by Kit Smart
So although there are questions running through my mind, hand-in-hand with things I want to say, I wait. We have time.
I watch his hands clench around the buckle, then watch them unclench.
He looks at me directly. His eyes are intense as though he’s trying to see inside my skull. “I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier—in the parking lot.” He levels that me as though it’s the blade of a sword. “The truth is, I’m pretty embarrassed right now, and that was not the conversation that I wanted to be having with you about my cock.”
With that, he releases his seatbelt and, pushing open the door, maneuvers himself carefully out of the seat and onto the sidewalk in front of the emergency room. “I’ll see you inside.”
Well, I wasn’t expecting that. I blink rapidly several times to clear the surprise from my brain as I watch him walk slowly, and with some care, toward the entrance. He holds his coat in front of him as he walks.
I feel curiously leveled by his straight up honestly.
As I pull the Land Rover out of loading zone and head off in search of a parking space, I allow myself to dwell on the question that has been lurking in the back of my brain since he’d asked me to take him to the hospital. Who the hell would roofie Owen Bishop-MacQuoide with Viagra?
13
Seri
Inside of the emergency room, I find Owen in front of the admissions desk talking to the clerk. His eyes flick to me in acknowledgment, as I come to a halt beside him. After another exchange with the clerk, he is given a clipboard full of paperwork to complete and told to wait until his name is called.
I follow Owen to two chairs in the corner of the busy waiting room, and take a seat. I deliberately avoid noticing his discomfort—the restless way he moves his legs and shifts around in his chair. He doesn’t seem to want to address the matter, and I am pretty sure that this is not the time to push it.
In the interests of being polite and giving him a modicum of privacy, I inspect the waiting room in front of me as he begins to fill out the hospital paperwork. It’s late, and about three quarters of the chairs are occupied with the usual mixture of alcohol related incidents, childhood mishaps, and car accidents. Old outdated magazines litter side tables and there are a few children’s toys scattered here and there. I see a water-cooler in the corner and think about getting a drink but ultimately decide against it. Who knows when that cooler was last cleaned.
When there’s nothing left to stare at, I look over at Owen and find that he has stopped filling out the required paperwork. I wait a moment to see if he will resume but when he doesn’t I shift my body towards him. “Problem?”
He releases his breath. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to help me finish this.”
Although this worries me, I reach for the clipboard and pen without comment. If I were him I wouldn’t want to be ‘commented’ at at this point. It takes a moment for him to release the pen and his hand is cold under mine as I take it from him.
I’m torn between trusting that he is fine, and fearing that he is not telling me something important, and so, as I brace the clipboard in my lap, and take up the pen, I compromise by not looking at him directly as I ask ,as quietly and casually as I can, if he needs me to get the nurse.
“No.” He replies equally quiet but his tone is short.
Message received Chief. Over and out.
I look over the form, see that he’s managed to fill in all of the usual personal details and that the next section to be tackled is medical history.
“Are you currently taking any medications?” I read directly from the form. I am cringing slightly inside at the intimacy of the question, but there is no use prevaricating. If he can do this so can I.
There’s a slight, almost infinitesimal, pause, during which I watch his hands open and close on his thighs, and then with quiet deliberation he starts to list his medications.
By the time I’ve struggled my way through the spellings of the nine medications he’s given me, I’m struggling not to react in the way the compulsive movements of his hands tell me he is anticipating that I will react.
I am also, thanks to my psych degree, and my time working at Courage After Fire, getting some insight on some of his behavior. Indeed, I am starting to understand that some things that I had been assuming were aspects of his personality, are in fact, most likely, if not direct side effects of, then certainly influenced by, the slew of medications he is on.
I wonder if I should acknowledge the information, or just continue down the questions on the form as though I am not reacting to the information he’s just given me. From the movements of his hands, and the slightly shallow quality of his breathing, I sense his anxiety and his stress, but I’m not sure if that’s down to him waiting to see how I react; or if it’s down to him waiting to see if I will just continue with the questions.
“Tell me the truth here, you’ve just given this over—” I waggle the clipboard. “To avoid having to spell this stuff.” I decide to go with humor because it has never failed me.
That earns me a soft, startled laugh and his hands still on his thighs.
Relieved, I decide to continue with the questions; decide to avoid invading his privacy with any further discussion, and move my pen accordingly down to the next question only to find myself thwarted as I read it.
There will, apparently, be no avoiding of medical intimacies today.
“Do you suffer from any medical conditions or psychological conditions that are treating physician should know about?”
He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “I have PTSD, as you know.” He says with a touch of dryness that makes me cheer internally. Welcome back Chief. “And, I have burns — burn scars and skin grafts — along my torso, back and thighs which I do various therapies for.”
Dutifully, I record his answer. I saw the scars earlier in the evening, the ones on his chest at least, and so, I find that fairly easy not to react to. What kinds of therapy?
“I was burned.” He says as if he hasn’t already said this; as if I didn’t already see it; as if he wants me to know.
