didn’t know her at least, but I’d have liked to under different circumstances. She held a BP cuff in one hand and a clipboard in the other and asked me how I was feeling and if I had any allergies. We chatted for perhaps a whole minute before she asked me what was wrong.
I lifted my shirt.
She took it well, just a tiny gasp before she got her shields back in place. But her blush betrayed her. She held tight to her professionalism and assured me that the Doctor would be right in as she stumbled gracefully backwards out of the room. However, I did notice that she never did get my BP, temp, or anything else.
The Doctor was indeed, right in. I had been sitting there less than five minutes when he strolled into the room and said “So, I hear you’ve had an interesting evening.”
He pulled up a little rolling stool, put on a pair of gloves, and scooted up for a front row seat between my knees as I sat sideways off the edge of the table. We discussed how I had gotten myself into this situation, and he surveyed the damage. I found it ironic that the one person who had shared this experience with me and who could truly appreciate what I was going through was the one person who was completely at ease with the situation. Of course…..it wasn’t his dick.
It was also the first time I’d gotten a real look at things myself, and it was worse than I’d imagined. The skin on the bottom of my shaft was peeking out through the golden teeth of the zipper all the way from about a half inch above the bottom of the zipper to the top. There was way more blood than I had noticed at first and it had stained my pants several inches in every direction. The total zipped length was nearly five inches, and it was under tension on the inside because the standard response to pain is for your dick to shrink up like a stack of dimes.
The added effect, because my brain is an asshole, was that the pain just intensified once I got a look at it.
He pulled out a pair of trauma shears and we discussed what he was going to do about half a second before he did it with a running commentary. He planned on cutting my pants off around the zipper. I was fine with this, off is good, let’s get this off - free me from my golden restraints good Doctor!
Deftly, gently, and with surprising ease the shears sliced right through the seams and folds of my jeans. He cut the bottom through several layers of denim and seams straight up to the base of the zipper, and sheared off either side about four inches away, leaving me with two flaps joined only by the teeth of the zipper and the button on top. He spun on his wheels, reached in the third drawer behind him, pulled out a pair of cutters like I would have in my toolbox, and snipped off the bottom half-inch of zipper entirely. It fell to the floor and landed with a wet plop.
He gently unbuttoned what was now a much smaller piece of my pants, and examined it closely for a couple minutes with a flap held in either hand.
Then he said something you never, ever, want to hear any manner of medical professional say to you.
“We’re gonna go on three...”
We’re…..WHAT!? Where? Whatthefuckare...
“One”
There was no motherfucking Two. Three was an outright lie.
The way out was as blindingly fast and traumatic as the way in. The entire process was loud, a wild blur of motion, and terrifying. In what I have absolutely no doubt was a process he had experienced before, he tore apart the two halves of my zipper with the haymaker strength of a farm boy and kicked himself away from the side of my examination table with both feet to send himself rocketing backwards across the tiny room well clear of the wild reflexive punch I swung through the space his head had occupied a split second before. He landed in a heap, half fallen off his rolling stool, with a piece of my jeans in either hand and an accomplished smile from ear to ear.
That all happened in less than a second. It took exactly the amount of time it took me to say “MOTHERFUCK-....eh?”
The good side is, it didn’t actually hurt all that much when he did that. The bad side was, the blood was now rushing to my dick and it was throbbing with every heartbeat. It hurt like all hell.
We both took a moment to compose ourselves and both spoke at the same moment, saying the exact same thing.
“Are you alright?”
I looked at the sad strip of hamburger laying in my lap, surrounded by a terrifying amount of dried blood in matted black hair. It looked like Edward Scissorhands had given me an old fashioned.
“No?”
I had visions of sutures, staples, and all forms of Spanish Inquisition cock torture that I was about to endure and was blissfully thankful that all he needed to do was clean everything off and tape a strip of gause to it. After the most unpleasant experience I’ve ever had involving my dick being cleaned, complete with being hosed down with Betadine, now it I just looked like I’d fucked an Oompa Loompa.
I asked what would happen if I got a hardon, would I bleed to death or something? He assured me that the last thing I was going to get in the immediate future was an erection. After a few days it would be fine all on its own.
I thanked him for saving my manhood, secured my pants with my belt, hid the giant square hole in front under my shirt, and headed home. I tossed my shredded jeans in the trash, took a shower that involved the creative application of a baggie and a rubber band that moments before had been holding the wing on my model airplane.
He was right, I didn’t have any danger of getting a hardon for over a week. The throbbing pain became a dull ache that would hover just on the edge of being actively conscious of it. Sleeping was complicated, but I managed. After a few days it didn’t hurt at all, and a couple weeks later I was back to normal. In the third week a full operational test proved that all repairs had been completed and that all systems were operating within nominal specifications.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let a woman zip me up again. I’ll take care of that on my own, thank you.
The scar is considerable, tapering to half an inch wide at the base and running front and center along the bottom of my shaft up to the tip. It’s been the topic of more conversations and won more stupid bets than I want to think about. But it’s part of me, a part of my life, and I’m just thankful that despite the relentless abuse and poor decisions my dick has endured, that all in all, things are working just as they should thanks to the compassionate care of a young country Doctor and a small team of Nurses.
Thank you to everyone in the medical profession, of any rank and stripe, for enduring all that you do to help us fumbling idiots live to see another sunrise. You are awesome.
With my kindest regards, cb
---------Addendum Edit, Because holy shit my inbox.
In the end, like all good stories, things actually worked out alright. Her and I resumed our weekly Pontiac wrestling match and eventually as we gained wisdom, experience and the seasons turned warmer, found several much more comfortable places to explore each other’s bodies. All in all we dated for a little over a year in total. Our relationship ran the natural course of typical highschool lovers, and ended just as it should have. We both ended up dating each other’s friends, such is life in a small town, and went on with our lives.
Her Dad never really did like me all that much, and that’s ok. I was a shitty teenager and certainly didn’t have the best of intentions for his daughter. That’s ok, she wasn’t nearly the good little girl he thought she was. But we were, on the whole, decent kids and we came out alright. He was a good and righteous man and was worth my respect; though I wouldn’t learn the true depths of that until I gained a lot more maturity. He died years ago, far too young, from a heart that wasn’t worthy of the love he carried for so many people.
She’s married now, with a couple kids and what I hope is a good and happy life. I haven’t talked to her in decades, but I sincerely wish her well.
I healed up just fine. This all happened back in 1992. Over the years the scar has faded to being something that’s still there, but hardly noticeable. It looks more like a shadow now, or a slight discoloration. You can still spot it, if you look, but it’s something that doesn’t get mentioned by anyone unless we’ve been together for several months and they’re really exploring my cock. I have to think it’s fine now, as I’ve been complimented many times on it’s appearance.
I’d like to thank the many people who have read this and commented on my writing. I’m just starting out on the path to being an author, and I’ve been posting my stories here on Reddit to see if anyone liked them. It turns out, you really do, far more than I imagined. With all of my heart, thank you. Your support and enjoyment of my dopey stories means far more to me than I can adequately express. I’m still learning how to find my voice, but you’ve certainly helped me along on the path.
If you enjoy my writing, there’s much more of it out there, and even more coming. Check my profile and you’ll find half a dozen other stories scattered about the Reddit universe. You're welcome to follow me or friend me on here if you wish. I would be sincerely honoured and I'm working to earn an audience, and even someday a paycheck. You’ll also find my YouTube channel (I make science and technology educational videos as my day job), and my Patreon if you’d like to support my work. I’m a full time YouTuber now, and for the past year. Though after your responses to my stories lately, I think I’ll add Author to that as well.
And for the ridiculous number of people who have begged for a goddamned pic, fine. Go to Imgur, it's /a/WbCHtEw it's VERY NSFW
Yes, that’s really me. Yes, it’s real. No, I’m straight, but thank you.
TL:DR - A bit of adventuresex at a movie theatre resulted in a blowjob and I get zipped up epicly. Had to go to the Dr and learned my mom's best friend worked there. I was scarred for life. It's a long story but worth your time, read it, you'll like it.
submitted by ChrisBoden to tifu [link] [comments]

A Heartfelt Pinch - The Story Of The Tragic Blowjob That Scarred Me For Life

There’s a lot of stories about medical professionals and their quiet acts of often invisible heroism in the news right now. I thought that this week, I would share one of my own stories about them. Because while they are absolutely heroes in our midst, some of those life-saving stories and incredible acts come with a laugh or two along the way.
These laughs, as they often do, come at my expense. It’s a price I gladly pay to give you a much needed moment to breathe in all of the hell we are enduring together throughout the world right now.
Enjoy, Chris
Yes, I know, I’m a complete fucking idiot. Let’s just get that out of the way from the start. My only defense was that I was a teenager in the 90's at the time, and my dick was doing most of the thinking for me. On the whole, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy. My dick however, is much like one of those morons you meet who is all balls, no brains. Despite the fact that thinking with my dick got me through highschool at the top of my class, it has proven itself repeatedly to have no memory, no conscience, and what I will simply classify as “questionable moral fiber”.
An obscure, late 20th century English philosopher known for his ballistic dentition once said “Dicks have drive and clarity of vision. They’re not clever.” and he was correct. But like most people who are all balls and no brains, that kind of decision making invariably leads to collecting good stories, and occasionally being scarred for life.
This is one of those good stories, and it’s about a scar.
I was sixteen, vacuously stupid, and the world as I knew it revolved entirely around my radiant affections for one hell of an awesome girl. She was short, beautiful, built like a soccer player, and had curves in all the right places. Miraculously, she was also my steady girlfriend. We had a magnificent system that involved a standing weekly date. This almost always consisted of exactly three things: dinner, a movie, and the furious, passionate, awkward sex that only inexperienced young lovers can have in the contorsionistic confines of an automobile.
Good times.
On the right day of the week you could catch a 2nd run movie at the Alpine Twin for just a couple bucks. Urban sprawl hadn’t reached far enough yet to consume all the best spots for privacy, and we knew every one of them. It was a great time to be young and in love.
God is not without a sense of humor, however, and one particular week fate would throw me a curve. A movie had just come out that her father wanted to see. In a tormentative moment of parental schadenfreude, they decided it would be a great idea to join us on our weekly movie night for a wholesome double date.
I was trapped. I couldn’t say no, her dad was a towering giant of brooding scowls who instilled the fear of God in me. He was an incredibly kind and funny man, but he commanded my respect and there was absolutely no doubt he held the fate of my love life at his whim. I was a nerdy, country kid from the wrong side of the tracks and he made it very clear that I was dating his daughter only so long as both her and him deemed that acceptable. She adored me, he tolerated me, and it was my lowly position to be grateful for the opportunity.
I was fine with that. I was spending every Saturday night with her sowing my wild oats, and going to church every Sunday with him praying for crop failure.
So we all met at her house, the whole family piled into their car, and off we went. We didn’t go to our comfortable, low-budget, second-run theatre out on the north end of town with the thin crowds that encouraged sitting towards the back well away from anyone who could see wandering hands and notice the whispers of young lovers. We went out to the fancy first-run theatre, the gigantic cineplex and shining star of the lower west side, Studio 28, where we would be packed side by side with strangers and held to much higher standards of socially acceptable behaviour.
Studio 28 was massive. Thousands of people filled its acres of parking lots and watched the latest movies on twenty different massive screens with reclining seats in air conditioned comfort. One movie cost more than what we would spend for a month's worth of dates at Alpine - including food. But her dad was funding the entire expedition and I was happy to just be with her.
My lovely girlfriend however, was a hormone-driven, devious genius, and happened upon a simple idea that changed my life forever. She noticed that they list not only the start times of the movies, but the duration as well.
It had never for a moment crossed my mind that we didn’t all have to go to the same movie. Studio 28 was so massive that not only did they have a ton of different movies playing, many of them shared the same start times. She found a completely different show to catch, sorted out the details with her dad, and off we went on our own. She had stared into the bleakness and brilliantly wrought forth for us the greatest commodity of young lovers who live with their parents: privacy.
For such a monumental day in my life, I don’t even remember what the movie was. But I do remember spending an hour and a half in the dark getting each other as worked up as we dared. The lines of socially acceptable behaviour were a lot tighter back then, but we were enjoying them to the best of our youthful ability.
Our movie got out, and we made the long walk to the back-forty of the parking lot hand in hand and hopped in the car. We had no concrete idea when her parents' movie would get out, so we were just hanging out, waiting, and of course sharing only the most chaste and pure of good Christian thoughts.
Just her, me, and our collective sexual tension that burned with the power of a supernova. It really was only a matter of time before it all reached criticality.
Because sitting in a glass bubble in the middle of a thousand cars is totally the best possible place to be doing such things. I was a little on edge, but that didn’t stop her. It certainly did, however, limit our options.
The good news was that I at least had a clear line of sight all the way up our row, and would easily see anyone approaching from the theatre. I kept a watchful lookout, and she decided to take action.
In a matter of a few seconds, she was sucking my dick like it was filled with her father’s acceptance. Not a moment later, I saw the crowd of people start pouring out of the theatre doors. It didn’t take me long to spot her parents, hand in hand. Her dad’s bright blue shirt stuck out in the crowd, even though they were still a quarter-mile away.
And then, at that exact moment, is when I fucked up.
That’s when I did one of the dumbest things in my entire life; I made a split-second trivial decision that would leave me scarred forever.
