Series Title: Perfectly Normal Hospital.
Chapter 3: Stoked to be here
Was that Brittney Fields?
Jake had a moment of stunning, ignorant clarity. On one hand he was stopped dead, frozen with confusion at something inherently, ludicrously wrong. Like a . . . jaywalker wearing stilts. On the other hand, there walked a woman that was so perfectly compelling, Jake’s cracked vision fused together like melting glass. He could see clearly now.
Was that Brittney Fields?
Jake had one of those . . . stand-out moments, where his mind was singularly focused and cleared of any barriers. Normally the mind shoots through life like a greased duck, but when Jake saw her walk by, the gears of the universe slowed as if chewing gum. The creature that stood up responding to Brittney, went through the works like it was being fed pink mozzarella.
It must have been only a second or two before she was swept out of the room. I know in my head it must have been just a few seconds. She got up and walked out the door. That was it. It shouldn’t have felt like ten gorgeous, decadent minutes of unbridled luxury.
That was Brittney Fields?
Fists balled tight at her sides, her back unnaturally straight – posture like a show-pony. A gymnasts breathing. Prominently arched, thrusting her her plump athletic tits up into a drum-tight shelf across her chest. Toned athletic tummy connected jeggings-slim pants with a low cut top. Jake’s consciousness stretched towards her with crazy erotic gravity.
Out of no where the world ‘spaghettification’ came to mind. It was something she would say. Most of Jake’s memories of Brittney were, “shushing” the class from behind an upturned finger.
That was Brittney Fields.
His body fought for conscious action, tossing together a collage of images from memory. Brittney wrecking through her school-work with slavish enthusiasm. A cavalcade of fucking jaw-droppingly bad-ass projects and presentations. She knew how to sauter, showing the class how she built her own computer. She turned in . . . edited video of her mathematical analysis of small unit tactics and how they appear in videogames like X-Com as her senior project. Jake had whipped his together in a panic the morning before.
It wasn’t a disaster! It just wasn’t very good. Brittney was a lanky, thin, genius white-girl from middle America that cursed kids in Japanese cause she was way into anime. She didn’t really hang out with the footballers.
The girl that walked by, the one that apparently responded to Brittney Fields, didn’t quite fit the description he remembered from last week. This one was like . . . I don’t know. Some kind of . . . jacked-up, hyper-erotic version of herself. Still clearly her, but not . . . her? Jake’s brain hurt. As if they couldn’t both occupy the same place at the same time.
It all fit together like a person should. Her waist wasn’t ‘waspy’. Her tits weren’t full and leaky. She wasn’t offering them to strangers with upturned nips, capped with tiny white droplets of horny sex juice to a dozen different guys ready to slurp at them. Brittney read book reports with more poise and public speaking skills than the drama students. She wasn’t fingering her clit on all-fours, she was tall and proud; carrying herself with a regal perseverance. Not at all like those cagey braindead sluts that always followed you around to games and getting into blowjob contests.
Brittney was different. Brittney was . . . Jake was pretty sure she just shoved a Pokemon Nintendo DS into her pocket before following the nurse out of the room. An all American bad-bitch that knew how to smile. Jake’s heart was pumping out of his chest, gawking like a horny ape.
That was Brittney Fields?
“Whoa, MILF alert.”
Jake was well past disgusted with Dad. Today was beyond the pale. I mean I can stand a little, after all, I was born into the embarrassment, molded by it.
He was no doubt referring to the leggy bimbo with long painted nails that had just swatted Brittney on the butt as she got up to leave. Her clean, well-fitting and recently-washed clothes – as well as the simple gold band on her ring-finger said: “I’m married”. The way she kept giggling and teetering in her seat like a drunken pirate said: “Fuck me harder!”
Presumably Brittney’s . . .
For some reason that sentence had been so easy to start. Jake had almost said “You must be Brittney’s—” outloud, but now that he thought about it, nothing seemed to fit. Oh hi, I’m friends with Brittney from school, you must be her . . . thirty year old porn-star?
“Watch this, I’m going to go talk to her.” Dad said, bragging to his own son about his mad game.
“Jake!” Hollered a second nurse in severely affected German. This one slightly taller than the last, with rosy cheeks and flouncy golden curls held professionally tight to the scalp. We both turned to look.
“Jake Planter?” She called again, her eyes scanning the room like a robotic owl. The nurse stood a towering six and a half feet tall spotted Jake’s meekly raised palm instantly, seizing upon it like prey. Her intensity in that moment of recognition, leapt fear into his heart.