It worries me, this repetition and I shift to look at him—to see if he’s all right. He looks tight about the face, and his eyes are perhaps a touch too bright, but he’s still with me. No shock here.
I put it all together, the burns, the PTSD, the stress in his body and arrive at something that I should’ve thought of earlier. “Being here—it bothers you?”
“Yes.” He admits in his usual straightforward way. Good old no-excuses Bishop-MacQuoide. He offers me a rueful smile. “Not enough to go on some kind of psychotic rampage though, not to fear.”
That just about levels me. As open as he is—as matter-of-fact—it has never occurred to me that he may have internalized the judgments and misunderstandings and stereotypes that often occur around PTSD.
His eyes are watchful, the skin around them pulled taut in anticipation of my response as though he’s bracing himself for a blow.
“I know.” I tell him simply because all of the words are failing me, and am relieved as some of the hurt he has received elsewhere dissipates from his gaze.
Watching as he relaxes a degree; as something shifts in him in response, feels almost unbearably intimate, and I drop my eyes back down to the paperwork in my lap.
Sex is so much easier than this stuff.
Seri
Form completed and handed over to the nurse, we wait silently for someone medical to come and get us.
By now it’s quite late and Owen is slumping over a bit in his chair. At first, I resist but inevitably I also succumb to growing exhaustion and the inviting warmth of his body, and shift in my chair until my shoulder is resting against his.
Although, I am mostly confident that the medical staff understand the seriousness of the situation, I track their movements closely whenever the door leading to the exam and treatment area opens and closes as nurses come in and out to retrieve this patient and that patient and taking them ba
ck for treatment. Where is our nurse?
Finally, I am at that point; the point where I am close enough to sleep, that the barriers between appropriate civilized conversation and intimate personal conversation have faded to near nothingness, and I ask the question—one of the questions—that has on my mind for several hours now. Hell, we’re not going anywhere anytime soon and he could use a little distraction. “Why is it that you never showed any real sexual interest in me until tonight?”
Owen shifts his head so he can look me in the eye. “You never accidentally sent me a sexually explicit email before.”
Truth. I think about that for a moment. “So, you weren’t actually interested until the letter? That’s quite a reversal.” Not to mention all the flirting you did with me when we met. Let’s talk about mixed messages Chief.
He says evenly. “I was interested. I just never pursued it, because I didn’t really have anything worth offering you.” He shrugs slightly—one of those shrugs that is more of a hitch of the shoulders than an actual shrug—the kind meant to show that something doesn’t matter, but which actually betrays that it matters a great deal. “It’s not fair to stir up interest when you can’t deliver on it. The medications I’m on—I don’t function well without them, but they affect my ability to engage in sexual relations.”
He’s staring at me challengingly, so I say it. “You’re impotent.”
“Yes.”
Okay. “What changed your mind?”
He smiles wryly and looks down at his feet. “I got encouraged.” A quick glance up at me. “Your email — it made me think that maybe we could have a… one night stand or —” He hesitates slightly before continuing, and I see the smile morph into something more like a grimace. “Some sort of torrid affair of short duration.” He looks directly at me then holds my gaze. “I may be impotent, but I am excellent at oral sex.”
Bit smug there eh chief? “Arrogant bastard.” I make it teasing and jostle him lightly with my shoulder because I am not entirely comfortable with the intimate nature of this conversation. Can’t say I’m not intrigued though.
“If you have any complaints; I’ve yet to hear them.”
Despite my exhaustion and the complexity of our current situation, I feel my body warm with remembered arousal as I recall the events of the evening.
“I don’t have any complaints.” I tell him, and then because it’s the sort of thing one asks after a first sexual encounter with a new partner. “How was it for you?”
He tilts his head back and looks down at me through half open eyes in that way he often does when I’ve said something unexpected or puzzling.
I raise my eyebrows inquiringly in return. Turnabout is fair play.
“It was the most amazing night of my life.” He answers quietly.
Because I don’t want to dwell too much on that answer; on his tone; on the significance of it all, I imitate his posture, give him an arch look. “Challenge accepted.”
He blinks; flinches slightly, as though I’ve just slapped him across the face then reorganizes his legs in that way he does when he’s thinking or stalling or trying to buy time. Does he even know he does that?
“Challenge accepted?” He repeats softly, cautiously as though he’s not certain he’s heard me correctly.
It’s my turn to feel smug. “I can do better, much better.” I lean forward slightly and drop the tenor of my voice until it’s a deep almost inaudible purr. “Do you think I’m going to just let things go downhill from here?”
He looks stunned; stares at me for a long moment before looking back down. I let the silence play out between us because I don’t want to interrupt whatever is going on in that brain of his.
I watch as he traces an endless pattern on his thigh with his fingertip. Eventually, he tilts his head at me and his gaze is considering. “You want to—again, with me?” He asks quietly. “Even if I can’t —” the word seems to stick in his throat and he grimaces and then shuts his eyes briefly as he slides his hand up his thigh a little to indicate his erection.
