by Kris Jacen
Suddenly, I understand, while watching,
now hovering…
Your pain, unceasing fire, unquenchable thirst,
that silver brilliance.
Your shard dims to a flicker, but wait!
Fiery splendour meets my eyes as you streak towards the sun.
While those ashes and smoldering embers thicken for a moment,
then die out.
As you fly higher,
More powerful than mere mortals can attest,
A mortal body may fade to a mere twinkle,
and sheer nothingness.
Your soul made limitless by love & steadfastness.
As your call echoes through that nadir,
Lifting and burning brighter than tears or pain.
And at once, all is light, searing,
Breathless I am in wonder…
and then… all is quiet once more,
but forever changed.
And the silver shard, now solid and strong,
ceases tearing its own heart asunder.
Is a Prostate Worth Finding?
Another post from Patric to Ethan Day’s Yahoo Group – Part I
First off, thank you all for your participation. I wish to hell I had the steam to thank you individually, or even be sure I got all the names without forgetting anyone, but my head is deluged with chemicals, which is a piss poor excuse, but a fact nevertheless. :)
I promise I will answer when I can with what I can, but for now a general shout of gratitude will have to serve.
For those who asked, and because I am right pleased with them, here are my copies of the Prostate and Sounding Stories. Funny how they seem to have taken on such mythic proportions. :)
________________________________________________________
Ok....
I just got back from getting some tests done. I look like I was mugged by a pincushion, so I’m in a weird mood.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
The question was: Is all the hoopla about the prostate gland worth the hoopla of finding it, and the short answer was yes.
Here’s the long answer: Oh HELL yes!!
Here’s why:
To fully understand, you have to have a basic idea of what it FEELS like for a guy to come. Ask your guy friends that question and you’ll get as many different answers as stars. I mention this so when I elucidate what *I* get, you WONT take is as gospel fact and I wont see it in print in a dozen different books, written as though it were fact. In other words, every body is different.
So Sherman.... Set the WayBack Machine to 1969 and we’ll visit a little boy earnestly tossing “Paratroopers” into the air, over and over again. He’ll experiment with overhand and underhand throws, all the while teaching his arm to throw straighter and straighter, until he reaches the pinnacle of his skill. At that apex, he can toss his tiny plastic paratroopers very nearly vertically.
Now these little toys are nothing more than a chunk of plastic molded to vaguely resemble a human male, with a ring sticking out of his back. Attached to this ring by six flimsy threads is a chunk of plastic about the size of a handkerchief. The idea is to throw them into the air and the plastic unfolds, becoming a little parachute. Pretty simple, and loads of fun when you’re a little kid.
But, what you are interested in is the times when the chute doesn’t open. See the boy toss the toy. See how it travels at speed which decreases as gravity asserts itself? At the very nadir of its possible upward travel, just before gravity demands its return, the little plastic paratrooper seems to hover in the air for the briefest fraction of a second, right?
That’s the part that matters.
Now, watch as he throws again and this time, the chute does open. Our little plastic hero floats safely to the ground.
To recap: There is a point when the toy is thrown where its acceleration is overcome by gravity and it seems to hang in the air. The other point is when the chute opens, and the toy floats back down.
Got that? Good, because now it’s time to return to the present, where the boy is all grown up, and he has a real life paratrooper, naked and sweaty, and with a hard-on the size of Florida grunting behind him. (Hey, deal. I write fiction, remember?)
We’ll call our grown up boy Tom, and our paratrooper Jones, because its just too creepy to keep using man and boy in sexually explicit sentences. One or the other, but not both.
So here we are, in bed with Tom and Jones, and Jones is pumping his hips like some mindless rutting animal. At this point he pretty much is mindless, because virtually all of his sexual gratification is coming from overstimulation of about 20,000 nerve endings in the uncut portion of his foreskin, (the lucky bastard) plus however many thousand more along the rest of his rather massive dick, augmented by sights and smells and the input (and output in the form of hormones) from that most erotic organ of all, his brain.
(For the sake of Tom’s ego, we’ll also mention that Tom is as tight as Tupperware down there, and he knows full well how to use what he’s got.)
Jones is just on the verge of exploding. He is very much like that little toy being thrown into the air. Everything is rushing to that point when he, and the toy, are on the verge of something great. For the toy, it is a triumphant return to earth after an exhilarating run for the sun, and for Jones, he’s about to come a gusher.
In case you missed that overly literary allusion, I’ll recap. Jones orgasm builds, higher and higher, until his body’s version of gravity brings him back down. His explosion (when he actually comes) is the apex of that arc, and lasts about as long as the little toy hung in the air, then he floats back down to earth. Get it? Lots of build up, big finish, and nothing for 15 to 60 minutes or more, depending on how old Jones is.
Believe it or not, that’s the key to why the prostate matters.
Now lets take a peek at Tom, and more importantly, the sheet under him. He’s got this puddle going, far more than just precum, because Jones is an attentive paratrooper and he knows just the angle to set himself so that all of his mindless stroking smacks bang into, and over, Tom’s prostate, over and over again.