Now, what I could have done is simply reach down, gently pull her head out of my lap, and have a mildly disappointing end to some fun, gone on with my day, and been just fine. Hell, given how far away they were, the hair-trigger of a teenage boy, and her skillful abilities we could have likely finished without pushing our luck.
The problem with wisdom is that you don’t get it until five seconds after you need it.
What I did, in a moment of youthful stupidity, was say “Your dad’s coming!” and sit up straight in my seat.
And that, my dear reader, is the exact moment that shit got real.
Please understand that what I’m about to describe is much like a car crash. It will take me far longer to describe it than it took to actually happen. All of this transpired in just a moment, but that moment is burned into my brain forever. I apologise now, that it shall be burned into yours. When you share this story with your friends, you’ll know they got to this part when you see them adjust themselves in their seat. No man is immune to this effect.
In one smooth powerful movement driven by pure reflex and fear, without a moment’s conscious thought, she snapped her head up, bolted upright in her seat, and while making that transition from laying on me to sitting next to me she stuffed my dick back into my jeans and ran that fuckin zipper all the way home with the power of an angry linebacker.
The problem is I had never unbuttoned my pants, and it was a lot smaller when it came out ten minutes ago than it was when she decided to cram it back in through, what was now, much too short of a hole. She fought it in there in half a second, it just wasn’t situated as well as it needed to be.
Then, with the delicate touch of a bricklayer she had yanked that zipper though several inches of my most delicate sensitivities and made me one with my Levi’s.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
I was absolutely convinced I was going to die.
The pain was far worse than what you imagine right now. It was radiant and consuming. She had caught roughly…very roughly...the entire front of the most sensitive skin I own and interlaced it down nearly the full length of the zipper. I could glimpse a thin line poking out the front, and there was nothing I could do about it but sit there with tears running down my face and her parents approaching.
She immediately knew what had happened, subtlety is not a skill I possess even on my best days. I think it may be when I levitated, shooting to the ceiling, howling in pain that she got her first hint that something was wrong. She was mortified, I was in agony, and the shitshow had just begun. I untucked my shirt to cover the obvious injury, and wiped my tears.
It was hard travel across the great prairies of the parking lot. I heard they lost five good men, and at one point had to start eating the horses to survive. But eventually, months later, her parents finally made it to the car.
The first battle was the parking lot. Several hundred people had all gotten out when we did and had to find their way to the exit. It took half an hour of stop and start agony while we all shuffled into place and trickled out onto 28th street - a bustling busy main thoroughfare of the lower-west side.
And the fun was just beginning.
Florida makes oranges, Idaho makes Potatoes, and Hollywood makes movies. But Michigan, we make potholes. Northbound 131 is a washboard of suspension testing craters that can knock your teeth loose. Because of the complicated interaction of freeze-thaw cycles, capillary action of water retention in asphalt, and the fact that we run snow plows for a third of the year there is a regular pattern of patched sections on the highway spaced at predictable intervals for miles on end.
And I felt every one of those sonsabitches as we launched and bounded from pock to pock, all along my dick.
It took about thirty minutes to get from Studio28 to their house. That was the longest half hour of my life. I felt every bump in the road in between my own heartbeats as I throbbed in agony sitting awkwardly in the back seat. The only saving grace was that her and her mom were making small talk about the movies they had each seen and my opinion didn’t matter. I sat there sniffling and rubbing my swollen, red eyes. When her mom asked me if I was okay I uttered the only word I could manage on the entire ride home.
“Allergies”.
We made it to her parent’s house, said our goodbyes, and she walked me across the street to my car. It took more work to get into my mom’s old boxy beige Pontiac Grand Prix than it did to get out of her parent’s SUV, but I made it, tenderly.
Mission two accomplished, her parents had no idea. So that crisis was averted.
Now, I had to choose. I was on the edge of The City. If I went East, I could fight my way through traffic to the giant gleaming state-of-the-art hospital located right downtown and wait in line in the emergency room. If I went West, I was heading towards home and in my own small country town was a little Med Center staffed with only a handful of people whose main job was helping people with minor bumps and bruises, and keeping the critical patients alive long enough for the ambulance to get there and haul them off to one of the much larger neighboring cities.
I headed towards home. It was farther, but faster. I hopped on I-96 and blasted into the night more scared of hitting a deer than being pulled over for speeding. I figured if any cop pulled me over, all I had to do was show him my situation and there wasn’t a man in the world who would fault me for being in a hurry. I had a much higher chance of getting a police escort to the Med Center than getting a ticket, so off I went as fast as Mom’s old Pontiac would carry me.
I arrived without incident and walked gingerly through the front door. I’d never been to the Med Center before. My parents were on the rescue squad of the local volunteer fire department so anything short of a sucking chest wound in my house was dealt with by someone running for the jump-bag in Dad’s truck. Any sort of injury was handled on only the best of equipment: the kitchen table.
Life’s different in a small town.
That’s why I wasn’t even slightly surprised when I walked in the front door and the triage nurse at the front counter stopped typing, looked me straight in the eye with genuine concern on her face and said “Chris, are you ok?”.
It was my mom’s friend. Not only did this woman know me, she’d known me since I had training wheels on my bike. I knew she was a Nurse. Half the women in my world were Nurses, my mom was a Nurse. She worked at a nursing home filled with other Nurses. How the hell was I supposed to remember that one of her best friends just so happened to work at the Med Center.
I should have gone East.
“No Ma’am” I said, and quickly added, wincing, “please don’t tell my Mom”
“What happened, show me what you did”
Now, I grew up around trauma and emergency medicine. Back then they were dispatched with one-way pagers the size of a brick that looked like walkie-talkies. There was only one channel for the whole county, and every department had its own unique series of musical tones that told us who the message was for. It squawked and whistled all day and night and you never even noticed it.
But when the BEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEE-DOOOOOOOOO-----DEEEEEEEEEEEE sound that designated our unit came over that radio, it would take you out of a dead sleep before they got to the “COOPERSVILLE UNIT TWO-OH-FIVE” part of the message and Mom, Dad, or sometimes both, were headed out the door on a dead run before it stopped talking.
If this happens while you’re out somewhere with Dad in the truck, you’re along for the ride. It was somewhere around age twelve when “stay in the truck” just didn’t work for me anymore. I’d learned where babies came from by watching a screaming Asian woman have one on the tailgate of a Subaru in the McDonald’s parking lot. I’d seen bodies mangled and I knew first hand why they called the people who ride crotch-rocket motorcycles “Organ Donors”. I’d learned the smartest and most heroic humans alive fly in AeroMed, and I knew that rescue crews have no problem working up to their elbows in your blood and then going out for pizza half an hour later. It’s just meat.
I was also well aware that the strongest, hardest, most stoic, most unimaginably un-fucking-fazed woman you’ll ever meet, is a Triage Nurse.
So I lifted up my shirt.
And, for just a moment, I saw her humanity crack through her professional stoicism.
I pray that you go your entire life and never once hear a Triage Nurse say “Oh Dear” when she looks at whatever injury you have. It’s up there with getting a prostate exam and hearing the Doctor behind you say “Aw, fuck!”. You don’t want any part of this situation.
There was no paperwork, and my ass never touched one of the beige plastic chairs in the tiny waiting room. She stood up and walked me through the door behind the counter and ten seconds later I was sitting on the crinkly butcher paper of an examination table with my legs dangling over the edge.
A Nurse who was only ten minutes older than I was came in just a moment behind me. Thankfully, I didn’t know her at least, but I’d have liked to under different circumstances. She held a BP cuff in one hand and a clipboard in the other and asked me how I was feeling and if I had any allergies. We chatted for perhaps a whole minute before she asked me what was wrong.
I lifted my shirt.
She took it well, just a tiny gasp before she got her shields back in place. But her blush betrayed her. She held tight to her professionalism and assured me that the Doctor would be right in as she stumbled gracefully backwards out of the room. However, I did notice that she never did get my BP, temp, or anything else.
The Doctor was indeed, right in. I had been sitting there less than five minutes when he strolled into the room and said “So, I hear you’ve had an interesting evening.”
He pulled up a little rolling stool, put on a pair of gloves, and scooted up for a front row seat between my knees as I sat sideways off the edge of the table. We discussed how I had gotten myself into this situation, and he surveyed the damage. I found it ironic that the one person who had shared this experience with me and who could truly appreciate what I was going through was the one person who was completely at ease with the situation. Of course…..it wasn’t his dick.
It was also the first time I’d gotten a real look at things myself, and it was worse than I’d imagined. The skin on the bottom of my shaft was peeking out through the golden teeth of the zipper all the way from about a half inch above the bottom of the zipper to the top. There was way more blood than I had noticed at first and it had stained my pants several inches in every direction. The total zipped length was nearly five inches, and it was under tension on the inside because the standard response to pain is for your dick to shrink up like a stack of dimes.
The added effect, because my brain is an asshole, was that the pain just intensified once I got a look at it.
He pulled out a pair of trauma shears and we discussed what he was going to do about half a second before he did it with a running commentary. He planned on cutting my pants off around the zipper. I was fine with this, off is good, let’s get this off - free me from my golden restraints good Doctor!
Deftly, gently, and with surprising ease the shears sliced right through the seams and folds of my jeans. He cut the bottom through several layers of denim and seams straight up to the base of the zipper, and sheared off either side about four inches away, leaving me with two flaps joined only by the teeth of the zipper and the button on top. He spun on his wheels, reached in the third drawer behind him, pulled out a pair of cutters like I would have in my toolbox, and snipped off the bottom half-inch of zipper entirely. It fell to the floor and landed with a wet plop.
He gently unbuttoned what was now a much smaller piece of my pants, and examined it closely for a couple minutes with a flap held in either hand.
Then he said something you never, ever, want to hear any manner of medical professional say to you.
“We’re gonna go on three...”
We’re…..WHAT!? Where? Whatthefuckare...
“One”
There was no motherfucking Two. Three was an outright lie.
The way out was as blindingly fast and traumatic as the way in. The entire process was loud, a wild blur of motion, and terrifying. In what I have absolutely no doubt was a process he had experienced before, he tore apart the two halves of my zipper with the haymaker strength of a farm boy and kicked himself away from the side of my examination table with both feet to send himself rocketing backwards across the tiny room well clear of the wild reflexive punch I swung through the space his head had occupied a split second before. He landed in a heap, half fallen off his rolling stool, with a piece of my jeans in either hand and an accomplished smile from ear to ear.
That all happened in less than a second. It took exactly the amount of time it took me to say “MOTHERFUCK-....eh?”
The good side is, it didn’t actually hurt all that much when he did that. The bad side was, the blood was now rushing to my dick and it was throbbing with every heartbeat. It hurt like all hell.
We both took a moment to compose ourselves and both spoke at the same moment, saying the exact same thing.
“Are you alright?”
I looked at the sad strip of hamburger laying in my lap, surrounded by a terrifying amount of dried blood in matted black hair. It looked like Edward Scissorhands had given me an old fashioned.
“No?”
I had visions of sutures, staples, and all forms of Spanish Inquisition cock torture that I was about to endure and was blissfully thankful that all he needed to do was clean everything off and tape a strip of gause to it. After the most unpleasant experience I’ve ever had involving my dick being cleaned, complete with being hosed down with Betadine, now it I just looked like I’d fucked an Oompa Loompa.
I asked what would happen if I got a hardon, would I bleed to death or something? He assured me that the last thing I was going to get in the immediate future was an erection. After a few days it would be fine all on its own.
I thanked him for saving my manhood, secured my pants with my belt, hid the giant square hole in front under my shirt, and headed home. I tossed my shredded jeans in the trash, took a shower that involved the creative application of a baggie and a rubber band that moments before had been holding the wing on my model airplane.
He was right, I didn’t have any danger of getting a hardon for over a week. The throbbing pain became a dull ache that would hover just on the edge of being actively conscious of it. Sleeping was complicated, but I managed. After a few days it didn’t hurt at all, and a couple weeks later I was back to normal. In the third week a full operational test proved that all repairs had been completed and that all systems were operating within nominal specifications.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let a woman zip me up again. I’ll take care of that on my own, thank you.
The scar is considerable, tapering to half an inch wide at the base and running front and center along the bottom of my shaft up to the tip. It’s been the topic of more conversations and won more stupid bets than I want to think about. But it’s part of me, a part of my life, and I’m just thankful that despite the relentless abuse and poor decisions my dick has endured, that all in all, things are working just as they should thanks to the compassionate care of a young country Doctor and a small team of Nurses.
Thank you to everyone in the medical profession, of any rank and stripe, for enduring all that you do to help us fumbling idiots live to see another sunrise. You are awesome.
With my kindest regards, cb
submitted by ChrisBoden to sexstories [link] [comments]

A Hearty Pinch - The Blowjob That Scarred Me For Life

There’s a lot of stories about medical professionals and their quiet acts of often invisible heroism in the news right now. I thought that this week, I would share one of my own stories about them. Because while they are absolutely heroes in our midst, some of those life-saving stories and incredible acts come with a laugh or two along the way.
These laughs, as they often do, come at my expense. It’s a price I gladly pay to give you a much needed moment to breathe in all of the hell we are enduring together throughout the world right now.
Enjoy, Chris
Yes, I know, I’m a complete fucking idiot. Let’s just get that out of the way from the start. My only defense was that I was a teenager in the 90's at the time, and my dick was doing most of the thinking for me. On the whole, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy. My dick however, is much like one of those morons you meet who is all balls, no brains. Despite the fact that thinking with my dick got me through highschool at the top of my class, it has proven itself repeatedly to have no memory, no conscience, and what I will simply classify as “questionable moral fiber”.