Now . . . Jake had never been in better shape. The doctors said not to move around too much, but it’s sooooooo boring just sitting around at home in an empty house all day trying not to think about football. His fantasy team was doing great—which was awesome – but there wasn’t anything to do there. The busy teenage schedule of social media and jerking off filled much of the time, but still left large gaps of space.
Jake took to hitting the machines pretty hard. He beat his previous best on Monday, then again on Tuesday. On Wednesday he set a new goal and on Thursday he almost did it. Fresh muscle growled beneath his skin and boiling currents of hot blood flowed through his veins.
Still, this slender Aryan kill-bot of a woman was intimidating. She held a clipboard tight to her chest. Her hair done up in tidy ringlets that must have taken ages to pin together so precisely. Jake had to look up to meet her eyes, and she was so imposing in the way everything about her was perfect, it made him feel rather small and weak.
“Ah Jake, come. We are ready for you.” High cheek bones. Her glossy-white immaculate skin untouched by acne. Already Jake found himself standing, moving towards her unconsciously. So easy to just respond to people who naturally exude authority. Like a reflex, tap-tap-tapping at his knees with her voice.
“Cool, good luck kiddo.” Dad gently punched me on the shoulder, then turned back to his earlier conquest. “I’ll call your Mom to come pick you up in about an hour. You just have fun okay?”
“You’re not driving me home?”
“Hmmm? No . . .” Dad muttered, distracted.
“Where are you going to be?”
“Oh I’ll be here. Don’t worry I’m not leaving. I’ll see you when you’re done.” Dad started walking across the room towards the forty something, now with her panties hammocked around her ankles and tenderly mashing the fiercely buzzing handle of . . . something beneath her skirt.
Jake felt like he had to seize him, to knock Dad out of the way as if saving him from oncoming traffic or an exploding grenade. The spring in his feet returned, and the urge to rush forward crackled in his legs – already he could feel the surge of momentum. The way his muscles tense and the way the thinking would fall out of him as it did on the field. Automatic. Insatiable. He wanted to tackle him, anything to stop him from getting to that lovely tramp-
A hand clamped sternly around his wrist, freezing him in place.
“Please, here. You come with me. We ready for you.” The nurse stared down at him with cold deathly eyes, sinister and indifferent. They sparkled in the over-bright hospital lighting like a diamond necklace, their clear glassy edges gnashing together with him trapped in their center.
Her face was very eastern-european, insanely beautiful but also murderously autocratic. To her this room must be a conveyor belt and all the people in it, squirmy infants that needed to be sedated before processing. A bunch of whiny, uncooperative, self-destructive gremlins that either needed to be stitched back together or have their boo-boos kissed.
“Jake, don’t worry. I’ll be fine.” Dad was already settling into the newly vacant chair next to the moaning soccer mom, slithering up beside her like some kind of reptilian James Dean. He transformed into sensual Sauve-Dad and suddenly, rather than fearing infidelity, it dawned on Jake that Dad would most likely be spectacularly shot down. Jake could already see her eyes rolling behind those bug-eyed SoCal sunglasses.
“Heeeeeeeeyy . . . how you do’in’?”
Really Dad? Joey from Friends . . . you can do better than that. All too quickly, Dad receded as I was hauled away by the shoulder. A yank from the nurse trotted me a few feet away back towards the door and like a goat or a donkey, had to be yanked again for the last few feet.
“Jeez, okay. I’m coming.”
We dipped through the door as it whooshed shut behind us, sealing in the air like a jar lid. Inside looked . . . completely normal. A small common area with scales and a measuring post of some kind, medical diagrams and posters of the inside of people’s mouths. One or two of those Seeing-Eye charts with the big obvious letters above and a pyramid of shrinking letters near the bottom that are almost impossible to read. They passed by it quickly on their way to the scale, Jake only had time to make out the gigantic “F” at the top.
“My name is Reichel Schlaganfall. I am your nurse today.” She said her own name with such pride you would think it a title.
“Schlag . . .” Jake paused in the middle, not remembering the rest. Schlag n’ . . . Shlitz? Shultz? Something impossibly germanic. She helped him along, filling the rest in harmony with Jake’s prolonged ummmm. “Schlag—”
“—anfall.” She smiled, he got it!
“Now, You go over there. Shoes off.” The nurse intoned pointing at my chest like an authoritarian cave-woman with a Transylvanian peasant’s lisp. Her crisp white uniform gleamed in the heady florescent lighting. Even her pauses, when she would “ummm . . .” and “ahhhh . . .” trying to rearrange whatever slavic alphabet-soup made up her native language itself into English, were strangely endearing. Plus you could tell that she was pleased to see you were mostly Healthy Boy! with biiieeeg muscles. Ha ha ha.
