I was at that point where sleep was the next logical step. The cats had been batted off my chest-to take up residence by my head-my hand was on the light switch when....my phone rang. I'd forgotten I was "on call" and it was "the service" (I'm sure it had a corporate name but I'd never heard it.) and I was needed for something somewhere, doubtless the most distant place from me that I ever went, it's always like that at this hour. It's also the hour when I want to fuck myself for becoming a Neurosurgeon; Anyone at any hour can find a doctor for a cold, flu, hell, Bubonic Plague, but Neurosurgeons are a rarer group and it was my night to "cover". There was a standard way I answered-"where and what?"-that covered most situations but this time it did not.
Cooper's voice said, "Up, in ten." There was no question that he was not referring to my dick, although I could have done that in far less than "ten" so, having interned with him twenty years earlier, what this meant was that he would pick me up in ten to go do something, probably something important. Had it not been important, he would have parked on the driveway, let himself in, fixed a drink and then wandered about to see if I was home. If "no" he'd graze on the groceries in the reefer until he found something edible, grab a fork, open the container and eat whatever it was. When you spend a lot of time in surgery-he was Orthopaedics-you quickly learn that lack of nourishment could cause difficulties but that one's time to eat, much less find something to eat, had to be a choreographed chore to be done in minimum time leaving enough time to eat it, even if choking it down was more to the point. Also, if you were clever, you'd had your taste buds altered so whatever it was didn't gag you even if there were suggestions on it-growing a green section-maybe this was inedible. Nothing is inedible to a surgeon. Nothing.
Over time you learn what to put on that you can quickly take off and put on scrubs; Arriving nude would be the easiest but so many hospital had the equivalent of network "practices and standards" that showing up at least covered was the accepted mode. The easy part here, en route to my front door, was to reverse the order I'd undressed and collect from the floor what had been dropped there on my way to bed. So....the drill was....socks, shorts, T shirt and Crocs. No thought was given to colour or style. The shorts would have a pager and a cell phone as well as a billfold-only occasionally with money-but always with ID's of various sorts, cards that opened doors, a credit card, driver's license, miniaturized copy of my license to practice medicine and knife made from some sort of polyplastic that folded into the shape of another credit card.
Two minutes later I was outside waiting for Coop to round the corner and do his version of the "Tokyo Drift", pause, and allow just time enough for me to insert myself-the door could be grappled with and closed as he casually picked up four gears and we blew through the stop light at 80; A Porsche is a very fast car. Years of this sort of thing had made conversation unnecessary in that wherever we were going, what ever we were going to do would be instantly apparent, obvious when we got there. Had I given a shit, I would have noticed that he was over dressed in that he had on long pants and a long sleeved shirt albeit one in which he'd lately been painting the interior of his garage.
I'm tall-as is he which makes his purchase of that car a puzzlement-so the time between there and where we were going was given over to trying to avoid putting a charley horse in my thighs and making sure his fighter plane style straps were on so that when we had an accident, that was certainly part of his future and possibly mine, there was some chance, minimal, of survival. All that done, I went to sleep for two reasons, I needed to sleep and it's well known if you're relaxed going into a crash, your possibilities of survival are better. Not great, better.
The flashing lights woke me but, as I might not have expected, we weren't on a freeway with a truly horrible wreck-involving six vehicles and an eighteen wheeler hauling sheep-but rather in quiet suburbia in front of Jay's home.
"Got your ID?"-it was a rhetorical question.
"Okay, find Carter and lets go in."
Carter was from major crimes and was as much a fixture at the emergency room as drunks, persons with strange knife wounds, crying children....Carter was at the front door and pushed it open for us while some dick head newbie cop tried to "do it by the book" and keep us out. Carter stuck out a long arm and pushed him into a bush then turned to us saying only, "It ain't good guys".
It wasn't. Apart from Carter an another officer whom I vaguely recognized from other situations that were not good, the house was quiet, only a few lights were on with the exception of the dining room which was lit so brightly it was almost hard, for a second or two, to recognize what you were looking at.
It was Jay, naked, dead, sitting at the head of his dining room table, slumped over with his face in a plate of spaghetti and meat balls.There was a long drool of coagulated blood that ran from the chair to the floor but no apparent reason for his death. Closer. He had a scalpel in one hand and the meat balls had been his balls before he cut them off and, apparently, had partially eaten one.
Another day, another time at my home. Per usual I'm in bed trying to absorb a scholarly article that, for no good reason, I felt compelled to read.Why did Jay always slam doors? Why did Jay always bounce up the stairs much like Greyhound chasing an electric rabbit? Why was Jay so boyishly handsome? Why did Jay feel compelled to keep himself in perfect condition only to waste time running marathons? Why did Jay always shed his clothing on his way to the bed, throw himself on top of me then stick his tongue in my mouth which, when withdrawn, was then wearing my half glasses? Why did I love Jay?