“Oh yeah.” I force myself to ignore his pain and his uncertainty in favor of my own excitement about getting him in bed because it strikes me that he probably needs to hear it in my voice—that hearing my arousal is more important right now than hearing my compassion or sympathy.
When I see his lips curve into a shy, pleased smile, I know I’m right.
“Oh.” He murmurs deep in his throat, and I shiver with pleasure at the profound sound as it reverberates through my body. Something occurs to me suddenly. “I mean, if you want to?”
He opens his eyes. Warm and full of life. Pleasure. “I want to.” He tells me that same deep voice. He offers me his hand and, eager for the connection, I take it. My thumb—having a life of its own—immediately begins to stroke the soft, sensitive skin between his palm and forefinger which causes him to shiver.
“Can I ask you something?” I say after the shiver has run its course. “It’s quite personal.”
A slight reserve enters his gaze, but he doesn’t back away. “I can’t think of what you could possibly want to ask me that is more intimate than this.” He says wryly. “I think we’ve sort of already run the gamut here don’t you?”
That makes me hesitate slightly in turn, but I take courage from his open expression and relaxed posture. “What’s in it for you?”
“Ah.” He says softly and offers me a smile. “My problem is one of blood flow.d The nerves are fine—the sensation is still there—I just don’t get hard.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. “Before…before I was…injured, I didn’t know—didn’t realize, how much of desire is a mental thing.” Holding my gaze, he sucks in a breath and settles himself somehow, so that, when he continues, there are no more hesitations, no more false starts, and no more uncertainties. “I mean I kind of knew—but I didn’t really understand that sex is much more than penis in vagina intercourse; that orgasms can occur from other types of intimacies.” It is his turn to offer me an arch look; a teasing look. “I didn’t understand how things would shift in my body; or that I could experience pleasure and even release from non-genital forms of contact.” He pauses, lets me take that in before continuing. “I enjoy touching and being touched; being intimate; receiving and giving pleasure—sleeping with another person. That’s what’s in it for me.”
Throughout all of that, he never breaks eye contact, never flinches, never shows any sign of squeamishness and I find myself both in awe that he is able to be so unflinchingly open about his needs and desires; and intrigued by the possibility of figuring out how exactly things in his body have shifted.
I recall the movement of his hands on his chest, the gentle way he used his fingers on his nipples and the way the contact made him shift and suck in his breath as his arousal built. There’s a good place to start. “I look forward to exploring that.” I tell him honestly and have the pleasure of watching his eyes heat in response to my words.
We sit there for a long moment soaking in the sweetness of shared desire until reality, in the form of professional discipline, wiggles its way to the forefront of my thoughts. “Are you certain that you’ve been roofied with Viagra?” I gave his hand an apologetic squeeze for interrupting the moment. If we were other people with other jobs, I wouldn’t interrupt this moment for anything, but the idea that somebody deliberately spiked his drink with viagra is something that is of some concern.
I watch as some of the heat fades from his gaze and the overly serious expression that I know from working with him reappears. He squeezes my hand in return as he frowns. Perhaps we should make a habit of handholding. It would probably make things easier at work. All misunderstandings can be cleared up quickly and with efficacy.
“Although there is a small chance—a very small chance that my erection is the result of something else;” His hand tenses in mine as he pauses, “Given the medications I am on, it is extremely unlikely.” His face becomes unreadable.
“I can’t function without t
he medications.” He answers a question that I haven’t quite gotten to forming yet. Everything in his body language and tone tells me that he doesn’t want to talk about it, so I don’t take it up. After a moment I feel his hand relax under mine. “I’ve been here before. They had me on it for a while, before—after I was released from the hospital and they realized that the meds were interfering with sexual function.” He grimaces. “The results weren’t great —” A wryness enters his tone. “This isn’t my first time in hospital with a persistent erection.” To my surprise, he offers me a small smile. “It is my first time with company though.”
That surprises me. “But your partner—” I stop myself as I realize how tactless the question is. Asking after a partner’s exes is definitely in poor taste.
“My ex-fiancée.” He clarifies as though I’m not the rudest person on the planet for having asked. “She wasn’t great at hospitals, and I wasn’t very well at that point.” He continues with his usual unflinching honesty. “They were still figuring out my meds, and it was difficult for her to deal with me. I honestly wasn’t fit for human company, so I can’t really blame her.”
I consider this; think of him alone recovering from serious burns and PTSD; struggling with mind and mood altering drugs along with the side effects of Viagra. “I can.” I say with certainty. “I can blame her.”
“I was really cold.” He offers by way of an explanation with a smile that isn’t quite the smile. “As a corpse—a quintessential cold fish.” A slight shift in the chair. “Completely different to how I was before. I may as well have been a complete stranger to her.”
I think about that. I think about how it must’ve felt to be so cold; of how painful cold is when it gets into your bones.
“The hell of it all is that I thought, tonight I thought….” He breaks off, drops his gaze to our hands where they rest on the armrest between our chairs.
“You thought?” I prompt.
“I thought it was real, that maybe somehow—my cock was…” A long pause. “Working again.”