She was still motioning for me to get on the scale. The usual song and dance nurses do before the doctor is actually ready to see you. So I hopped up and turned around, standing mostly still with my back against the wall in my socks. They make you take off your shoes for some reason.
“You can call me Reichel.” Jake’s mind busied on a helpful mnemonic devise. Reichel, like the third reich- Nooo . . .
“Hhmmm.” Reichel scrutinized her clipboard with the frenetic speed and efficiency of a humming bird. Her eyes flaring wide with interest at details I couldn’t see. She tapped at a metal bar behind me, the weights sagging down one end then the other. In the corner of my eye I could see it slowly settle on two hundred pounds and twenty pounds, about twenty pounds more than last week.
Which, you know, what can I say? it’s been a pretty good week—I’m recovering like crazy.
“Yeah, I’ve been working out a bit the last few days.” Jake managed to cough out, his voice fluctuating down an octave. The nurse smiled emphatically and scribbled something on the chart.
“I’ve put on a bit of muscle mass. That’s okay right? Like, that’s normal right? It’s not like, unhealthy or anything. Twenty pounds of muscle mass in one-week is super good for you if anything. Right?”
“Of course! Is normal, is natural. My family in Romania, we used to grow horses. Veerrrrry Big.” Trapping the clipboard under her arms she spread her hands if if to show what a big fish she caught. She stopped at about three feet apart, nodding thoughtfully. “Maaaany babies.”
“Awesome. Good, yeah. I’m telling you, I’m ready to go back to school. I am fuc—” Jake caught himself, practically blushing. As if he had been caught saying the N-word.
“—Frigging killing it lately. I’ve never felt better.” He knew about the moment in the lobby, when the veins in his mind grew so bloated and thick he had to count to ten before he could concentrate on anything else. He hadn’t forgotten.
Jake also knew he was starting to get pretty fucking shredded. It had always been a goal to get abs . . . but I mean, I’d given up on that. And it’s fine! My body type just doesn’t support a steely cage of casually visible abdominal muscles.
Until this last week at least. Then they just started popping out of nowhere. It’s pretty bad-ass. You know, to think I was worried about the side effects of those brain pills. The pill bottle warned of fatigue and muscle soreness with the same cautionous sobriety as cigarette packaging. He never felt better. Jake gave his biceps an experimental flex and Nurse Reichel cooed pleasantly, checking their firmness.
“Hmmm, yes.” Reichel eyed him appreciatively. He really was quite handsome. Bit of a lunk. Nurse Schlaganfall could only imagine how many dozens of eager girls he was fucking, probably hundreds. He would need to be tested before he left. “Okay now, shirt off.”
“Alright.” Jake said, more than happy to do a little showing off. It didn’t take long to pull the simple white t-shirt over his shoulders, it was all he could do not to smirk at back at the nurse’s coy smile.
A hacking, scratchy, awful cough that sounded like someone ripping a stack of papers down the middle, tore through the air from across the room. It was like somebody’s throat was a punching-bag for this thing. The kind of cough that shakes esophagus like an old burlap bag. Sneakers squeaked on the floor and two pale shaved legs kicked at the air in vain.
“Stop squirming!” A gruff old butch-nurse barked at Brittney, a matte magenta tongue depressor shoved half-way down her throat.
“Cagh—” Brittney slobbered, gagging noisily on the intruding appendage, the blood rushing to her cheeks.
Seeing Brittney there, choking slightly on whatever thing the meaty nurse was trying to force down her throat broke the spell of uncritical, complacent happiness that had settle like a foot of snow over Jake’s mind. “Is she okay?”
“Hmmm? Who?”
“That girl. That—”Jake could feel fingers slowly gliding up his sides. The tips of Reichel’s fingernails made his hair stand on end. “Girl over there.” Jake forgot to point, his eyes rolling up to the ceiling.
Jake had never felt breasts pushed right up against him before. The feeling was remarkable, the contours of her body mashed against his and so so bodily hot. The inside of her thigh snaked around his leg, gently grinding past. Nurse Schlaganfall shrugged, unconcerned.
“Oh . . . her.” Looking over her shoulder. “She’ll live.” With that she leaned in close, pressing her ear against Jake’s chest. So close Jake could smell the shampoo from her hair, the clean feminine sugar-fruit smell of a woman. She breathed deep, soaking in his flavour.
“Ummm . . . what’s going on here?”
“Shh! No make noise.” She pinched me! Actually . . . pinched me! With her thumb and forefinger, right beneath the sternum and it stung as if she had lit a match on my skin. It was all I could do not to squeal like a stuck pig and snapped my senses back to her.