An obscure, late 20th century English philosopher known for his ballistic dentition once said “Dicks have drive and clarity of vision. They’re not clever.” and he was correct. But like most people who are all balls and no brains, that kind of decision making invariably leads to collecting good stories, and occasionally being scarred for life.
This is one of those good stories, and it’s about a scar.
I was sixteen, vacuously stupid, and the world as I knew it revolved entirely around my radiant affections for one hell of an awesome girl. She was short, beautiful, built like a soccer player, and had curves in all the right places. Miraculously, she was also my steady girlfriend. We had a magnificent system that involved a standing weekly date. This almost always consisted of exactly three things: dinner, a movie, and the furious, passionate, awkward sex that only inexperienced young lovers can have in the contorsionistic confines of an automobile.
Good times.
On the right day of the week you could catch a 2nd run movie at the Alpine Twin for just a couple bucks. Urban sprawl hadn’t reached far enough yet to consume all the best spots for privacy, and we knew every one of them. It was a great time to be young and in love.
God is not without a sense of humor, however, and one particular week fate would throw me a curve. A movie had just come out that her father wanted to see. In a tormentative moment of parental schadenfreude, they decided it would be a great idea to join us on our weekly movie night for a wholesome double date.
I was trapped. I couldn’t say no, her dad was a towering giant of brooding scowls who instilled the fear of God in me. He was an incredibly kind and funny man, but he commanded my respect and there was absolutely no doubt he held the fate of my love life at his whim. I was a nerdy, country kid from the wrong side of the tracks and he made it very clear that I was dating his daughter only so long as both her and him deemed that acceptable. She adored me, he tolerated me, and it was my lowly position to be grateful for the opportunity.
I was fine with that. I was spending every Saturday night with her sowing my wild oats, and going to church every Sunday with him praying for crop failure.
So we all met at her house, the whole family piled into their car, and off we went. We didn’t go to our comfortable, low-budget, second-run theatre out on the north end of town with the thin crowds that encouraged sitting towards the back well away from anyone who could see wandering hands and notice the whispers of young lovers. We went out to the fancy first-run theatre, the gigantic cineplex and shining star of the lower west side, Studio 28, where we would be packed side by side with strangers and held to much higher standards of socially acceptable behaviour.
Studio 28 was massive. Thousands of people filled its acres of parking lots and watched the latest movies on twenty different massive screens with reclining seats in air conditioned comfort. One movie cost more than what we would spend for a month's worth of dates at Alpine - including food. But her dad was funding the entire expedition and I was happy to just be with her.
My lovely girlfriend however, was a hormone-driven, devious genius, and happened upon a simple idea that changed my life forever. She noticed that they list not only the start times of the movies, but the duration as well.
It had never for a moment crossed my mind that we didn’t all have to go to the same movie. Studio 28 was so massive that not only did they have a ton of different movies playing, many of them shared the same start times. She found a completely different show to catch, sorted out the details with her dad, and off we went on our own. She had stared into the bleakness and brilliantly wrought forth for us the greatest commodity of young lovers who live with their parents: privacy.
For such a monumental day in my life, I don’t even remember what the movie was. But I do remember spending an hour and a half in the dark getting each other as worked up as we dared. The lines of socially acceptable behaviour were a lot tighter back then, but we were enjoying them to the best of our youthful ability.
Our movie got out, and we made the long walk to the back-forty of the parking lot hand in hand and hopped in the car. We had no concrete idea when her parents' movie would get out, so we were just hanging out, waiting, and of course sharing only the most chaste and pure of good Christian thoughts.
Just her, me, and our collective sexual tension that burned with the power of a supernova. It really was only a matter of time before it all reached criticality.
Because sitting in a glass bubble in the middle of a thousand cars is totally the best possible place to be doing such things. I was a little on edge, but that didn’t stop her. It certainly did, however, limit our options.
The good news was that I at least had a clear line of sight all the way up our row, and would easily see anyone approaching from the theatre. I kept a watchful lookout, and she decided to take action.
In a matter of a few seconds, she was sucking my dick like it was filled with her father’s acceptance. Not a moment later, I saw the crowd of people start pouring out of the theatre doors. It didn’t take me long to spot her parents, hand in hand. Her dad’s bright blue shirt stuck out in the crowd, even though they were still a quarter-mile away.
And then, at that exact moment, is when I fucked up.
That’s when I did one of the dumbest things in my entire life; I made a split-second trivial decision that would leave me scarred forever.
Now, what I could have done is simply reach down, gently pull her head out of my lap, and have a mildly disappointing end to some fun, gone on with my day, and been just fine. Hell, given how far away they were, the hair-trigger of a teenage boy, and her skillful abilities we could have likely finished without pushing our luck.
The problem with wisdom is that you don’t get it until five seconds after you need it.
What I did, in a moment of youthful stupidity, was say “Your dad’s coming!” and sit up straight in my seat.
And that, my dear reader, is the exact moment that shit got real.
Please understand that what I’m about to describe is much like a car crash. It will take me far longer to describe it than it took to actually happen. All of this transpired in just a moment, but that moment is burned into my brain forever. I apologise now, that it shall be burned into yours. When you share this story with your friends, you’ll know they got to this part when you see them adjust themselves in their seat. No man is immune to this effect.
In one smooth powerful movement driven by pure reflex and fear, without a moment’s conscious thought, she snapped her head up, bolted upright in her seat, and while making that transition from laying on me to sitting next to me she stuffed my dick back into my jeans and ran that fuckin zipper all the way home with the power of an angry linebacker.
The problem is I had never unbuttoned my pants, and it was a lot smaller when it came out ten minutes ago than it was when she decided to cram it back in through, what was now, much too short of a hole. She fought it in there in half a second, it just wasn’t situated as well as it needed to be.
Then, with the delicate touch of a bricklayer she had yanked that zipper though several inches of my most delicate sensitivities and made me one with my Levi’s.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
I was absolutely convinced I was going to die.
The pain was far worse than what you imagine right now. It was radiant and consuming. She had caught roughly…very roughly...the entire front of the most sensitive skin I own and interlaced it down nearly the full length of the zipper. I could glimpse a thin line poking out the front, and there was nothing I could do about it but sit there with tears running down my face and her parents approaching.
She immediately knew what had happened, subtlety is not a skill I possess even on my best days. I think it may be when I levitated, shooting to the ceiling, howling in pain that she got her first hint that something was wrong. She was mortified, I was in agony, and the shitshow had just begun. I untucked my shirt to cover the obvious injury, and wiped my tears.
It was hard travel across the great prairies of the parking lot. I heard they lost five good men, and at one point had to start eating the horses to survive. But eventually, months later, her parents finally made it to the car.
The first battle was the parking lot. Several hundred people had all gotten out when we did and had to find their way to the exit. It took half an hour of stop and start agony while we all shuffled into place and trickled out onto 28th street - a bustling busy main thoroughfare of the lower-west side.
And the fun was just beginning.
Florida makes oranges, Idaho makes Potatoes, and Hollywood makes movies. But Michigan, we make potholes. Northbound 131 is a washboard of suspension testing craters that can knock your teeth loose. Because of the complicated interaction of freeze-thaw cycles, capillary action of water retention in asphalt, and the fact that we run snow plows for a third of the year there is a regular pattern of patched sections on the highway spaced at predictable intervals for miles on end.
And I felt every one of those sonsabitches as we launched and bounded from pock to pock, all along my dick.
It took about thirty minutes to get from Studio28 to their house. That was the longest half hour of my life. I felt every bump in the road in between my own heartbeats as I throbbed in agony sitting awkwardly in the back seat. The only saving grace was that her and her mom were making small talk about the movies they had each seen and my opinion didn’t matter. I sat there sniffling and rubbing my swollen, red eyes. When her mom asked me if I was okay I uttered the only word I could manage on the entire ride home.
“Allergies”.
We made it to her parent’s house, said our goodbyes, and she walked me across the street to my car. It took more work to get into my mom’s old boxy beige Pontiac Grand Prix than it did to get out of her parent’s SUV, but I made it, tenderly.
Mission two accomplished, her parents had no idea. So that crisis was averted.
Now, I had to choose. I was on the edge of The City. If I went East, I could fight my way through traffic to the giant gleaming state-of-the-art hospital located right downtown and wait in line in the emergency room. If I went West, I was heading towards home and in my own small country town was a little Med Center staffed with only a handful of people whose main job was helping people with minor bumps and bruises, and keeping the critical patients alive long enough for the ambulance to get there and haul them off to one of the much larger neighboring cities.
I headed towards home. It was farther, but faster. I hopped on I-96 and blasted into the night more scared of hitting a deer than being pulled over for speeding. I figured if any cop pulled me over, all I had to do was show him my situation and there wasn’t a man in the world who would fault me for being in a hurry. I had a much higher chance of getting a police escort to the Med Center than getting a ticket, so off I went as fast as Mom’s old Pontiac would carry me.
I arrived without incident and walked gingerly through the front door. I’d never been to the Med Center before. My parents were on the rescue squad of the local volunteer fire department so anything short of a sucking chest wound in my house was dealt with by someone running for the jump-bag in Dad’s truck. Any sort of injury was handled on only the best of equipment: the kitchen table.
Life’s different in a small town.
That’s why I wasn’t even slightly surprised when I walked in the front door and the triage nurse at the front counter stopped typing, looked me straight in the eye with genuine concern on her face and said “Chris, are you ok?”.
It was my mom’s friend. Not only did this woman know me, she’d known me since I had training wheels on my bike. I knew she was a Nurse. Half the women in my world were Nurses, my mom was a Nurse. She worked at a nursing home filled with other Nurses. How the hell was I supposed to remember that one of her best friends just so happened to work at the Med Center.
I should have gone East.
“No Ma’am” I said, and quickly added, wincing, “please don’t tell my Mom”
“What happened, show me what you did”
Now, I grew up around trauma and emergency medicine. Back then they were dispatched with one-way pagers the size of a brick that looked like walkie-talkies. There was only one channel for the whole county, and every department had its own unique series of musical tones that told us who the message was for. It squawked and whistled all day and night and you never even noticed it.
But when the BEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEE-DOOOOOOOOO-----DEEEEEEEEEEEE sound that designated our unit came over that radio, it would take you out of a dead sleep before they got to the “COOPERSVILLE UNIT TWO-OH-FIVE” part of the message and Mom, Dad, or sometimes both, were headed out the door on a dead run before it stopped talking.
If this happens while you’re out somewhere with Dad in the truck, you’re along for the ride. It was somewhere around age twelve when “stay in the truck” just didn’t work for me anymore. I’d learned where babies came from by watching a screaming Asian woman have one on the tailgate of a Subaru in the McDonald’s parking lot. I’d seen bodies mangled and I knew first hand why they called the people who ride crotch-rocket motorcycles “Organ Donors”. I’d learned the smartest and most heroic humans alive fly in AeroMed, and I knew that rescue crews have no problem working up to their elbows in your blood and then going out for pizza half an hour later. It’s just meat.
I was also well aware that the strongest, hardest, most stoic, most unimaginably un-fucking-fazed woman you’ll ever meet, is a Triage Nurse.
So I lifted up my shirt.
And, for just a moment, I saw her humanity crack through her professional stoicism.
I pray that you go your entire life and never once hear a Triage Nurse say “Oh Dear” when she looks at whatever injury you have. It’s up there with getting a prostate exam and hearing the Doctor behind you say “Aw, fuck!”. You don’t want any part of this situation.
There was no paperwork, and my ass never touched one of the beige plastic chairs in the tiny waiting room. She stood up and walked me through the door behind the counter and ten seconds later I was sitting on the crinkly butcher paper of an examination table with my legs dangling over the edge.
A Nurse who was only ten minutes older than I was came in just a moment behind me. Thankfully, I didn’t know her at least, but I’d have liked to under different circumstances. She held a BP cuff in one hand and a clipboard in the other and asked me how I was feeling and if I had any allergies. We chatted for perhaps a whole minute before she asked me what was wrong.
I lifted my shirt.
She took it well, just a tiny gasp before she got her shields back in place. But her blush betrayed her. She held tight to her professionalism and assured me that the Doctor would be right in as she stumbled gracefully backwards out of the room. However, I did notice that she never did get my BP, temp, or anything else.
The Doctor was indeed, right in. I had been sitting there less than five minutes when he strolled into the room and said “So, I hear you’ve had an interesting evening.”
He pulled up a little rolling stool, put on a pair of gloves, and scooted up for a front row seat between my knees as I sat sideways off the edge of the table. We discussed how I had gotten myself into this situation, and he surveyed the damage. I found it ironic that the one person who had shared this experience with me and who could truly appreciate what I was going through was the one person who was completely at ease with the situation. Of course…..it wasn’t his dick.
It was also the first time I’d gotten a real look at things myself, and it was worse than I’d imagined. The skin on the bottom of my shaft was peeking out through the golden teeth of the zipper all the way from about a half inch above the bottom of the zipper to the top. There was way more blood than I had noticed at first and it had stained my pants several inches in every direction. The total zipped length was nearly five inches, and it was under tension on the inside because the standard response to pain is for your dick to shrink up like a stack of dimes.
The added effect, because my brain is an asshole, was that the pain just intensified once I got a look at it.
He pulled out a pair of trauma shears and we discussed what he was going to do about half a second before he did it with a running commentary. He planned on cutting my pants off around the zipper. I was fine with this, off is good, let’s get this off - free me from my golden restraints good Doctor!
