"I am not 80!" and other relevant topics

Okay, here is the 411 (or Wiki) on me. I worked through the night with Linda and Cheryl to do postcards: please leave your sanity on the coat rack by the door. Little buzzed, and on continuous, and purple. Got that too much work, sleep buzz. Oh yeah, have a fever: week 5.

I had a sort of New Year wish thing, which was that the Make a Wish Foundation would allow R/18 rated wishes. Then Linda and I could do the naughty on a tour of hot tubs which happened to be by all the people who read this blog. A visit with friends AND the naughty

– no not together, this isn’t the voyeur devo lesbian tour.

That reminds me, I had a new night worker, liked her. I like her, yet somehow, first topic was to ask, after letting her know she did NOT have to do any anal evacuations (the good news!) if, THEORETICALLY, they would be for or against assisting me move to different sexual positions?
Odd look from worker. Must have forgot something. Oh right, told her it was not just me, you know...with Linda in bed.
I stopped.

I realized I was being rude.

“Oh sorry, jumped in, um, did you know I'm lesbian? Cause I am.” Turns out she knew before she came. Okay, good. Wait? How is that? Is it on the staff bulletin board?

Her answer is no, will not assist sex positions. But she will give me a bit of boost when transferring. Oh well. I have no idea if there if going to be a complaint or if she is coming back. I kept going. Why is it once I start speaking the naughty, I just KEEP going?

I said it was unfair. Since a lot of workers have partners and they get home and want to snuggle, want to do a bit more. I have a partner, only I have a night worker to take over when partner is ready to sleep. Except while night workers gets to have sex, I am not supposed to BECAUSE night worker is there. I had missed the ‘nun’ clause in the care plan. She is listed as tasked for dressing and undressing, (see, she needs help undressing/dressing) and I have used care workers to help me with corsets before. But for strap-ons? No. Because I am disabled, because I am needing a proven pain relief and relaxation technique, I can’t because….I am being taken care of.

Worker has look like my face has opened up and there is a nest of snakes writhing around. I try to make it all better.

‘You know how you wake up horny sometimes?” I ask. The look of sort of fascinated horror while staying out of arms reach from worker intensifies. Best to keep going: “Me TOO! Oh yeah, I am disabled, I am dying but I am not dead yet, you know! I still get those nice erotic dreams and wake up ready. And it is: where is the book? Where is the fantasy and most important, where are the SEX TOYS! Vibrator ho!” Plushies confused, true, but no time to explain.
“And THEN!” I raise my hand to illustrate the frustration. The care worker jumps back a bit. I go on, “Then I am good and going and things are starting to, you know, the hips moving or I think they are moving, it feels like it inside my brain that feeling and that itch, going up, up, building and BAM. The phone rings: ‘BEEP BEEP’, ‘BEEP BEEP’ – the day care worker has arrived to be let in.”

“What am I supposed to do?” I ask plaintively, “Should I let them in but keep on going? Is that what they are going to walk in on while making sure I am not dead and on oxygen? I mean, they masturbate, care workers masturbate, and we masturbate, disabled women and you probably masturbate.” I try to make the night care worker feel included. Her round wide eyes show maybe that not best move ever.

“Or am I left with this……FRUSTRATION while offered…..grape juice…..a laxative?” Sigh. “My life. It is all run by the timing, the workers only….my orgasms do not follow Beacon Health Care timings, and a laxative and a orgasm is something altogether different” (please do not share story contesting that!)

This is turns out is not that way to convince the night worker I am intelligent and stable person to work for.

Earlier, another bed day, new worker comes in, I lean WAY back on pillows so they look upside down as my head is backwards, hair hanging down the back of the hospital bed. “I am a doctor!” I say, “I am really smart, honest!” Okay, not subtle, kind of like eight year old saying they are 8 and three quarters.

I can tell, even upside down, that clients who are sprawled all over a hospital bed claiming degrees are not to be believed. “Seriously, I am smart, you can ask me stuff, it is just I get seizures and can’t talk, or talk slow and so people think I am dumb or they treat me like I am 80 years old….. ‘time to have a rest, dear!’ I hate that!” I look the worker upside down in the eyes, “I am NOT 80 years old.”

Did I mention having a fever for a while?

I hope they come back.