“Listening to heart. Buboombuboom.” She thumped her chest, quickly nestling back in. “Is very loud. Good sign.” She made a note of it on her clipboard. “Very bieg sign.”
Jake closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. The rise and fall of his chest. The way the hospital was never truly silent. That all around them, they were immersed in muffled human sounds. A conversation, smoothed of all it’s detail from behind a door. The whirring of fans and the air conditioning blowing it’s hot tropical breeze. Jake was again in control of his life. Nothing would distract-
“Aaaaaaand out we go.” Across the hall Brittney’s nurse finally relented, fishing out a long grooved hose of pink plastic still dripping with mucus. Brittney hacked one or twice, spitting it out.
“See.” The tough old nurse scowled, examining the fuscia rod like a jeweler. “I’m telling you, its the same—Fourteen inches. Just like last time.” She pointed to the lines drawn onto the side, smudged red lipstick-rings marking previous attempts.
“NO! One more time—I can go deeper.” Brittney babbled with a desperation not her own. The nurse gave her a look that said, ‘I don’t have time for this bullcrap’ but Brittney dug in her heels. Literally, a second nurse holding her up from behind strained to keep her in place.
“Please, one more time. I can go deeper. I swear, one more time. I got it this time.” She pleaded with the nurse.
Sighing, and probably because deep down she knew the doctor was still several minutes away, the big nurse relented.
“Fine, last time. Nurse? More marker please.” The nurse holding Brittney up in an arm-bar released her, and hastily globbed on an other thick layer of lipstick. “Make sure you hold her up this time.”
“Fuck- you wanna hold her?”
“Alright, open up.” Brittney’s mouth sprung open as wide as she could and dove head-first at the instrument. She had no trouble sliding what seemed like an impossible number of lubricated plastic inches through her lips. It was strange and intoxicating, watching her eyes roll back in her head and listen as she made that weird gulping sound with mounting enthusiasm. Her hands dug wildly at the crotch of her tiny shorts. It was probably one of the hottest things he’d ever seen.
“132.” Reichel whispered in his ear.
“Yeah . . .” She was so right.
132 man, everything was alright. Every part of him was starting to feel pretty fucking great. 132 was . . . Jake searched his head for the remotest answer like a buggy bouncing harmlessly across the empty night of the moon. There was a lot of empty space to look and no real need for hurry. He felt languid and strong, like a cocky bull.
“Your blood pressure.” She squeezed a little black ball and a pouch wrapped around Jake’s arm synched uncomfortably as it filled with air. The bloated numbness in his extremity pricked him with a twinge of vertigo. Looking down, he felt strangely out of time. As if he couldn’t quite remember just how long he had been standing there, his arm a trunk of limp meat. 132 . . .
“Is that good?”
“It’s not bad. 132 is . . . ehhh . . . is not bad. For boy in your condition.” Reichel shrugged. She could have said anything. One million. Four. It was like asking for a hair cut, I don’t know what your numbers mean.
“I’m fine, I don’t . . . have a conditionnNNNN—” Jake’s yelped, his voice leaping upwards several octaves as Nurse Schlaganfall reached into his boxers.
“Your condition.” She said, smirking and gripping his cock. She swung in close with her hips, grinding needfully. Her strokes slow and powerful, molding him like clay.
“Exercise makes blood pressure reading go higher.” Emphasizing her point by gathering him up, raising him like a volcano.
“Plus, I take sample. Here.”
With her free hand she offered a clear plastic cup.
“You-u wahnt—” Jake was having a real hard time talking right now. Everything seemed rather incredible at the moment. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his face, all his expressions were going a little bit goofy. “wawnt me to -houf- uhhh. . . peeeee . . ?” He finally puffed out, leaning on the nurse’s shoulders like a hunchback Fonz.
“No no no.” The nurse gave a chide laugh. “No pee, only cum. You know like, big happy sex explosion. Yes?” She waxed him like a candle. Gentle, efficient, sensual. A professional that put her soul into the work. Dragging it out marvelously—her fingers alone could make dough leaven.
“I think I need like aaahhhh room—one of these—” Jake reached for the nearby door, still pinned—thrusting in place. The alien, waxy feeling of her oily latex gloves wringing him dry.
Forcing the cup into his hand, “NO! You cum now.”
There was really no stopping it. He could feel it, moments away. Jake staggered forward with one leg and the world stopped refreshing quite so fast. It took on a dizzy, watercolor look as it’s edges swirled together in a fractal mesh. Movement blurred lines and stillness held it’s place. The girl across the hall, her name no more than a foreign sound—like the ringing of a bell, emblazoned in radiant unblemished clarity as if outlined in light. She was looking right at me.