On those nights when he found it easier to go to my place than his, that was the standard procedure. It wasn't every night but many of them and-you will have guessed this-he was my lover so catching me outside an operating theatre and seemingly not involved with anything of importance was a signal moment for him and time spent on the formalities, such as foreplay, were ignored. He could rip off my covers, grab my cock, position himself so each had access to the other's semen sprayer, and start the 69. I always knew his tongue, even in pitch darkness, as it was the only doctor I knew who had a pierced one with a ball in the center. Jay said this was to make himself more "with it" to his patients, or at least his patients owners who were young, "hip" and came with their own set of external-and some internal-metal. Being a Veterinarian did have some advantages, you could avoid a lot of tedious medical protocol such as how one dressed, how one was addressed, shit like that. For my personal wishes, I wished that often he'd come straight from doing a check on his overnight patients at his office during which he'd played with them, he'd have paused for a shower. I have never, ever even considered bestiality but Jay could smell like a beast and, I must add, fuck like one as well. Which beast depended on the day and what had showed up at his place.
Needless to say, he was enormously popular and had a practice that consisted of mainly the wealthy whose money he used to care for animals he found, that were brought to him, that he placed with people or families....and, confusing me with one of his patients, would occasionally forget and scratch me behind my ears. Apparently his observations of animals fucking had served as an inspiration for that's how I got fucked; There was no half way, I was bred every single time and, if I was not buckled and drooling from my mouth, ass and cock, could "mount" him. (Some how "mount" when used in conjunction with Jay and sex seems the only possible term; I'm quite certain that's how he thought of me, another animal of a species he really, really, liked, turned him on, made him know that I was there to be, well, mounted.....)
He was an impossible lover in every possible way but when he opened his eyes, surrounded by lashes with which you could paint walls, you forgot he smelled of the kennel or shampoo used to rid something of lice or his odd ball ways of doing practically everything; He was the only person I knew who routinely rode a motorcycle (Ducati 900) and carried with him a mountain bike. Or, alternately, something so light weight it was used in racing. On a few occasions he'd used my circular stair case to practice some sort of hopping maneuver with the mountain bike that, I was told, one used to transit from one rock to another.
He also liked to play with himself using tools of his trade but his favourites were knives. In addition to the obvious orb in his mouth, he all sorts of decorations starting at the ho hum tattoos through extensive genital piercing to a type of cutting to make a design and, finally, a very large brand on his butt. (I was told he and some"buddies" played as if they were cattle being taken into a herd and, therefore, needed to be branded. Perhaps correctly, I'd not been told about this activity in advance so when he showed up-limping, it would seem riding his bike on a newly branded butt is painful. [ I was not sympathetic]. As I was to be told, and shown simultaneously, his brand- on top of a curve which, in cattle terms meant he was from the "Rockin' J" ranch. He'd made this brand himself and, worse, had made one for me just like his; Regrettably in this instance we shared the same first initial, J for Jay and J for Jim.He offered to heat up the barbecue and bestow upon me a gift straight from his heart or, more accurately, the forge. Need I say my personal brand, as well as my ass, remained virginal in so far as branding was concerned. Whenever I was at his house they were both there, like crossed swords on display, one charred and one unused.)
Perhaps unfortunately my work was demanding and took an abstract amount of my time. Although he did not "officially" live with me, only rarely did I come home to not find him in my bed, in the library, in the kitchen. On occasion I did visit him but...probably to be closer to nature, it's an explanation I cling to, he and several other lovers of animals and nature in general had built their own suburb called, what else?, "Green Acres". It was at considerable distance from anything including his office but that, too, had a down side; if he had a "patient" who he thought needed more attention, he'd bring it with him. Sick animals are not as cute when they're vomiting or have little or no control over their bowels. I liked wall to wall carpeting which doesn't react well to the virulent stomach juices as they spewed forth. Eventually pegged wood floors were installed on ever surface save the staircase which, as mentioned, Jay ruined with his mountain bike. (He said the ripped carpeting-until I took it out-made a great challenge as it replicated the uneven surface of rock.) Did I mention how much I loved him? I meant to.
His waist length hair, in variably in a pony tail-save in surgery when his nurse put it in a braid and stuffed it under his surgery cap-always swung in indeterminate ways, separating, coming together and, you might as well know, used to whip my back. Yes, pain was a small part of our relationship, or smaller for me than for him. There were so many freckles that someone thought he was an albino black man. So many care about what's in a mans "Package"; Let me quote and ad from some years ago-even though I cannot remember the product-"round and firm and fully packed. My height, as is typical of surgeons who have to deal with heavy patients, very strong arms-he could and did pick me up once holding me by my ankles, turning me and sucking my cock; It's a strange experience, the blood rushing to my head, the cum rushing to my dick, very strange. But that was Jay in many ways, strange.