Deftly, gently, and with surprising ease the shears sliced right through the seams and folds of my jeans. He cut the bottom through several layers of denim and seams straight up to the base of the zipper, and sheared off either side about four inches away, leaving me with two flaps joined only by the teeth of the zipper and the button on top. He spun on his wheels, reached in the third drawer behind him, pulled out a pair of cutters like I would have in my toolbox, and snipped off the bottom half-inch of zipper entirely. It fell to the floor and landed with a wet plop.
He gently unbuttoned what was now a much smaller piece of my pants, and examined it closely for a couple minutes with a flap held in either hand.
Then he said something you never, ever, want to hear any manner of medical professional say to you.
“We’re gonna go on three...”
We’re…..WHAT!? Where? Whatthefuckare...
“One”
There was no motherfucking Two. Three was an outright lie.
The way out was as blindingly fast and traumatic as the way in. The entire process was loud, a wild blur of motion, and terrifying. In what I have absolutely no doubt was a process he had experienced before, he tore apart the two halves of my zipper with the haymaker strength of a farm boy and kicked himself away from the side of my examination table with both feet to send himself rocketing backwards across the tiny room well clear of the wild reflexive punch I swung through the space his head had occupied a split second before. He landed in a heap, half fallen off his rolling stool, with a piece of my jeans in either hand and an accomplished smile from ear to ear.
That all happened in less than a second. It took exactly the amount of time it took me to say “MOTHERFUCK-....eh?”
The good side is, it didn’t actually hurt all that much when he did that. The bad side was, the blood was now rushing to my dick and it was throbbing with every heartbeat. It hurt like all hell.
We both took a moment to compose ourselves and both spoke at the same moment, saying the exact same thing.
“Are you alright?”
I looked at the sad strip of hamburger laying in my lap, surrounded by a terrifying amount of dried blood in matted black hair. It looked like Edward Scissorhands had given me an old fashioned.
“No?”
I had visions of sutures, staples, and all forms of Spanish Inquisition cock torture that I was about to endure and was blissfully thankful that all he needed to do was clean everything off and tape a strip of gause to it. After the most unpleasant experience I’ve ever had involving my dick being cleaned, complete with being hosed down with Betadine, now it I just looked like I’d fucked an Oompa Loompa.
I asked what would happen if I got a hardon, would I bleed to death or something? He assured me that the last thing I was going to get in the immediate future was an erection. After a few days it would be fine all on its own.
I thanked him for saving my manhood, secured my pants with my belt, hid the giant square hole in front under my shirt, and headed home. I tossed my shredded jeans in the trash, took a shower that involved the creative application of a baggie and a rubber band that moments before had been holding the wing on my model airplane.
He was right, I didn’t have any danger of getting a hardon for over a week. The throbbing pain became a dull ache that would hover just on the edge of being actively conscious of it. Sleeping was complicated, but I managed. After a few days it didn’t hurt at all, and a couple weeks later I was back to normal. In the third week a full operational test proved that all repairs had been completed and that all systems were operating within nominal specifications.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let a woman zip me up again. I’ll take care of that on my own, thank you.
The scar is considerable, tapering to half an inch wide at the base and running front and center along the bottom of my shaft up to the tip. It’s been the topic of more conversations and won more stupid bets than I want to think about. But it’s part of me, a part of my life, and I’m just thankful that despite the relentless abuse and poor decisions my dick has endured, that all in all, things are working just as they should thanks to the compassionate care of a young country Doctor and a small team of Nurses.
Thank you to everyone in the medical profession, of any rank and stripe, for enduring all that you do to help us fumbling idiots live to see another sunrise. You are awesome.
With my kindest regards, cb
submitted by ChrisBoden to stories [link] [comments]

Trials of Adam ch7, 8

Trials of Adam ch7, 8

Welcome to my novel, inspired by Barry Pepper's role in Crawl (2019)
previously: https://www.reddit.com/BarryPeppecomments/ev0y49/trials_of_adam_ch5_6/
Chapter 7: Health
I awoke to the smell of coffee and the sparkle of the sunlight. It was another beautiful day to be alive. In the distance I could hear the song, 'Maybe, I'm amazed,' playing on the living room speaker. The melody was one I knew by heart. I had hummed it in the field, on deployment, while dreaming of home. And when I was home, I sang it to my baby daughter.
“Baby I’m amazed at the way you love me all the time,” I sang only in my head. Baby always seemed like a better word than ‘maybe.’ The use of ‘maybe’ made an otherwise pretty, inspiring sung come off as somewhat sarcastic. “Baby I’m amazed by the way need you.”
I was strong enough to get in my wheelchair on my own, so I made my way to the living room fully expecting to see my wife. Instead, I saw Cece dancing in a loose flowing nightgown. She twirled around, with the baby in her arms, looking like the main character of The Nutcracker ballet. "Will you dance with me?" she asked, mid pirouette.
“Who are you talking to?” Clearly, I was in no condition to dance.
"You, of course, Daddy." Cece put the baby in a nearby carrier to free her hands. "Mom already left for the day."
"She left?"
"Mom does volunteer work with the USO, on my days off. It’s her break from the baby." Clearly this was a fact that royally pissed her off. "But now that you’re finally awake, it’s also my day to spend with you. Dance with me?"
That was when I noticed that the piece was playing on a loop. It was a cover of the Beatles song, performed by a female vocalist. It also seemed to only be two minutes long. Was this a performance piece? Had I interrupted a rehearsal of some kind?
"I don't know if I can,” I said, with a shrug. In truth, I just wanted to watch her.
Cece came closer, the silk of her nightgown touched my arm. "Anyone can dance."
“I’m a little out of practice.” In my chair, I was wearing the clothes I'd slept in; a white t-shirt and boxers. I had my prosthetic leg attached in case I wanted to attempt to piss while standing.
"Stand up, put your arms around me." Cece stroked my neck, down my shoulder.
"Give me a second." I knew I could. I had done it before but I needed a moment to gather my courage.
"Come on,” Cece said as she playfully kissed my cheek. “Stand tall, Master sergeant." My daughter helped me up, placing my hands on her shoulders. She was a good six inches shorter than me. But looking into her eyes, you'd never know.
"Do I still even have my rank?" I asked with a laugh. After all the shit I'd done I was lucky to not be in prison.
"Of course," Cece said, swaying her body softly. We slow danced like a teenage couple at prom. "General Blake made sure you were given full medical retirement."
If that was true, it was an impressive feat. "I guess I owe her one." I place my hands on Cece's waist, pulling her close.
"You owe her about a million. We all do." Cece put her head on my shoulder as we continued to sway. "I want to help you write your memoir,” she said in a whisper. “The world needs to know your story.”
"Before the chemo eats my brain?" I asked with a chuckle.
Cece didn't laugh. “Not funny, Dad.” She took a step away, letting me sit back in my chair. My daughter released a disappointed sigh, as she picked up a nearby remote and turned off the music.
Baby Gregory started to cry.
Cece turned her attention to her brother, rocking him in her arms. "Hush little one." She handed me a cup of coffee that had been sitting out long enough to be comfortably warm. "It breaks my heart to know that, maybe, there will come a day when daddy won't remember me." Cece took a sip from her own coffee. "Because I sure as hell will never forget the remarkable man he was."
I gave Cece a reassuring nod, assuming she was just being her usual sweet self. But as I matched her gaze, I could feel something much deeper. "Cece, are you alright?"
She shook her head, blinking away tears. "I know I was supposed to be the one to die. You made a deal with the angels to take my place." She sat down with a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, casually offering me a fork.
"You knew?" How was that possible?
“I knew I was going to die if you never found your way back to Mississippi. But he moment you were in the room, by my side I could feel,” she paused, placing her hands over her heart, “this is going to sound weird. I could feel your energy, your spirit, maybe even your soul.”
"Really?" The idea filled me with a sense of comfort.
"When you're in pain, I feel pain." Her free hand touched mine, lending an air of truth. "When you cry, I cry. But when you're happy, confident, strong, I can truly feel your heart." Cece blushed as she looked away. "So, where do you want to start? I have my laptop right there. If you like I can tell you what I remember from your stories."
"I really don't feel like chronicling my shitty life, now or ever." Even if the illness did take my mind, I would hope it could take the bad memories first.
“Oh? Ok.” Cece adorably pouted her bottom lip. "So, what do you feel like doing?"
I was midbite, giving me a chance to come up with a genuine answer. "For starters, maybe leaving the house?" Since I had no memory of even arriving in Colorado.
"Ok, but let’s finish breakfast first. I promised Mom I'd take care of you and the baby." She took another sip of her coffee while balancing her baby brother with one arm. "And unlike Mom, I can't feed either if you with my tits."
“Aw, fuck, Cece!” I bit my lip, trying to avoid spitting coffee as I laughed. I certainly had some topic of conversation for the next time I spoke with my guardian angel.
“I have your sense of humor,” she said with a shrug. “And so, will Greg.”
After breakfast I was introduced to the extent of our on-base lodging. The entire apartment was one bedroom, one bathroom, with a kitchen that opened up to a living room. Cece slept on the sofa next to the baby's crib. All while everything our four-person family owned was stored in a single walk-in closet.
Cece dug through a trunk, pulling out a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. “Here we go.” She proceeded to help me get dressed. I could actually dress myself easily enough, maneuvering my fake and real legs into the stiff denim. I put on my belt and the shirt on. I could have probably worked the buttons and zippers myself. But there was something addictive about human touch. Or maybe it was just Cece’s touch.
Still holding the baby, she had only one arm to work with, forcing her to come even closer. She balanced Greg on her hip while she buckled my belt. I watched as her fingers paused on my stomach before moving up my chest to button my shirt. Each movement was slow, deliberate. The sound of her wispy breath sent a shiver down my spine. "Lilith was the true bride of Adam."
"What?" I was unsure of what I just heard.
Cece only blinked like an innocent little doll. "Did you say something?"
“No, sweetie, it must have been the AC.” I knew I had an erection. I wanted her to touch me so bad. Her lips were inches from mine. I could practically taste the vanilla coffee creamer on her breath.
My hard-on was quickly deflated when Jamie appeared behind Cece, staring daggers at me. "If you even think about it, I will personally send you to hell."
Cece raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think the air conditioning is on. You sure you’re ok?”
"It’s nothing sweetheart," I said to Cece as I reached for the baby. "I can hold Gregory while you get dressed."
"That would be great.” Cece left the baby in my arms as she went to the bathroom. “Thanks, Dad.”
Balancing Gregory with one arm, I stood up. Walking was not the easiest thing in the world, so my intention was to hold the baby close to my chest.
His soft little face felt warm. "Da?" He squirmed, looking from side to side.
"Are you looking for Mama?"
Gregory shook his head. "Ga!"
"You looking for Cece?" I asked. That made much more sense.
But the baby seemed to be motioning towards the closet. “Ga!”
"What's back there?"
There were quite a few unpacked suitcases in various states of disarray. Looking closer, I could see a trail of sequins, made of holographic material. The pieces of plastic seemed to shimmer in shades of red, purple and blue. I stroked my hand along the zipper, opening the case just enough to take a peek. There were costumes, papers, an entire packed suitcase. At the bottom were her shoes; her worn in pointe shoes. I couldn't help but smile; she was still dancing.
"Oh that," Cece's said from behind me. "Just another one of a million that we owe General Blake." She casually pulled off the top sheet of paper. "I'm going to compete in Miss Colorado Springs."
According to the papers Cece was being sponsored by the Air Force base. "Wow, that's incredible."
"It's a preliminary to Miss America, so talent competition...yeah," Cece's voice trailed off. "I would've liked to only compete in talent but that's not how pageants for full-grown adults work."
Turning towards her, I caught sight of my daughter stepping into a pair of jeans. Her hips and legs were covered in scars; deep wounds that would never heal. I tried to tell myself they were from the surgeries that saved her, or maybe from her heroic escape, but I knew the truth. Those boys had butchered her; they hurt her in ways that she could never recover from.
The baby in my arms apparently felt my energy and started to cry, reaching for his sister.
Cece quickly finished getting dressed. "I'll take him." With one arm she put on a jacket. "Let's take a walk to the park by the elementary school."
"Does he have a stroller?" I asked.
"No, just the carrier car seat," Cece replied. "But I'm ok, just holding him." Greg seemed to melt into her arms, like a store-bought doll. "I imagine it won't always be this easy, once he learns how to walk." She turned to my wheelchair, which sat alone in the living room. "Should we bring your chair, in case you get tired?"
"Sure. But I'm not tired, right now." I pushed Cece in the chair, on the journey to the playground. It was warm for December in Colorado; jacket weather but nothing more severe. There was snow on the ground, just enough to make the world sparkle. "It's sure beautiful here."
Cece nodded, looking up at the afternoon sky. "Yeah, it is."
The past was the past. But as I swallowed a mouthful of spit, I felt the muscles in my neck grow tense. A cold breeze caressed my chemo port as if to remind me; this isn't heaven, you still have work to do. "So, when were you going to tell me about the Miss Colorado pageant?"
Cece shrugged. She motioned towards a bench for us to rest at.
"You don't seem very excited."
"I am," Cece said as she bit her upper lip. "I'm grateful for the opportunity to dance."
"But modeling, not so much?" I asked, in a vain attempt to get her to shed some of the emotional weight.
"No, I like to model.” Cece fidgeted with her hands, mentally composing an answer that would make sense. "It’s, well, you said it yourself; reciting the story of your shitty life is not the most pleasant thing in the world."