In a word, Tom is being milked like Aunt Sadie’s Guernsey cow, and he’s loving it.
A properly functioning prostate adds a lot of volume to the fluid portion of his come, and the pleasurable sensation Jones felt was all that fluid moving though all the little tubes and stuff, explosively and all at once.
Tom on the other hand, (or under the other hand as the case may be) is getting much the same sensations, but for a much LONGER period of time, because Jones’s Florida sized dick is squeezing a little juice out of Tom’s prostate every time it hits Tom’s gland. Additionally, since Tom is pretty much bypassing the the usual explosion of jizz and getting milked instead, his brain DOESN’T send the signal to shut down that Jones’s brain sent to the rest of Jones’s body, and dear Tommy can keep going, and going, and going. And in fact he does, because like I said, he knows how to use what he’s got. When he hears Jones’s grunts catch in his throat, a few quick strokes of his dick and Tom triggers the same explosion so they come together. (It’s the neighborly thing to do, dontcha know.)
But, unlike Jones who had one wave of intense pleasure, Tom has had several, though each was slightly less intense, PLUS he got the usual ultra intense one by jerking himself off. Tom got the best half of that deal, I think. :)
In short (and why I didn’t start short I haven’t a clue) hitting Tom’s prostate pushes a wee bit of the seminal fluid through the tubes which in turn triggers the pleasurable sensation we call an orgasm, and as long as the pipes are flowing, the pleasure continues.
Now, for the sake of argument, some basic facts to lend verisimilitude to stories (and to keep guys like me from snorting when they are reading them when the author gets it wrong.)
Using the butthole as a reference, the prostate is toward the FRONT of the body, not the back. If Tom is flat on his back and Jones is fingering him, Jones’s palm is UP and the pad of Jones’s f
inger is hitting it. The gland is between two and three inches in from the opening, which is just around the length of a finger, so the mechanics work great. It’s a lump about the size of a walnut, but you’ll only feel one side of it. To me I always envision a teeny tiny hill in an otherwise flat field. (I’m very visual)
Jones and his massive dick can hit it if Jones is thoughtful enough to pay attention to his angle. If Tom is flat on his stomach, then Jones positions himself slightly higher so the fulcrum of Toms hole forces the head of Jones’s dick DOWN, and hits the prostate. If Tom is on his back with his feet in the air (or wrapped around Jone’s waist, then Jones will lift Tom’s butt a bit higher so the natural angle of Jone’s dick points upward, again hitting the prostate.
If Tom is an aggressive little bottom and is riding Jones, then he can skide himself forward or back until that beast of a dick hits where he wants. The drawback of course is that the beast of a dick is actually TOO big, so Tom has to raise himself high enough that the head of Jones’s dick hits in the right place.
Size queens will tell you that size does matter, and they would be correct for the wrong reasons. Anything larger than the average dick takes extra effort to get that head to press against the prostate. An average sized dick will hit it every single time if the angle of entry is good.
(The size queens are more interested in STRETCHING anyway, which is the subject of a completely different essay altogether. :)
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Kickstarts
As I’ve said in the past, the sun rises. Always a(n) euphemism for looking ahead, things will get better, yadda, and true to form, that solar immensity has done it once again.
Couched behind dismal grey clouds as is typical for this time of year, it is nevertheless still there, still noisy in it’s consistency, and still adamant.
Kinda like me. :)
I won’t even begin to say last week was easy, or even tolerable, but at the time of this post, it was at least survivable. Moreover, it was something of a kick start, or perhaps it’s just the timing since it’s this close to the end of all this nonsense.
I commented to a dear friend last night that for the first time in nearly seven months, I was once again thinking on a scope wider than my immediate surroundings; my ‘survival’ if you will. I’d say that was exciting (it is!) but it’s a lot like washing a car around here on a sunny day. As soon as you do, it rains.
The point is, despite all the weirdness, and even the possibility of additional cycles, there is finally a glimmer of light in the darkness.
Now we just wait to see if it’s the end of the tunnel or the oncoming train. Laugh!!
Cheers all, and thank you for your patience.
Patric
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Going sledding
Once again, I am remiss in my duties and failed to update this thing in a timely manner.
Feel free to kick my ass.
Since we last met, the government let me down, which was a surprise that shouldnt have been, I learned the medical profession is very much like the U.S. government, in that it’s a self serving juggernaut supporting itself at the expense of the people it’s supposed to be helping, that good people get caught on both sides of that fence, and that the latest cat scan suggests I get the last two chemo treatments after all.
Whee....
It’s like sledding down a hill, knowing there’s a lot of big trees at the bottom.
Splat.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Best Laid Plans
Originally, I was going to comment about dreading this next round of chemo. My seventh.
I got sidetracked, I procrastinated, and too soon, time was up.
Certainly chemo isnt fun, and dont look forward to it, but this time I was actively dreading it. Given that I still havent healed from the last cycle, I had good reason, I think. :)
So off I go to get poisoned yet again, thinking along the way that this is nuts! The CAT scan showed that some of the lymph nodes were still enlarged. Okay. I can handle that, but John did say in an earlier phone conversation (Have I mentioned lately I love that guy? He calls, and calls back!) that there was a possibility that the enlargements could be essentially scar tissue.