His obsession with his body and how to change it moved from being a sort of faddish activity to a full blown obsession. Too many nights I would come home, turn on the lights in my room and find the bed scattered in blood. Not drips, no signs of major suppuration but clearly, someone had bled. The next stop was the bathroom where Jay was cleaning himself, all enthused about this latest thing he'd found to do. The end of that came when he read on article on the "Crocodile Ceremony" in New Guinea where men had there backs nicked with sharp objects and then kept open until they healed in bumps emulating the skin of a Croc. He couldn't reach his back and so I was called in to perform this ritual. That was the first time my anger at what he was doing to himself boiled over and I threw him out. Not forever, just for then-he miscalculated an unknowable, my surgical schedule that day had been hell and I was in no mood for anything that involved more than my shower, my bed, darkness and, if he were there, his ass which I would have pounded to rid my own demons. When I found demonology had beat me to the punch, it was too much. Of course, a few days later, as repentant as a puppy who has just shit on all the Christmas Presents, he appeared, head down, handcuffed and with a gift certificate in his mouth; It was for a washing and grooming at his office......(Which I accepted. Having a leash on my neck attached to a pole so I wouldn't try and lay down, made to stand on all fours in a tub of water while he took a sprayer and soap had a certain pleasure to it; Never have my genitals been as clean-or as drained. I had, however, not fully thought through the grooming part.When I heard the clippers words were said that weren't in anyway medical. The result? Lets just say I now know why sheep bleat when their sheared.
What he dismissed, or never realized was that my surgical career meant a lot to me and not in terms of money. I was fascinated with and by it.Each case brought something from which I learned and, as time passed, I became more and more involved if only because my case load increased. My sort of surgery is only done on a referral basis and when that happens, it means it's serious, very hard to turn down particularly when the Doctor doing the referring was a friend and they not only referred but tossed in a bit of social history, usually including a bit of damage that would allow me to right a wrongs; I should have let Jay take me to his favourite tattoo parlour and had SUCKER inked in 90 point type on my back and, for the sake of the blind, in Braille on my ass...
What all this meant was that I was less and less at home and more and more bunking in with the on call residents at one of two or three hospitals. Jay understood, sort of, but he was restive and when I was home-and not so exhausted that my eyes were crossed-our sexing was more aggressive, more uncontrolled, painful. Once he had a knife, it was in play, that he met me with at my door and pretended to be a thief who walked me upstairs, traded the knife for my gun, and made me strip. To mark the occasion, he took a scalpel and knicked both of my nipples and sliced his initial, the rockin' J, on my chest.Nothing deep, I've seen worse paper cuts but it seemed to signal a change in him.
His practice was disregarded, he brought in a freshly minted Vet to first assist him and then effectively run the practice. He developed a new set of friends who found his tastes to be their tastes and, the final straw, I came home t find him naked, hanging from a hook in my foyer, the floor covered with artists' canvass his blood dripping from his fingers a nautilus shape being made as he circled and his body finally stopped. He'd passed out but there was some of his group who, careful not to spoil this work of art, got him down and I examined him, tried to calculate how much blood loss there had been, threw them out and carried him upstairs, his Magnus Opus still in the foyer. That was the night I fucked him until my penis bled from the corona and there were little tears in his rectum which were bleeding. Still furious, I forced my cock into his mouth and made him eat me, his blood and my semen. After I'd made sure his wounds were in no way threatening, I spread eagled him on my bed, took out my scalpels and suggested I'd play numbly peg until I cut off one or both balls; Sleeping with someone who is tied as described is difficult but my anger was such that I did it.
For whatever reason, the next day was Sunday and, after I let him up, showered with him, I gave him a one minute lecture not about my anger but my fear. He fell on me, held me, wept, promised...and then had to go see the picture from the second floor. It was a long day, I made lunch, he ate it and me, he watched a game, I did paperwork and then insisted he go home as I had a long day in surgery tomorrow.
It was three days later that Cooper took me to his home to see his response to what he felt was my abandoning him.
Days passed. Good surgeon that I am, I showed up, did it, patched what I could, sympathized over what I could not and became the best surgical automaton in five statea. A patient came in, a former Marine, who was destined to be a quadriplegic and the only time I ever did this.....When people, men in particular, are maimed in certain ways, they cannot see that there may be a life. Leaning over my Marine I heard him whisper what many surgeons have heard, "Take me out Doc, I ain't no fucking good to nobody." Three days later in his room, after surgery, I shot him up and he died. I told him what I was going to do, watched him smile, thanked me and then closed his eyes. While clinically he was not moribund, his death was not unexpected and, of course, there was no suspicion on me; Doctors who'd been in surgery with me tried consolation by saying they knew how hard I'd tried to save this one....
Tonight I'm quiet and pensive, hung the blood portrait of Jay on my dining room wall, made my dinner, am going to sit down, naked, to my plate of spaghetti, cut off my balls, start to eat them and then, when enough blood has gone, I'll pass out into the plate.
I think Cooper will understand. But maybe not. Hey, Cooper, as you're reading this you'll know what I mean.