"Oh," I said with a sigh. Why would I expect her to be brave about her past, when I myself refused to acknowledge my trauma? I knew enough about the Miss America pageant; instead of a normal interview portion, contestants were required to have a platform, a topic they wanted to represent. "Couldn't you talk about something else?"
"I will. My platform is going to be about community support for military families. I want to encourage people to donate and/or volunteer for charities that support the families of deployed personnel. There are quite a few good ones, organizations that I’m truly proud to represent.” Cece sighed. “But that doesn't stop people from asking about my past." She bounced her baby brother on her lap.
"Why would people ask? Wasn't that the point of moving to Colorado?"
"Haters gonna hate,” she replied in a baby voice, “especially in the age of the internet."
I sat beside her and held her hand, desperate to change the subject. “You have always been so strong. I have complete faith in you.”
“Thanks, Dad.” She gave my hand a comforting squeeze. “General Blake told me I needed to be brave, like you.”
What? The idea made me slightly nauseous. “What has General Blake told you?”
Cece casually shrugged. “Just that you did some shit.”
"Oh, God," I muttered, mentally preparing myself. Damn Alyssa, are you freaking serious!
"I will never be ashamed of you. Not after what I lived through," Cece said, rocking the baby close to her chest. "But I know about the drugs and the sex. You let people hurt you because it felt good; it made you feel like you were worth something."
I nodded. Her level of empathy and understanding nearly drive me to tears.
Cece squeezed my hand again, confirming our connection. "If I win Miss Colorado, I want to speak out about mental health in the military. I mean, the way things are; it's such a stigma to ask for help, but if soldiers can't ask for help without risking a medical discharge the only thing left is to get fucked up."
"Wow, just wow." I cupped my hand over my mouth as my soul tried to determine whether to laugh or cry.
"Dad, you're my best friend.” Cece looked at me with sadness in her eyes. “You have the right to know, the cancer is in your brain. From what I overheard, you were having seizures and something about a blood infection. The medical team back in Mississippi didn't think you were going to wake up much less survive the flight to Colorado. But mom and I agreed, we weren't going to leave you behind."
The statement was a little odd. "You and Mom?" Even after I whored myself across the country?
"Neither of us could ever leave you."
“Does that include this little guy?”
"Of course, it does, right Greg?" Cece asked, tickling the baby's cheeks. "We love Daddy so much! We could never leave him to die in America's taint. And why is Mississippi America’s taint?"
Greg giggled happily.
"Because Florida looks like America's cock?" I asked.
"Among many reasons," Cece said with a smirk. “I told you Greg would inherit your twisted humor. Anyway, let's grab some food. A local place opened a few days ago, at the BX- they have the best nacho chili fries."
"God, I missed the base-exchange."
"Why? It's just a mall."
"Have you been to the outside world? Malls are vanishing faster than biscuits at a hometown buffet."
"Now I want fried chicken."
"There's a chicken place? How do people here pass their fitness tests?"
Cece laughed. “The malls are for dependents. Actual military personnel have to eat the ‘nutritionally diverse’ crap at the mess halls.”
“As usual, you are wise beyond your years.”
Cece offered to push me in the wheelchair so I could have some time to hold the baby, but he seemed happier in his sister's arms. We ate a quick lunch of nuggets and fries, before returning home to give Greg a bottle.
The last thing I remembered was drifting off to sleep, with the baby on my chest. I awoke to a dark, empty living room. the air was cold, dry. All around I could hear static. But the noise was not from the tv or even the landline phones. “Hello?”
I got up, making my way towards the bedroom, fully prepared to track down the sound. that was when I heard Leo.
He was sitting on the sofa where I had just been, with his rainbow wings wrapped around his shoulders. "You need to check your daughter’s laptop," he said while picking at a single shimmery feather. His fidgeting appeared to be the source of the static-like noise.
"Ok, sure." I walked to the closed laptop. "I don't see why you can't just talk to me."
"Oh, we'll have plenty to talk about."
I opened the laptop and clicked on the main internet browser. There was an urgent news article out of Mississippi. A man by the name Jason Valdez, age nineteen was missing. The teen was serving a six-year sentence for sexual assault, as part of a deal made with the prosecutor. But apparently even that was too much for him because he was snuck out of jail. This was accomplished by switching places with a volunteer from his grandfather's congregation. The imposter was found hours later, when SHE refused to take a shower. "Well, that’s some really twisted shit."
"Yeah, tell me about it," Leo said with a groan. “I guess that’s Mississippi for you; all Hispanic teenagers look the same.”
I scrolled down to look at the mug shot, curious to see if the article would include an image of the person that he managed to trade places with. It did not. But I could see how my daughter fell in love with this Jason guy. The boy was an athlete, valedictorian, and model. He had feminine features, the way a male model would; with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. He was also the only child of the late Carlos Ramone Valdez, a locally famous agent of the cartel. “So, Jason’s mafia connected preacher grandfather broke him out of prison?"
"That's what it says, anyway." Leo crossed his arms, as he looked out into the distance. "Marcellei 'Marksman' Valdez is apparently someone with friends in low places."
"This Jason guy is on his way here?" I asked. I could feel my blood pressure rising.
"Maybe." Leo shrugged.
"Really, Leo? This isn't a fucking game! This is my family!" I was full on screaming like a deranged drill sergeant.
Leo looked at me, but only briefly. "Well, I guess it's a good thing he can't get on base and even if he could there's no way to find Cece's exact location."
"But he knows she's in Colorado?"
"Only because Cece happens to be listed on a very public website about an upcoming event that will be taking place in a very public auditorium."
I gripped my head. This was bad. "That piece of info took things from shitty to nightmarish really quick."
"Yup." Leo leaned back, crowing his arms over his chest. "Choices will have to be made."
Choices? I felt angry, but more than that I felt afraid. What the fuck was I supposed to do? I hobbled to a nearby wall and did the only thing I could; I slammed my fist into the hard surface over and over. "Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!"
I awoke with a jolt, sitting up like I had just been electrocuted. "Oh, dear God!"
Marni had been in the kitchen and rushed to my side. "Adam, what’s wrong?” She pressed her hand to my forehead. “Are you in pain?"
Looking outside the window, it was now dark. Apparently, I had been asleep for hours. "I'm fine." I went straight to Cece's laptop to find the date and location of the pageant. According to the website, the event was in January, at a mall in Denver. That was how long I had to make a plan, to protect the people I love, all while surviving chemo. I needed to draw from my strength; past present and future, to be the father they deserved.
This was going to require some divine intervention.
Chapter 8: Death
I was awoken by the sensation of coughing up blood. It was my third week of chemo in Colorado and the pain was once again becoming unbearable. I used to wonder why people, when diagnosed with a terminal illness, would often skip treatment and simply try to make the most of what time they had left. That felt like such a cowardly way to die. But now, in that moment, I could see the appeal. Chemo was not medicine. it was killing my cancer at the same rate that my cancer was killing me.
I pressed the nurse call button. "Hello, is anyone there?"
I could hear a static reply on the other end. The high-pitched sound sent a wave of pain down my body. Oh, fuck me.
I knew the room was constantly monitored, even when I was the only patient scheduled that hour. "Can I please have some water," I asked with desperation. I needed something more than water. Please I need someone, anyone.
“Hey, Adam,” whispered the small, red-haired nurse. She was on the younger side, not much older than Cece.
“Um, I don’t think we’ve met.” I attempted to extend my hand to her but I could barely lift its weight.
“Oh, sorry! It’s my first week. I’m Lia.” She looked and acted like a stereotypical preschool teacher, like the type of person who grew up with horses and always wanted to be a veterinarian. She placed her soft hand to my face, tracing a finger down my jaw. "Poor, baby you’re running a very high fever,” she said in a manner of utmost sincerity. “I'm going to pause the chemo to start you on some fluids and then ask the floor doctor what she wants to do."
“Thank you.” The very idea caused a wave of peace.
“Thank me when I make you all better,” she said before kissing my forehead.
There was something about her, and I could only smile.
In a matter of minutes, the nurse returned to start a course of saline into my PICC line. As Lia finished, she pressed her lips to my ear. “All done. You’ve been such a good boy.”
As I felt the cool liquid, a beautiful, sensual calmness washed over my very soul. Or maybe it was the fact that I was sporting a noticeable erection. "Is my wife here?"
“Yes, your wife and daughter are in the waiting room with your son. Your little boy is so precious.”
I felt her hold my hand, lacing her fingers through mine. Her hands were so small, soft, and gentle. Oh God. Her hands felt like Cece’s.
I closed my eyes, hoping to will the situation away. It worked.
When I awoke, the light in the room was different. I could see a female doctor speaking to Marni. They’re standing at the foot of my bed, speaking as if I wasn’t even present. "Mrs. Severgine, your husband is displaying symptoms of infection, it may be best for him to take a break from chemo for a while."
"How long is a while?" Marni asked. She briefly glanced in my direction, without turning her head.
The doctor cleared her throat, as if trying to assert dominance. “Long enough for his body to recover, and regain some strength."
I knew she was full of shit. My throat and lungs were on fire, my mind was slowing going to shit, and whenever I tried to sit up, I felt like my stomach was going to rupture in all possible directions. There would be no regaining strength. I already knew the game plan; there would be no more government-sponsored chemo, and I would be moved to a hospice ward to die. “Marni, please.”
My wife nodded. But there was a lump in her throat. “The chemo has been helping with the discomfort. He’s been able to sleep through the night.” She covered his mouth, as the fear in her eyes shone through. No matter how much she believed in me, I was going sleep for a long, long time. "Can you at least give him something for the pain."
"I'm going to prescribe some Fentanyl."
"No!" I shouted with what little strength I had. I knew what Fentanyl meant; I would lose consciousness; I would lose time.
The doctor sighed. “Another option would be cannabis to treat your nausea and muscle pain, but we'd first have to get your fever under control while monitoring your heart. unfortunately, your liver and kidney function will continue to deteriorate."
I knew what she meant. I couldn't hold down solid food; all my internal shit was shutting down. But there was one thought that forced its way to the front of my brain. "W-What about…”
“About what? Mr. Severgine?” she asked in an almost mocking tone.
“My eyes,” I regretted the question the moment the words exited my mouth.
The doctor looked at her chart. "Um, there is nothing in your chart that would indicate that as a concern."
If she was going to treat me like a mentally handicapped freak, I had to go all in. “AM- I- going- to- go- blind?"
“At this moment in time, I have no reason to believe the cancer will effect your vision.”
You believe that the cancer which started in my brain will not affect my eyes? "Can I still attend physical therapy for my leg?" You fucking sorry excuse for a human being.
"I would recommend a home care nurse."
"That won’t be necessary. Our daughter is well versed in pain therapy," Marni said as calmly as she could muster.
"I'll send the nurse in with something to help calm the fever.”
Checkmate; I was fucked. No sooner had she spoke, when a sharp pain struck my chest causing my lungs to slam shut.
"He's Code blue!" shouted everyone and no one.
Alarms blared as the world went dark.
I awoke in the intensive care unit. Every muscle in my chest was burning, until my body remembered that was on a steady flow of oxygen. Breathe, just breathe. My efforts were made easier when I saw my daughter by my side.
"Hi, Dad,” Cece said in an emotional whisper. “Mom's outside with the baby."
I tried to speak but no words came out. Upon swallowing I could feel the reason why; there was a breathing tube down my throat. It was all I could do not to cry.
"You coded three times,” she said, blinking tears from her eyes. “I was so afraid. I just can't imagine a world with you.”
Well, you're going to have to kiddo.
“But I know I’m going to have to.”
I could feel my daughter massaging my leg with gentle pressure.
“Mom says you ask about blindness?"
I reached for my daughter's hand. "I-" I started to draw the letter on her palm. "I w-a-s a-f-r-a-i-d."
"You were afraid?”
I spelled out 'D-A-N-C-E', while twirling my fingers. I was afraid I wouldn't get to see you dance one last time.
Cece cupped her hand over her mouth. She took a few breaths, to calm her mind and heart, before returning her hand to mine. “In heaven, we'll all have perfect wings and I'll dance with you every day.”
Over the next few days, I became strong enough to go home. By that I mean I could make it twenty-four hours without going into cardiac arrest. I was assigned a hospice care nurse who would check in once a day, while I spent my waking hours in a wheelchair. I would never walk again. Not that I could even if wanted to.
The pain in my back was intense. It came in two forms; the agonizing spasms in my remaining leg and violent, stabbing migraines. On one of my worse days, Cece stayed by my side.
Her massages were the only thing keeping me sane.
"I'm skipping the pageant," Cece said as she adjusted my leg.
"You can't,” I said with a comical groan.
"And why is that?” she asked with a sweet smile.
"Because I really want to go to Denver. and you can't deny a dying man's last wish."
“Ok.” Cece kissed my cheek. “For you.”
It wasn’t a hard decision; everything was all paid for, from travel costs to gowns and costumes. But, unfortunately, the pageant directors saw an opportunity and Cece became known as the military princess with the dying father. She was one of the few contestants interviewed on the local news.
The media was sent to our hotel room. For a painfully-awkward two hours I sat in bed, as Cece administered pain therapy to my leg. Off-camera, I consumed excessive amounts of cannabis in the form of surgery fruit-flavored candies. I’m sure I looked half dead in most of the footage.
"How's the cyst on your leg?” Cece asked, sitting by my side in her pageant dress. It was a short, but conservative tank-dress intended for the preliminary competition.
