Counter-culture Journals (文革)

Counter-culture Journals (文革)

Tuesday, February 04, 2014

Happydale revisited Part 2

It was about 6am when I got out of bed and headed for the main room of the institution. Normally it takes wild horses to drag me out of bed and get me to go where I will meet and talk to people. But today is different. Today I get my រីទអលិន. I talk to the doctor the day before and he and I agreed on a 20 milligram tab that was time released. That meant that I would have to chew it up to help speed up the action. It wasn’t as good as shooting it, but at least I could get a mild buzz. I could tell by the taste that the pill had that chemical they put in these tabs to make them tamper proof. That meant if I did have a hypo and point—if I crunched the pills up in a spoon and added water—no liquid could be seined through a piece of cotton. Instead it would instantly turn to jelly. I can’t load jelly into a syringe and shoot it. But since I couldn’t do that anyway it didn’t matter. Even if I could get my hands on a syringe, they watched us too much for me to get away with that.
So after chewing up my រីទអលិន thoroughly and swallowing it, it was time for all of us to go down to the cafeteria where we would choose our breakfast for the day.
To get there we had to go through the long gray hallway, with lots of locked doors. It was not unlike the doors I used to see on the Get Smart show each Saturday night when he walked through about a dozen doors, all a little bit different—some opening sideways, up and down, two pieces, one piece and on and on.
My morning nurse who took my blood pressure, heart beat, pulse and temperature—what they called “vitals”—was a knock-out blond. She was tall and shapely and I could have easily fallen for her. She was very nice and I had to remind myself that part of her niceness was her job. Still it was nice to be treated as if she really liked me.
She took us downstairs to the cafeteria that morning. We patents almost never sat with the staff. We sat at the plastic tables and benches in the large cafeteria located next to several windows so we could see outside. On this particular day I sat with Mrs. C. We were at a large table, with Bill, Josh, Jill and Bart, who most of us referred to as “the Pervert.” Bart was a burly guy, maybe 22 years old, had dark hair and a beard. He looked like he would fit in just fine on Duck Dynasty. But Bart was not anti-gay.
“My girl friend and I had a four-way with this other couple,” he said. “But the other couple insisted we do some bi-sex things. I actually got a blow job from a guy. That was really weird.”
He may have thought it was weird, but he talked about it a lot. In fact sex is what he talked about most of the time. Usually a young person who talks about sex all the time isn’t getting that much. But in his case, he had a freaky girl friend that seemed to like sex toys and kinky sex games.
“She bought a two sided dildo,” Bart said.”She likes to have both of us use it at the same time.”
If I was just a little bolder, I would have asked a lot of questions, such as “where do YOU put your side of the dildo?” And “is it ribbed or does it have rings on it?” But this guy was just two weird. I wouldn’t mind having a kinky girlfriend like that, but I would most likely have never discussed our bedroom antics with a crowd of people I didn’t really know.
All the people I was sitting with were between about 30 to 50 years old. I just assumed they all considered Bart to be a juvenile moron. He was a nice guy, but who would take him seriously. But it was later that evening that I had a discussion with Mrs. C who explained to me that she made out with him and would have boinked him if it were possible.
“He is young and stupid, but he is old enough to know how to please a woman,” Mrs. C said.
I looked at her with the same stunned look a person has when they have heard John Boehner say something intelligent on TV that actually makes sense.  
Later that day, I was sitting in the media room—that room that has the TV, a collection of DVD movies from all over the years and a radio that was set up to make it easier to find a station that our ancestors (10 years ago) would have enjoyed. For the most part we found plenty of music we could enjoy, from the 1980s, from Duran Duran to Cyndi Lauper. We were the only two people in that room late in the evening. Maybe that is the reason she opened up to me about her sex addiction.
“I actually can’t say no,” she confessed. “I go out with guys I find interesting and at the end of the night I go home with them and sleep with them. Sometimes the sex is good—other times it isn’t worth a shit. But I just can’t say no.”
By now it became clear she was ashamed of her actions as if she were a PCP (Phencyclidine) addict. She almost always had sex but she didn’t always enjoy it. But one thing surprised me—why did she confide in me? Was I just a trustworthy looking person? Did I finally figure out why I was in this place and why people here treated me with respect? In the past women have told me I looked “harmless.”  I hated that reply and yet I realized the women meant it as a complement. But it didn’t feel like it.
“I tried to make out with Bart,” she said. “They really keep an eye on us, so we can’t really do anything. He is a little young and immature. But he is OK.”
I was kind of stunned. She tried to make out with the most immature pervert in our part of the ward. Also, she never considered boinking me. I felt a little jealous. I hadn’t had any real hot action in a long time. But she did trust me and confide in me. Maybe that was really more of a complement than her trying to sleep with me.
Mrs. C was about 40, had red curly hair and was built a bit heavy. She was fairly good looking—not a knock-out. She didn’t dress slutty or anything. Her clothes were a little conservative. She often wore a dress and blouse with flowers or some other non-sexual patterns.

To be continued…..  

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