Every time the nurse squeezed, it was as if she were pushing oxygen straight into my brain. Blowing me up like a ridiculous frenzied balloon, ready to shoot around the room hollering. The furnace in his chest was a ablaze and the air his lungs sucked in to cool it down scorched like hot syrup, like throwing liquid hot jolly ranchers on the fire. Pleasure pounded inside my skull.
Yet the girl retained her shape. The valiantly restrained girl across the hall, stared at me—not making a sound – all the while slurping ferociously at the tongue depressor. It’s circular rubber seal bumping up against the bottom of her nose as she tried to pull in further in.
She was totally transfixed. Hypnotically sucking at it having already inch wormed up the length with her lips. Her eyes now facing forward and no longer dilated. She was looking right at me.
The first shot fired way over the cup and splattered on the floor a few feet away. Reichel snatched at Jake’s shaky hand, harshly correcting him and forcing the cup over the head of his dick. Jake could barely stand. A second gout spewed out of him, rushing into the cup like hot milk. Breathing cut back to exhale only. A third and fourth spout of boiling jizz rushed out of him and nothing, nothing, had ever felt so good. Jake felt vaguely proud that he was able to hold eye contact with Brittney the whole time.
“Theeeeeere we go. Good boy.” Still tugging him. “Verrrry good boy.”
It was at that moment, Jake noticed the cup was roughly the same size and shape of one of those red Solo cups. Ludicrously huge, and his small gluey pond at the bottom barely amounted to little more than a thin lumpy spread. Jake blinked at it slowly like a big, dumb, gradually more self-conscious animal.
“Oh holy shit.” He croaked. “You can uhhhh . . . stop now.”
“Hmmm.” She murmured, unconvinced.
Jake was no longer quite so fiercely hard and the hand that had been so heavenly was becoming corrupted with each passing moment. A sicking alcoholic wretchedness began to boil out of the corners, darkening like paper to a flame – eating up everything around it.
“Fuck me, you can stop now.” Despite himself Jake could feel himself stiffening, even as the pleasure turned grey. Could feel his cock rallying heroically, desperately to full mast. There was still something almost robotically good about the experience. As if his programming to cum continued independently, without the chaser of sugar sweet endorphins that normally accompanied orgasm. Nothing was left to conceal the hard-shot Bourbon of erotic release.
“I get sample.” The nurse repeated simply. Her smile didn’t feel quite so tender, her smile didn’t give a fuck.
This time as he came, Jake doubled over as pleasure and pain beat the shit out of him. Another flaming gout spewed out, boiling and ferocious. Jake tried not to squeal like a girl, and streaked the walls of the cup a few more times. It was like firing acid. Like channeling a flood of piranhas that bit and clawed at the walls on their way out, leaving angry wounds that wailed for more.
Jake could feel the slippery cloth shoulders of Nurse Schlaganfall’s uniform bunched up in his fists. She still worked at him below, humming some Swedish wedding song.
“Stop.” She continued.
“Sweet fucking Jesus lady, STOP.” Her humming soared louder. Rising like chant.
“I’m Fucking TAPPED BITCH, GET OFF ME!” Jake grappled with the sturdy woman beneath him, shoving her with manic strength in a furious attempt to dislodge her. She was planted like a fucking rock, immovable and mad. Milking him dry, pulling blood from the stone.
“Jesus fucking Christ, your center of gravity is so fucking—” Jake pivoted trying to throw her off—cords of new muscle heaving. Again, Jake could feel the pressure building up inside of him. There was no way he could still be this hard. His cock felt like a leaf of segmented bone—viciously scrubbed down by a tortuously soapy hand. Reichel’s humming reached an apex, she was sublime and cherry lipped as Jake fought helplessly above. Her stupid Swedish midwife’s dirge reverberating in the narrow clinic hallway.
Soon even standing was too much. The weight of his body was enormous and sank to the floor as helplessly as a boat into the ocean. His arms were lead lifeless stumps of dead meat that would have required suns to move. His nerves fired in all directions, but into blank space that none the less sizzled with contact. Pinned against the wall, an expert dick-milker pumping him for juice.
It felt better than good. Amazing. Terrifying fantastic agony blazed through his body knocking over mailboxes. The greatest, most potent, most insane lethal way-better-than-anything good time feeling shook his limp body like a naughty baby. They don’t words that feel this fucking good, if they did, they would be pronounced by indecipherable screaming. Jake came and came and came again, his body on fire.
Then I remember falling.
I have this image of the ground zooming up towards me and me thinking, “Oh, that’s peculiar.” in this serene sort of way. Not much after that though. My condition, after all.