"Please let your mother take care of it." We were staying at a hotel room paid for by Cece's sponsors. Ideally, she was supposed to stay in a different hotel, rooming with a fellow contestant, but that wasn’t part of the deal. She refused to leave my side, much to the cringe of the pageant directors.
"Yeah, well Mom's taking forever. The store is just down the street. In the time it's taken her to find a first aid kit, I could have made a knife out of a shaving razor."
"You are not cutting my leg with a prison shank." I knew she crafty, so I wouldn't have put it past her to simply wait until I fell unconscious to do the deed.
The open sore was in a most awkward place. On my upper thigh, there was a brand. A scar from a lifetime ago, or at least that’s what I like to I tell myself. It was the mark of my sexual submission, my loyalty to the people who filled my mind body and soul with free drugs. The symbol had been lost to time. I think it was a shield or some twisted reimagining of military stripes. It was not for my benefit; it was to prove my worth. All I knew was I now had a festering sore cutting through the damaged flesh and scar tissue.
The door opened and Marni returned. "I bought a craft knife and bandages." She dumped out a plastic bag containing an Exacto knife, rubbing alcohol and at least five rolls of bandages.
I politely asked Cece to leave the room. She knew I was bleeding, and from where I was bleeding, but thankfully she had the kind heart and social intelligence to spare me a moment of humiliation. But I still didn’t want to be fully conscious when she saw my naked cock and slave-brand. Reclined on the bed, with my dick out, I made myself as mentally ready as I could. best case scenario; it would bleed out enough to relive the pain. I leaned my head back, not wanting to look at what she was about to do. I felt a cut. There was a great deal of moisture. I could feel my muscle throbbing, burning. I didn’t think the situation could get any worse, and then I heard a knock at the door.
"Hi, Cece!” shouted a male voice.
My daughter looked through the door. "Get the fuck away from me!"
“Cece, please just open the door!” the voice asked frantically.
Cece looked at me with a questioning glance. “What do I do?”
“Is that Jason?”
Cece nodded.
“Open the door.”
She nodded with a sense of confidence. My daughter knew why I said what I did— we could trap him.
"Cece, please hear me out," said the male voice, he seemed on the verge of tears.
"Fine Jason, I'll hear you out.” Cece opened the door to the sight of a tall, muscular teen. “Why are you not in prison?"
"I left. I found God and I left."
What the fuck kind of answer was that? I couldn’t see his face, but judging by his build, I figured I could take him.
Cece seemed more annoyed than frightened. "And you came here?"
"Yes, I came to you. I was meant to come back for you. I never meant to hurt you. we’re the same, you and me."
Cece scoffed and turned away, "How?"
I knew what he meant; Jason was Hispanic, and that couldn't have been easy to live with, in Mississippi. Still, I gripped the knife by the blade. The craft-knife was in my wife's hand, still cutting into my bleeding thigh. "What do I do?" I asked out loud.
“What?” Marni gave me a look. I knew, if it was up to her we would have called the police before doing anything stupid.
The world froze, as the color from the scene slipped away like a photo. "Jamie stood over Cece, placing his hand upon her shoulder.
All while Leo stood at my side. "I can't tell you what to do. I can only tell you what I would do."
"Dear Lord, guide my hand, guide my soul." I would like to say I didn't remember what happened next but Jamie would not let me forget.
“I can’t believe you did that! You stabbed that kid with the same knife your wife used to cut open your balls!"
I apparently used my tiny weapon to cut open Jason’s neck, a fact that Jamie found hysterical. I awoke in a hospital bed, my body secured in what could only be described as a straightjacket. “All this for stabbing a kid with an exacto blade?”
"And your dick was just hanging out when the cops got there, omg! It was hilarious!"
In the bed next to mine was Jason. The kid had a trac in his neck, and his eye was swollen shut. Seeing the damage to his prefect face, I kind of hoped the mutilation was my doing. But knowing Marni I wouldn't put it past her to get a swing in. He started to cough, and wheeze, struggling for breath as he spoke, "A-Are you awake, sir?"
What the fuck? "What's it to you?"
"I know your heart is too weak for chemo."
I couldn't tell if that was a question or a statement. "What?"
"My dad," Jason said in a breath, it was clearly painful, forcing the words to form. Although I could not fully see his neck injury, I could hear the blood bubbling in his wound. "It was the same for him before he passed."
"Really?"
"I was nine when he passed of bone cancer. It was one of the reasons why Cece and I became best friends." His voice was cracking at the word, 'friends', making him sound younger than his nineteen years.
I wasn’t buying it. "What kind of person gang rapes his best friend?"
"Can I tell you the truth? Not even my lawyer wanted to know the truth."
"I'll take a summery." I wasn't about to let him plead for forgiveness if he was not even willing to take blame. I held my dying daughter in my arms; I had no pity to give or tears to cry. But even I had to admit, his answer was surprising.
"I sold my girlfriend's virginity for a couple grams of meth." He was not proud not was he ashamed.
"Ok," I said with a sigh. "You have my attention."
"I'm a piece of shit with a reserved seat next to Satan." In a raspy whisper, Jason told the story of how he had gotten drunk, high and attempted to barter with the only thing of value he had in his possession; his girlfriend. "My hot, Asian, cheerleader girlfriend…”
“That’s my daughter!”
“My beautiful angel of a girlfriend, who I knew would do anything to save my worthless ass."
That sounded like Cece. but the fact remained; all three attackers left behind DNA. "She told me what you and your friends did to her."
"Not my friends..."
"Fine, the people who apparently had your balls in a vice; would have let them kill my daughter?"
"No, sir, I swear.” Jason started to sob. “I have told you nothing but the truth so I’ll tell you the truth of why my DNA was found in the rape kit.” He paused to gather breath. “They had me go last; to tie her hands and feet while I hurt her. I raped her while one of the other guys was choking her. I made sure to leave her hands free. I knew she had the ability to break out of a car trunk. I figured if she could escape on the way to the dumpsite, she could make a run for it."
"Dumpsite? You were going to leave her for dead?”
"If she was dead when we arrived, I would have killed myself, to be with her.” Jason sounded sincere. “I love her, this was all an epic fuck up.”
"What happened when you made it to the dumpsite with an empty trunk?"
Jason held up his left hand, something I had not noticed before; he was missing three fingers. "One for each payment owed, plus a few more things I gave up voluntarily."
"Wow." I had to admit that gained him a few points in my book.
"Yeah, I wanted her to get as far away as possible." Jason went quiet. "A lot of what happened, what I did, my grandparents and my lawyers told me to just stay silent, so it wouldn't have to go on record."
That made sense; all the pieces were coming together. He came from an honorable family.
"I fucked up really bad. But I’m clean now. I got the help I needed, made my peace with God. I just wanted to see her. I never got to say I was sorry.”
Leo stood at my side. He was stroking my arm. He placed his lips to my ear, "Ask the kid how he knew Cece could break out of a trunk?" With each touch, I felt the restraints loosen.
I needed to have faith in Leo's plan. "How did you know she could free herself?"
"She told me you taught her," Jason said with a nod. "You took her camping, hunting, fishing- when you were in-state, and when you were on deployment you would give her projects."
I hadn't gone on vacation with Cece for years. The thought of it warmed my heart. She loved to talk, learn, just discover the world around her.
"I bet someone like you never fucked up."
I looked to Leo who had now freed my right arm. If I could get out of this bed, I could kill Jason. I still wanted to kill him for what he did. But the fact remained, he was someone’s child. "Your father had a port in his chest?"
"During his last few months of treatment, the doctors said the chemo would kill him but he wanted to keep fighting."
I sat up in bed, enough to turn my body to the side. I needed to get a good look at him, face to face, man to man. At that moment Jason looked genuinely pathetic. He was in fact, just a kid. I wished I could remember what Cece would have wanted. Would she want me to forgive him? Did she forgive him? "So, what now, Son? You're going to get sent back to Mississippi where you're going to do some hard time."
Jason nodded. "I know. I could have gone to Mexico. I was actually supposed to meet up with some guy that my grandparents hired to sneak me out of the country by way of Cuba or Canada. I don't even know. I never planned on going through with it. This was my plan all along. I wanted to see her one last time."
I didn’t know if that was romantic or creepy. I felt my other arm release. I could now get off the bed. I had a choice to make so I was going to make it.
“Can you please take me to see her dance? After that you can do whatever you want to me. I know you’re sick, you have nothing to lose. You can send me straight to hell.”
“How polite of you to assume I’m going to kill you,” I said with my southern charm. “Now I don’t have to feel bad about it.”
The boy gave a sad chuckle. “You never did. I don’t deserve to be alive.”
“Yeah, you don’t. But you are.”
Jason was sobbing.
Oh, my fucking God. "Let's get the fuck out of here."
“Really?”
I had no idea how I would even accomplish such a task. “I want you to apologize. That’s what your best friend, my daughter, deserves.” In truth, what Cece deserved was the chance to be the hero of her own life.
next:
https://www.reddit.com/BarryPeppecomments/ex2k3q/trials_of_adam_ch9_10/
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The Annotated [dormouse sighs] - Rough Draft

This has been one of the hardest songs to figure out, and I'm still not entirely sure I've done it. The latest shift in my thinking has been in my idea that it forms the first act of a loose two act thematic "play" that concludes in 'Wendy & Betsy', given that almost every thread begun in the song is somehow picked up and answered in that song. Let me know what you guys think!

[dormouse sighs]
[Brighter days, whiter painted graves [1] under Idaho sky set to roadside attraction prayer] [2]
SANSEVIERIA: Traveling where the trains will? [3]
BURNING BOOKS: To Gainesville. [one turning, looks in semicircles] Lies! [4]
SANSEVIERIA: Have a little decency and time to kill? [5]
BLUEBIRD [on a branch] [6]: Unpromised land![7]
[DORMOUSE [8] sighs] the avalanche of sadness! of untied strange commands [9] as symbols on their hands, now stored on foreheads! [10] How concerned with unsubstantial terms and turns of circumstance…[etc.] [11]
LITTLE LAMB[12]: Before the day is done my prince is gonna come [13] JOSEPHINE FOSTER[14]: Ye winged seraphs fly, bear the news with loud and joyful cry [15]
SANSEVIERIA: Boys with nothing left to lose? [16]
NIKOLAI VOLKOFF [in Croatian muffin hat] [17]: Bridal shoes a birthright-- [18] child of the Ephraimites! [19] not quite prepared to speak right--
SANSEVIERIA: or sleep well with how well we sleep at night?[20]
BLUEBIRD [outside door]: Mating rights secured. [21]
LAMBS: [w/ best attempts to keep themselves warm] A toast to all we’re meant for! [22]
[Brighter days, whiter painted graves
under Idaho sky where your voice changed
the designs of a West Virginia Highway sign]
[withhold details of West Virginia highwayside] [23] LITTLE LAMB: Before the day is done my prince is gonna come BURNING BOOKS: Fire and a flood, [24] there’s power in the blood of every little lamb wonderworking power [25]
[1] The “whiter painted graves” here is probably referring to Christ’s famous “white washed tombs” condemnation of the pharisees. From Matthew:
Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs which on the outside appear beautiful, but inside they are full of dead men's bones and all uncleanness.
Connecting the white washing that hides decay to the “brighter days” we might conclude that the day contains a brightness that hides darkness. I am reminded of a similar image in ‘August 6th’ in which perfume is said to mask the scent of a graveyard. It may be of some import that condemnations of pharisaic adherence to Judaic law are in play here, as Aaron condemns the efforts of the Temple Institute in ‘Wendy & Betsy’. The Temple Institute seeks to resurrect ancient Judaism in the rebuilding of the Temple and are creating sacrificial tools to Biblical specification for what they believe to be this inevitable event. This would entail a re-emergence of animal sacrifice, something of which Aaron Weiss has been sharply critical in the past, and which is touched on in this song, when the blood of lambs (not THE Lamb as in the hymn) is given “wonderworking power”. A strict adherence to law brought under condemnation here with the “whitewashed tombs” analogy also suggests, in its simplest form, that some of the characters we are about to meet are attempting to come across as pious, when in fact they hide darkness within, masked by fundamentalist religious piety. Now, just what is going on in this song? I believe that what we have here is something like a psychedelic fever dream that takes the form of a stage play, with very odd characters competing to have a say. This, I would suggest, represents the fundamental points of anxiety and detrimental thoughts that are overwhelming the narrator in the wake of his perceived “abandonment” by God and the subsequent psychotic break (or perhaps ecstatic spiritual vision) which is touched on in this song. The subjects of the nearly incoherent “conversation” being played out on stage touches on religious bigotry, strict adherence to certain specified qualifications one must have in order to be deemed “worthy”, blood sacrifice as a religious practice, the perception of one group’s “rights” to something or someone, and the judgments that surround a marriage. These same themes come up again in a song on the second half of the album that also takes the form of a stage play (perhaps the second half of the same one), ‘Wendy & Betsy’, in which the “anxieties” are at least partially resolved. I will note these parallels, echoes, and resolutions as I come to them in the notes to both songs.
[2] Despite the “roadside attraction prayer” being placed in Idaho, I can’t help but feel that this might be referring to an element of “West Virginia road” psychedelic vision that forms the thematic backbone to much of both the EP and the LP, during which apparently some mysterious voice changed the letters of (perhaps) a red neon sign to read, “BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME” from Aaron Weiss’ perspective.