So I’m thinking if it is, chemo isnt gonna do a damn thing except tear me down further, and if I had thought of it sooner, I’d have suggested doing the marrow biopsy now instead of after the last two treatments. Figured it was too late since I was already at the door, and quite forgot the end of my earlier conversation with John....
Never mind that I was particularly morose that day, having gotten bad news from SSD (Denied, the weebles) but I did tell John I was done with it, that I didnt want to play anymore, and eventually, after John’s gentle coaxing, that I’d think about it.
So when he asked me today if we were still going to do the chemo, meaning had I made up my mind, I was startled, because in my head I was only just then thinking about escaping. (Stupid chemo brain) :)
Point is, the guy put up with me, again.
When he came into the little room and sat down, I still had it in my head I’d have to do seven, and maybe escape eight at least, so when he offered to skip both, I sat up straight, and at the risk of sounding like a cliche, the world looked a bit brighter.
Yeah, okay, a helluva LOT brighter. :)
I’ve been told I’m pessimistic. Perhaps that’s true, although I prefer to think of it as pragmatic. The moniker doesnt really matter. What does is that I’m not going to ignore the probabilities as I understand them just to grab at possibilities.
Cant afford it, really. Hope is such a fragile flower, is it not?
So here’s the deal in a nutshell: On Thursday, the day after tomorrow, I go in for a bone marrow biopsy. That’s the big needle sucking blood out of my hip bone. Yikes! Would have done it today but the practitioner left early, twenty minutes prior when she threw out her back. Double Yikes! (Proof enough when I told John that if there was any way the universe could kick me, it would, and yeah, I was really *excited* to get the biopsy done ASAP, despite the needle.
So... If the results of that test are clear, it means the lumps are scars and I’m a done deal. I go on what John calls surveillance. Presumably periodic testing to see if the cancer comes back. (Remember that this type has a *history* of coming back. Please keep that in mind to avoid crushing that fragile flower I mentioned, just in case.) :)
If the results are not clear, then we start proceedings for a marrow transplant (Autologous, not donor) I’m assuming there’ll be some sort of recovery period between now and then. It’s a hairy assed procedure from what I’ve read.
Either way, whatever happens next, one thing is crystal clear:
I am DONE with the effing chemo, and right now, with a crash pending (I can feel my arms getting heavy) i still feel like it’s a snow day from school and I am high as a kite, sans drugs.
Whoo hoo!
The Lost Ones
Victor J. Banis
There is this to be said about being old, about living in a nursing home: Every night is the end of a day just like the last. Every morning is the beginning of a day like the one before. Trevor Harding woke up wondering why. Why, he wondered, why bother opening one’s eyes, to see exactly what you saw every other time?
In the daytime, what he saw was a room nearly as Spartan as a monk’s cell—night table, one hard wooden chair, like something from a turn-of-the-century kitchen, an open door giving a glimpse of a toilet that gurgled endlessly, another door to a corridor wall of bilious green, bare of any decoration. From down to the left, he could sometimes hear the nurses at their station, talking, but they were like voices from out of time. He only saw them passing by, or when they came into his room.
His bed was situated so that he could see out the window, but the view had long since ceased to excite his interest. The lawn, hardly greener than the nurses’ corridor, plodded its way down the hillside to the highway, sidling sullenl
y about a mossy sundial, evading a flagstone walk, pretending not to see a flaming bush of azaleas, and finally coming to a halt at its border of prickly shrubs.
And at night, nothing but the rectangle of light from the corridor, and a smaller, dimmer rectangle that was the window. None of it ever varied, and it was hardly worth opening one’s eyes for.
Only when he did, finally, open his eyes, what he saw was different from the ordinary. As a usual thing, the room was empty. It was the middle of the night; he knew that without even bothering to look at his pocket watch. And unless he happened to catch one of the nurses doing her rounds, there was hardly likely to be anyone there.
Even at visiting times, there was no one there. Who would come to see him? He had no relatives anymore—none that counted, anyway. A cousin or three, none of whom were close enough, in any sense, to want to visit him. He was ninety-one. Most of his friends, and there hadn’t been many of them for a long time, had already passed on So, it was the occasional nurse, or, more often, an empty room.
Only this time, the room wasn’t empty, and it wasn’t a nurse on her rounds. When he opened his eyes, he saw a young man seated in the hard wooden chair next to the bed. Seeing Trevor’s eyes open, the young man smiled, a warm, friendly smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Harding,” he said.
“Is it? Morning?” Trevor glanced toward the window, but it was dark.
“Technically, yes. Not getting up morning, I’m afraid, but morning. It’s a bit after four, I would say.”
Trevor’s pocket watch was on the table by the bed, but he made no effort to reach for it. Four sounded about right. Only…
“Well, what in thunderation are you doing here at four in the morning? And you’re not a nurse. At least, you aren’t dressed like one.”