Sunday 4th July 2010
One year ago.
My wounds are healing.
I’d never realised it until Friday, but my thumb ring – something that I bought overseas ten years ago, and have worn every day since – doubles as a weapon.
It probably works as a bottle opener too.
I’ve been applying paw paw cream and antiseptic lotion to my bruised, abraded skin. At least it gives us the chance to begin antibiotics for the ureaplasma. As ropable as I was when were told to use condoms for fourteen days, the state I’m in right now, I don’t know that I’ll even be healed by then.
I’ve told just about everyone I’ve met in the last forty-eight hours about the horros of Friday. I’ve got mileage out of this event. If my pain can cause someone else’s laughter, I’m all for it.
About half the guys that I’ve told have been horrified by the whole banned lube thing – like it’s an infringement on a man’s very civil rights. The other half don’t understand what all the fuss is about. One friend laughingly asked why I didn’t just resort to a rolled up T shirt, smiling like it was an in-joke, only to realise that he is the only person in the conversation who uses this method.
Seems I’m not the only one to keep my techniques to myself.
And it seems that I’m not so shy about being a wanker after all.
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