[3] From Wikipedia, on the plant that appears to be speaking these lines:
Sansevieria is a genus of about 70 species of flowering plants, native to Africa, Madagascar and southern Asia. Common names include mother-in-law's tongue, devil's tongue, jinn's tongue, bow string hemp, snake plant and snake tongue.
And from an article on www.portlandnursery.com:
Sansevierias have a long history of popularity due to how they are believed to symbolize characteristics of health and longevity. For centuries they were grown because they are believed to share the same eight virtues as Taoist deities, the Eight Immortals. Sansevieria cylindrica These virtues are: Strength, beauty, prosperity, good health, long life, poetry, art, and intelligence. Using Feng Shui principles, the Sansevieria is used to bring good fortune into the home, while warding off evil spirits.
Given that there is a distinct strain of familial conflict hinted at throughout this song which includes allusions to marriage, I don’t think it is a mistake that this is one, a plant (Aaron’s wife majored in botany, if I recall correctly) and that it is also called “mother-in-law’s tongue”. This is echoed in the song ‘Wendy & Betsy’ in which one of the cats (usually Wendy, I presume) is said to be an allusion to Aaron Weiss’ mother-in-law. This begins to forge the connections between the two songs.
“Traveling where the trains will” aptly describes the hobo-esque rail-riding in which Aaron Weiss has partaken in the past. Notably the song ‘Cattail Down’ describes moments from this aspect of his life. The character SANSEVIERIA asks this of someone, perhaps one of the characters we later meet, and this suggests that the character might represent, in part, Aaron Weiss. Imagine, as a for instance, a person who views Aaron’s propensity for train hopping as rather absurd. With that in mind, I read the line as a bit snide on the surface. As in, “Oh, you’re just traveling wherever the trains take you again, I see…” Probably this exemplifies the concern his family, and perhaps his now in-laws, have had over this habit. In ‘Cattail Down’ Michael Weiss, in the character of a goose, bemoans his “little brother’s mental health.”
[4] A character called BURNING BOOKS answering the question as to the direction of travel with, “To Gainesville!” is a reference to pastor Terry Jones. From Wikipedia:
Terry Jones is an American anti-Islamic right wing activist and the pastor of Dove World Outreach Center, a small non-denominational Christian church located, until July 2013, in Gainesville, Florida, United States. He is the President of a political group, Stand Up America Now. He first gained national and international attention in 2010 for his plan to burn Korans, the scripture of the Islamic religion, on the ninth anniversary of the September 11 attacks.
We have here a real life character who encourages what many would characterize as a fierce religious bigotry. Jones is a Christian imposing a symbolic message on those of the Muslim faith via the burning of their holy book. Extreme dogmatic religious adherence is criticized throughout this album, with references both to Zionism, Islamist fanaticism, and Christian fundamentalism as is shown here. All of these examples are cast in a harsh and derisive light, with Aaron Weiss calling attention to the absurdities, divisions, and unintended consequences they cause. This character is perhaps to be linked (at least in tone) with SANSEVIARIA, both utter lines that seem almost accusatory. These themes are tackled again in ‘Wendy & Betsy’ where they are highlighted by Aaron and Kaysha Weiss’ trip to Israel in which they experience first hand the actions of religious extremism. The understanding there forms what could be called a “resolution” for the confusing and sinister effect of the BURNING BOOKS character in this first act of the “play”.
[5] An individual having both time to kill and decency to kill may refer back to the man burning the copies of the Koran. He is wasting his time furthering division and conflict, while also bringing about the death of civil interfaith unity that he could be helping to bring about. However, I think this might be aimed instead at a different character altogether, one yet to be introduced, possibly the Dormouse.
[6] It’s not clear if naming this character BLUEBIRD is supposed to represent any specific notion, but the old adage about the “Bluebird of happiness” comes to mind. Perhaps the character draws from the French fairy tale by Madame d'Aulnoy called The Blue Bird, which was the first favorite story of Jean-Paul Sartre (a sometime lyrical inspiration for Aaron Weiss) in his childhood. The story involves Prince Charming being turned into a bluebird for rejecting the advances of the wicked sister of the main character. I tend to doubt this is the case, but the Sartre connection and the line in this song pertaining to a fairy tale Prince gives me pause to consider it.
I would suggest that BLUEBIRD represents a person that is in some ways opposed to the two characters we have been presented with thus far. I do not mean to suggest, necessarily, that the character represents an actual person. One could, for instance, try to make SANSEVIERIA and BURNING BOOKS represent Aaron Weiss’ in-laws and BLUEBIRD represent his wife. I think this would be needlessly speculative, but I don’t think that it would be necessarily incorrect. If I had to pinpoint what these characters represent, it might be best defined as attitudes or personality types or political stances that Aaron Weiss has come into conflict with at various points in recent memory, given symbolic voice here as two opposing sides of an argument about the marriage of a Bluebird and a Dormouse that represent a point of view that skews closer to his own. As I suggested above, I think that this is emblematic of the state of anxiety his narrator is in that will find its resolution in ‘Wendy & Betsy’.
[7] As we discussed above, Aaron Weiss may be employing Newspeak-esque language to reverse the meanings of words, as in “unliturgical” and “unpoured” in ‘9:27 a.m., 7/29’. Here the Promised Land to which the Israelites journeyed becomes the Unpromised Land. A nation’s religious goal is reversed, perhaps? Maybe the journey toward an land not promised and therefore not sanctified by God is touched on? I tend to think there may be a condemnation of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict here, perhaps inspired by Aaron Weiss’ January 2016 trip to Israel and Palestine. From his blog written at the time:
Inhabitants of the Israeli settlements in the occupied Palestinian territories are often categorized into one of two general camps: (1) “economic settlers,” basically normal people who have been enticed by public and private incentives (e.g., subsidies, tax breaks, grants), and (2) religiously motivated settlers, many of whom view the occupied territories as eternal property of the Jewish people by virtue of their interpretations of religious texts (e.g., the “land promise" made from God to Abraham according to Genesis 12). The notoriously extremist settlers in Hebron fall into the latter camp, some seeing the reclamation of their ancestral lands as not only a right, but a sacred duty. The attached Jeremiah quote captures the prophetic flavor to the Hebron settlers’ understanding of their role in the cosmic drama. [such expansionists, I am told by a friend in Tel Aviv, are a vocal minority, while the "silent majority" opposes their fanaticism and its implications].
The local Muslim counterpart to these religious settlers' ideology is surely that of Hamas, which in its charter invokes the concept of waqf, or inalienable religious endowment over the region once under caliphate rule. According to their extremist interpretations, theirs is both the right and duty to rule indefinitely over land once controlled at any point by Muslims (i.e., supposedly endowed to them by the Almighty). Framing the conflict in terms of contrary land promises from incompatible and unchangeable divine wills, it's hard to imagine a peaceful resolution.
And later:
Bad ideas, cont. Belief in the inalienable Jewish right to the Land of Canaan, incidentally, is also central to “Christian Zionist” theology, which frames the 1948 founding of the nation-state of Israel and its subsequent victory in the 1967 war as a big-deal fulfillment of biblical prophecy (seeing such prophecy as applying directly to the modern world). Adherents to this view equate the Israel of the Bible with the modern-day political state of Israel, and view support of this latter Israel as incumbent on Christians today, based on texts like Numbers 24:9 (“Blessed are those who bless you, and cursed are those who curse you”). Criticism of modern-day Israel, no matter its basis (e.g., a belief in international law, the universal declaration of human rights, moral teachings of Jesus), can be likened to a “curse,” and will incur the same. For the most fanatical adherents of this view, the supposed imperative to “bless” the Israel of 3,500 years ago implies the bizarre requirement to defend the actions of the homonymous modern political state, to “stand with Israel,” as the abstraction goes, often unwilling or unable to distinguish between moral and immoral actions carried out in its name.
The best lens through which to view this line may be in a self-condemnation that continues the “wandering in the Sinai desert” theme from ‘Another Head For Hydra’. This would suggest that the narrator has begun to fear, due to these many inconsistent anxieties that not only will he be forced to continue his aimless wandering, but they he may not be one of the “chosen” able to cross the Jordan River and enter the Promised Land. Again, recall that crossing the Jordan River into a state of heavenly salvation frames most of the song ‘Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore’ at the album’s climax.
[8] A dormouse is a type of rodent known for its long periods of hibernation. There may be something a bit more to it than that if Aaron Weiss has in mind the character from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. I believe that’s a fairly good guess, considering that when Aaron gathered a mobile library to trade books with fans, one of the volumes he included at the outset was a copy of that book and its sequel. From Wikipedia:
The Dormouse sat between the March Hare and the Mad Hatter. They were using him, while he slept, as a cushion when Alice arrives at the start of the chapter.
The Dormouse is always falling asleep during the scene, waking up every so often, for example to say:
`You might just as well say,' added the Dormouse, who seemed to be talking in his sleep, that "I breathe when I sleep" is the same thing as "I sleep when I breathe"!'
He also tells a story about three young girls who live in a treacle well, live on treacle, and draw pictures of things beginning with M, such as mousetraps, memory and muchness.
He later appears, equally sleepy, at the Knave of Hearts' trial and voices resentment at Alice for growing, and his last interaction with any character is his being "suppressed" (amongst other things) by the Queen for shouting out that tarts are made of treacle.
During the aforementioned trial, the Mad Hatter is unable to recall what the Dormouse said in his testimony, which has caused the question, “What did the Dormouse say?” to enter popular parlance. Even Jefferson Airplane, in their famous song, ‘White Rabbit’, has Grace Slick telling us, “Remember what the Dormouse said.” Perhaps Aaron Weiss is providing his own addition to this interpretive lore by having the Dormouse sigh and say his line.
I might suggest that of all the characters in the song, the Dormouse is my bet for the one that represents Aaron Weiss’ point of view most closely. That the Dormouse’s statement is never revealed in the Lewis Carroll stories may connect to the later inability to “speak right” in that Aaron’s narrator is undergoing a mental crisis brought on by anxieties over not being allowed “in” to a group, and whether that is necessary for his salvation on some level. And if it is, does he even want that, given the pharisaical attitudes of the characters attacking him.
[9] The Dormouse speaks both of sadness and of “untied” commands. The commands refer to the passage from Deuteronomy below, but as with many things on the album (including the title, come to think of it, which is not titled but UN-titled) the prefix “un-” is added to the commands that are said to be bound in the scripture. Again, I see this as a nod to religious fanaticism and how it plays out on the world stage and thus affects the narrator’s anxieties.
[10] This phrase comes from the book of Deuteronomy:
6 And these words, which I command thee this day, shall be in thine heart: 7 And thou shalt teach them diligently unto thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up. 8 And thou shalt bind them for a sign upon thine hand, and they shall be as frontlets between thine eyes. 9 And thou shalt write them upon the posts of thy house, and on thy gates. 10 And it shall be, when the Lord thy God shall have brought thee into the land which he sware unto thy fathers, to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, to give thee great and goodly cities, which thou buildedst not, 11 And houses full of all good things, which thou filledst not, and wells digged, which thou diggedst not, vineyards and olive trees, which thou plantedst not; when thou shalt have eaten and be full; 12 Then beware lest thou forget the Lord, which brought thee forth out of the land of Egypt, from the house of bondage.
The commands refer, we must note, to actions meant to remind the Israelites of their God when they are finally living in the Promised Land, on the other side of the Jordan. Recall that earlier we were told that the land is thought to “unpromised”, which gels with Aaron Weiss’ own thoughts on the varying claims to the West Bank of the Jordan River. Dormouse seems to be calling this ritual of fixation on the Promised Land strange, and rather than being bound they are being “untied”. This running image of crossing the Jordan and being “allowed” in to a heavenly region where others are excluded - in this case, the non-Israelites who will be conquered and in many cases slaughtered - seems to be a point of some concern for Aaron Weiss, and will enter into his life in a very real way when he experiences the military-controlled border at the Jordan River on his trip to Israel in 2016, as recounted in ‘Wendy & Betsy’ forming the concluding element of this thread in the current song.
[11] The Dormouse continues, speaking of a person concerned with “unsubstantial terms” and “turns of circumstance”. One could very easily read in these lines a certain denigration of some religious fanaticism. For example, falsely divisive doctrines of the “ocean of illusion” as explored previously on ‘Julia (or, ‘Holy to the LORD’ on the Bells of Horses)’ could be referred to as unsubstantial terms, especially considering how the phrase can be used to denote something vague or not easily defined. Perhaps the phrase is a condemnation of using semantics as a means to foster division. “Turns of circumstance” could denote a fixation on one’s place in the world as defining belief, rather than Truth doing so. Certainly this would apply broadly, and yet could be narrowed to the Middle Eastern conflicts already discussed.
Another possibility is that “unsubstantial terms” and “turns of circumstance” concern certain people’s propensity to turn coincidence and happenstance into signs from God.
[12] The character called “LITTLE LAMB” could be a reference to the nursery rhyme ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’:
Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb
Mary had a little lamb
Whose fleece was white as snow.
And everywhere that Mary went
Mary went, Mary went,
Everywhere that Mary went
The lamb was sure to go.
Possibly the lamb imagery is used to reference Jewish blood sacrifice being re-instituted, given the lines later about the blood of the lambs being “wonderworking” and Aaron Weiss’ condemnation of the Temple Institute’s efforts in ‘Wendy & Betsy’ as we already discussed. However this could be touching on the resolution of conflict through becoming childlike, as we discussed before. This is a theme that pops up in many of the songs. LITTLE LAMB, then, could represent the entrance of a wholly new perspective into the argument between the four characters: simple child-like faith.
[13] The line about the prince coming “before the day is done” may be a reworking of the similar line from the song ‘Someday My Prince Will Come’ from the Disney movie Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. The song later became a jazz standard. The lyrics:
Some day my prince will come Some day we'll meet again And away to his castle we'll go To be happy forever I know Some day when spring is here We'll find our love anew And the birds will sing And wedding bells will ring Some day when my dreams come true
Notice that this refrain is attributed to the character of LITTLE LAMB. Possibly coincidental, but in the nursery rhyme, the little lamb is described as having a “fleece as white as snow”, making the speaking character and that which is spoken have a myriad of behind the curtain connection not immediately evident. The expectation of a prince might refer to the Jewish expectation of the Messiah, which Christians believe was fulfilled in the person of Jesus Christ. It could also be touching on the apocalyptic expectations in a similar vein by Christians who eagerly anticipate the second coming of Christ in a way that borders on bloodthirsty Zionism. Aaron Weiss touches on this in ‘Wendy & Betsy’ and also in the song ‘Red Cow’ which alluded to the Christian support of red heifer breeding at the behest of the Temple Institute. However, for my money, I believe that the LITTLE LAMB is offering a childlike belief in something that borders on the naive if seen from an adult’s perspective, one that is both useful if used to extract oneself from combating anxieties as presented in this song, and also one that is in danger from the bigotry of other speaking characters. Later, BURNING BOOKS will seemingly offer shivering lambs up for ritual slaughter at the behest of evangelical Christian Zionism. More on that as we come to it.
[14] The “character” to which the line here is attributed is, much like Terry Jones above, a real life individual. Josephine Foster is an American singer-songwriter from Colorado. This is possibly coincidental, but she might have some bearing on the rather mysterious “German songs” from ‘August 6th’ on the [untitled]e.p., as she released an album called A Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing. From Wikipedia:
A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing is an album by Josephine Foster, released in 2005. The album is irregular in that it is written in a German form known as "Lieder", or art songs. Foster utilizes the compositions of Johannes Brahms and Franz Schubert, icons of the Romantic Era, while her lyrics are based upon the texts of writers like Johann Wolfgang von Goethe or Eduard Mörike.
JOSEPHINE FOSTER, I would suggest, is a character offering hopeful lines that form a counteractive positivity from the rear of this metaphorical stage, one in concert with the LITTLE LAMB who is longing for the coming “Prince”.
[15] These lines come from the Christian hymn ‘What Wondrous Love is This’, which Josephine Foster covered. The relevant section of lyrics:
Ye winged seraphs fly,
Bear the news, bear the news!
Ye winged seraphs fly
Bear the news!--
Ye winged seraphs fly,
like comets through the sky,
fill vast eternity!
With the news, with the news!
Fill vast eternity
With the news!
[16] This line describes boys in desperation, with “nothing left to lose”. This is only a guess, but given that SANSEVIERIA’s earlier lines suggested a bit of a snide attitude toward another character (probably the Dormouse), I would say that this is the “mother-in-law’s tongue” denigrating a future “son-in-law” as a way for Aaron Weiss to express the state of his mind held captive to these competing voices. If, as I suggested in the opening track, he has been “abandoned” by God, then he would ostensibly have “nothing left to lose”.
[17] Like most of the other “characters” speaking in the song, this is a real person. Or, rather, it is the stage name of a real person. From Wikipedia:
Josip Hrvoje Peruzović (October 14, 1947 – July 29, 2018), better known by his ring name of Nikolai Volkoff, was a Yugoslav-born American professional wrestler who was best known for his performances in the World Wrestling Federation (WWF). Although the Volkoff character was often portrayed as a villainous Russian, Peruzović originated from Croatia.
I don’t think his inclusion here means much, especially as his “character” is not even actually sung. Perhaps his recent involvement with the Republican party in Maryland or his public support of President Donald Trump is in the forefront of Aaron Weiss’ mind, given that [Untitled] was originally planned to be mostly about the current political landscape. In any case, Volkoff died very recently, on (ironically) 7/29/2018 (the year of the date which opens this album and the day that Aaron’s son was born). I would hazard a guess that he is meant to constitute a heightened sense of the weirdness of this fever-dream esque stage play, entering as another supporting character from offstage, and is perhaps commenting on more on the side of SANSEVIERIA and BURNING BOOKS than of BLUEBIRD or Dormouse, who I think are probably accompanied by JOSEPHINE FOSTER in the background, the negative and positive voices competing for clarity in the cacophony that is the narrator’s mind.
[18] The appearance here of bridal shoes may indicate some sort of folk tradition of which there are too many to count. For example, a swedish wedding shoe tradition involves the bride carrying coins in her shoes; a silver one in left shoe from her father and a gold coin in her right from her mother to ensure she will ‘never go without’. Certainly there is much in this song to hint at people believing something is given them as a “right”, if my hypothesis of “land promises” as described by Aaron Weiss in his blog are in play here. As we move through the song, notice just how many of the lines can be read as statements of self-assured belief, usually involving the speaker’s “right” to something.
This character seems to be commenting on one of the central anxiety inducing themes of the song, which like most of the other themes will find its conclusion in the song ‘Wendy & Betsy’. There is an impending marriage of which the other characters seem to disapprove, Dormouse being a boy with nothing left to lose prone to riding the rails as he is. Later, in ‘Wendy & Betsy’ this anxiety finds its resolution when Aaron Weiss assures his wife and her mother that he “would never physically hurt” her, and connects it to his “knowledge of Arabic prayers” which could have been a point of contentions stemming from his quasi-Muslim and mystical Sufi predilections coming into conflict with his wife’s far more conservative family. This is something that has been hinted at in interviews before.
[19] The event that this line is speaking of is from the book of Judges. It is illuminating in that it deals with a certain “us vs. them” mentality among religious fanatics, along with hints at a conflict along the Jordan River, as has been a recurring image. Further we have Aaron Weiss identifying with the Ephraimites who did not know how to pronounce the proper password that would get them safely across the Jordan River. Once again this speaks to a number of things, among them being the narrator’s fears over not being “included” with those who make it to the other side of the River and his criticism of the pharisaical attitude that would preclude someone from crossing to the point of death over a mis-pronunciation of a word. The text:
12 Then the men of Ephraim [a]gathered together, crossed over toward Zaphon, and said to Jephthah, “Why did you cross over to fight against the people of Ammon, and did not call us to go with you? We will burn your house down on you with fire!”
2 And Jephthah said to them, “My people and I were in a great struggle with the people of Ammon; and when I called you, you did not deliver me out of their hands. 3 So when I saw that you would not deliver me, I took my life in my hands and crossed over against the people of Ammon; and the Lord delivered them into my hand. Why then have you come up to me this day to fight against me?” 4 Now Jephthah gathered together all the men of Gilead and fought against Ephraim. And the men of Gilead defeated Ephraim, because they said, “You Gileadites are fugitives of Ephraim among the Ephraimites and among the Manassites.” 5 The Gileadites seized the fords of the Jordan before the Ephraimites arrived. And when any Ephraimite who escaped said, “Let me cross over,” the men of Gilead would say to him, “Are you an Ephraimite?” If he said, “No,” 6 then they would say to him, “Then say, ‘Shibboleth’!”[b] And he would say, “Sibboleth,” for he could not [c]pronounce it right. Then they would take him and kill him at the fords of the Jordan. There fell at that time forty-two thousand Ephraimites.
[20] The full idea expressed across two characters is that the singer, speaking in these dueling voices, is both unprepared to speak correctly or sleep well at night. Being unprepared to speak right is referring to the inability of some Ephraimites to pronounce the word “Shibboleth”, thus condemning them to death as discussed above. The inability to “sleep at night”, as in “how do you sleep at night?” is explored a bit in ‘Tortoises All the Way Down’, where the narrator mulls over his responsibility in an altercation as he lies awake at night.
One thing that should be noted is that the narrator’s inability to “speak right” is concluded in ‘Wendy & Betsy’ when he tells his mother-in-law not to worry because he does “know some Arabic prayers” which seems connected in that song with the threat of violence, as if his connection to “Muslim” practices were once perceived as a threat. That may be a reference to an event that took place when he was in Palestine, in which he was granted access to a Muslim holy site by virtue of the means of entry being the recitation of an Arabic prayer that he happened to know.
[21] Sleeping well at night, combined with the Bluebird’s line, “Mating rights secured,” might be looking at marriage from a couple of different viewpoints. Obviously the marriage ceremony could humorously be called a “securing of the mating rights”. Again, a characters claims he has secured for himself the “right” to something that should by all accounts constitute a sacred unification. Likewise we see differing claims of right fostering conflict and disunity among adherents to fundamentalist doctrines of faith. The sexual connotations connected with his marriage will continue in ‘New Wine, New Skins’ in which the SCORPION says in Aaron Weiss’ voice that his wife can “pin and mount him” in a double entendre that is barely concealed and is pulled from an even more clearly sexual verse from a Smiths song.
[22] The Lambs now chime in with a chorus, making a toast to “all we’re meant for”. I believe this could be a nod to Aaron Weiss’ condemnation of ritual blood sacrifice, ironically giving the lambs a voice with which to celebrate the only thing they are good for in the view of Israeli Jews and by extension the evangelical Zionist movement being slaughter at the hands of religious adherents. From Aaron’s January 2016 travel blogs, which we will revisit later in another context:
I find it objectionable enough for otherwise compassionate human beings today (those who could survive easily without meat) to kill defenseless animals for food, but whatever weird explanations I've heard for religious blood ritual, I don't find them at all convincing.
If my notion that the Lambs represent - on some level - childlike faith is accurate, however, then we must consider that this positive influence is being threatened. The lambs seem to shiver as the cold tries to get at them. Directly after this, we cut to a reference to the apparently life-altering confrontation that crops up so many time on the album, and which we have discussed elswhere.
[23] As written, the lyrics simply have a bracketed aside here, redacting the “details of West Virginia Highwayside” in which Aaron experienced what could at once be described as a psychedelic mystical vision or a psychotic breakdown, and which in either case ended up centering him later in life. What is interesting to note here is that, despite the bracketed claims in the liner notes, the line as sung is different. First we have a reprise of the chorus speaking to whitewashed tombs and bright days, but it goes on to say that “under Idaho sky your voice changed the designs of a West Virginia Highway sign.” This was alluded to in the album opener, and connected to (possibly) a neon sign’s letters changing to read, “Better Luck Next Time” in an echo of what I suggested was a sentence from God upin His “abandonment” of the narrator earlier in that song. It is rather odd that the West Virginia sign is changed beneath an “Idaho sky”, but I think this is simply poetic metaphor to indicate, perhaps, that it took place during Aaron Weiss’ move to Idaho from Philadelphia, which forms the basis for the later track ‘2,459 Miles’. This is, of course, pure speculation, yet Cliff seems to think that perhaps it took place along a stretch of I-70 in West Virginia after hints he gleaned from his conversation with Michael Almquist.
[24] This first line may come from the hymn ‘God Leads Us Along’, written by G.A. Young, which is sung the refrain, “Some through the waters, some through the flood, Some through the fire, but all through the blood.” However, the line is just vague enough that it could be any number of hymns, including ‘Mary Don’t You Weep’, which Aaron Weiss has plumbed for lyrics on both Pale Horses and the [untitled]e.p.
[25] These final lines are a reworking of lines from the hymn ‘There is Power in the Blood’, written in 1899 by Lewis E. Jones:
Notice that “the Lamb” as a Christological image is changed into “every little lamb” in the present line, shifting focus from a genuine Messiah or Savior to the blood sacrifice of the Lambs. This could be, as I alluded to above, a reference to the sacrificial lambs of the Israelite system of sacrifice, which Aaron Weiss roundly condemns. If they are also emblematic of childlike perspectives, this could indicate a threat to those perspectives; the untamed fanaticism ritually slaughtering innocence in a sacrifice to extremism. As I hinted at above, these themes are somewhat concluded in ‘Wendy & Betsy’ when Aaron Weiss calls out the Temple Institute’s attempt to reinstate blood sacrifice through the rebuilding of the Temple and the re-crafting of replica ritual sacrificial knives.
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HORSE RACING NEWS 07-22-2020 How to make Millions fast at Inside Track Betting (GTA:SA) Finish Line: OTB Documentary trailer Colonial Downs Off Track Betting Center  Hampton. VA  The Vacation Channel kramer betting on a race

Come experience the thrill of live horse racing, all year long! Home to the ADIOS Race, The Meadows offers a horse race track with some of the nation’s best full-field cards for horse races near Pittsburgh, PA. We also offer simulcast horse racing from around the country, 365 days a year. When it comes to horse racing in Florida, there is an abundance of off track betting options. While nothing beats placing a wager and watching live at the track, the off track betting locations and online racebooks reviewed on this site are the next-best thing. The 5 Most Important Horse Racing Tracks and Betting Venues in Florida. By Shawn Waters on May 18, 2017. Horse racing has long been a favorite pastime for many. Watching the horses go around the track is exciting, but placing your bets on which one is going to make it to the finish line first can also provide a rush. Finding a horse race Find 189 listings related to Off Track Betting in Ocala on YP.com. See reviews, photos, directions, phone numbers and more for Off Track Betting locations in Ocala, FL. Find 302 listings related to Off Track Betting in Fort Myers on YP.com. See reviews, photos, directions, phone numbers and more for Off Track Betting locations in Fort Myers, FL.

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