All I ever wanted was to be a good person. To be kind. To be compassionate. I wanted to help people. To cure them from illness and disease. But unfortunately I had neither the grades nor the money to get into medical school, so I turned to nursing. Even if I couldn't be a doctor, I would still be able to help people, to ease their pain, to relieve their discomfort.
It was a wise choice. A doctor really has no deep or lasting relationship with the patient. He does his job and is occasionally reachable by phone. A nurse, on the other hand, has a lasting and affectionate bond with the afflicted one. All in all, a much richer and more profound relationship.
Soon after getting my RN, I was fortunate enough to obtain a good position on the night shift of Kingston Memorial, one of the best hospitals in the city, specializing in cardiac care and Alzheimer's. Naturally most of my patients were in their golden years, but I have a great fondness for the elderly. They have a good deal of common sense and wisdom derived from having survived so many years on this perilous planet.
The only bad thing about my job was that I was on the night shift. That gave me little opportunity to have a normal sex life. Not that I had ever had a normal sex life. With all the studying for exams I had never really had the time for any copulative activity. Nor had I ever really had the talent for it, I suppose. Girls always found me something of a nerd, and I must confess that I was forced to take my sister to the high school prom, having been turned down even by Elspeth Kent, the fattest homeliest girl in the school, who also had a bad skin condition.
Fortunately, I had gotten a small scholarship to attend the Lemington Nursing Academy, which certainly did not include money to spend on romancing women. Taking girls to MacDonald's and the neighborhood multiplex was simply out of the question for me. The most I could afford was a few magazines, and I must admit that I relied on my left hand a good bit. (I am a southpaw.)
Well. One day, things would turn around for me, when my career was established. I would not be a virgin forever.
The interesting thing about the magazines was what seemed to arouse me was the male penis. Big, stiff, hard. Nothing like my little endowment. I found it very exciting to see those big penises going into those little pussyholes. It was so sexy that I would ejaculate the very moment I might open the magazine to a particularly enticing photo. I wondered if I might be gay, but did not really dwell upon the thought. What difference did it make if you were straight or gay when your romantic partner was a periodical?
I had some wonderful patients at Kingston whom I grew very fond of while they were recuperating from whatever illness or procedure they had endured, which had required them to be there.
My first and greatest friend was Colonel Marchand, a retired marine in his late fifties. We had long and interesting conversations about his military career when I was not too busy tending to the other patients on the floor.
Colonel Marchand was something of an insomniac, and not even the strongest sleep medication had any effect on him, so that long after the other patients were asleep he remained wide awake. Colonel Marchand was lean and rugged for a man of his age. He had thick black curly hair, just slightly streaked with gray. And he had a clear ruddy complexion. It seemed that he was very athletic, even now, which had caused him to break both of his arms and his left leg speeding off the edge of a closed and forbidden ski run.
Poor Colonel Marchand. It was impossible for him to even urinate by himself, and I had to hold the urinal for him and look away as he relieved himself. I know he was embarrassed as well. Sometimes, to make sure it all got into the receptacle I was even compelled to hold his penis. It was a very long penis. And thick even in a non-erect state. I could almost imagine him having posed for magazines in better days.
I told him all about nursing school, and the little rooming house near the hospital where I was residing, and about Mrs. Kennedy, the landlady, who cooked dinner for me every night before I left for the hospital. There, we would eat in the small kitchen. Myself, Mrs. Kennedy, and her unattractive daughter, Cecilia, who apparently was waiting for me to invite her out to MacDonald's and the local Cineplex on one of my days off. But that was not going to happen.
And Colonel Marchand described to me his many adventures in foreign lands. His experience in hand-to-hand combat in various wars, and his great success with the ladies all around the globe. He had at one time been married, but was now a widower with no children, which I think sorrowed him. But he laughingly assured me that married or not, he had always enjoyed playing the field. He seemed to have a free and easy view of sexuality, which was very educational to me, since I knew nothing about it at all.
Colonel Marchand was extremely distressed with his current disability. He hated not being able to do for himself. He hated having to depend on another person to help him, even if it was a 'nice young man' such as myself. Night after night we chatted while the other patients were asleep and he began to reveal his deepest feelings to me. He told me how much he missed having sex. He was, after all, a hot-blooded fit male who needed frequent release.
I did not reveal to him the fact that I was sexually naïve. I was afraid he would laugh at me and I would lose his friendship, which I was growing to depend on.
He must have taken a great liking to me, which was a new experience for me. No one had ever taken a great liking to me before. And I began to feel a certain affection for him as well. You can imagine how excited I was, when he told me that when he recovered he was going to take me on fabulous ski trips, and we would go deep sea diving, and spelunking (which I looked up in the dictionary and discovered was exploring caves) together. All things I had never dreamed of doing. I explained to him that I could never go, that I had to work for a living and could never afford such a life-style. But he told me not to worry, that he would take care of everything. That it would be wonderful to have a young person like me along as a companion. And that as a nurse, should he have another accident, I would be right there. I was beginning to dream about those future adventures with the handsome colonel, whom I was now a little in love with.
Yes. I now had to admit to myself that I found Colonel Marchand dashing and masterly. I longed for him to sweep me up in his strong arms as we tobogganed down an icy groove in the powdery snow.
You see, I had never really had a father, myself, being the fourth of eight children of a welfare mother. And none of us were 100% related. I was never really sure if my mother was a tramp or a whore. But I suspected both. My sister, Agnes (the one who had gone to the high school prom with me) was now taking drugs, hustling, and supporting a demanding pimp.
And all through my school years, I had never had a real friend. I was (yes, let me admit it) an outcast. So it was only natural that I was flattered and seduced by the nightly attention Colonel Marchand was paying to me. I wanted his friendship badly.
It was after about two weeks that the talk started to get even more personal. Mr. Fledgely, the other patient in room 552 had taken a sleeping pill hours earlier and was snoring away. Colonel Marchand rang the nurse's bell, and I came running.
"Yes?" I asked, peeking my head in at the door.
"I hate to disturb you," he apologized. "But I need to take a pee."
"Of course," I answered, getting the urinal.
"I hate to be such a bother," he said. "I'm so used to being independent."
"Well, you're in the hospital now and you're hurt, and you're under my care, and whatever I can do for you, I'll be more than happy to do," I avowed.
"Really?" he asked, and the look in his eye was a little funny, but I just dismissed it. I raised his hospital gown and placed the urinal under the tip of his penis.
"It feels like it might slip out. You'd better hold it," he warned me.
"Okay," I agreed and gently enclosed it in my hand holding it into the urinal.
"You have such nice soft hands," he told me.
"I do? Thank you," I said.
"Just like a woman's hands," he continued.
This made me a little embarrassed. I did not what to be thought of as effeminate.
"The way you hold it. It just feels so nice," he breathed. "Did you learn that in nursing school?"
"I guess," I said, not looking at him, half evading the question. I could feel the hot liquid rush through his fleshy tube and flood the plastic container. When he was finished, he asked me to shake his organ and squeeze it so that there would be no little drops left to soil his gown. I, of course, did as he requested.
"Oh. That feels so nice. Your hand feels so nice on my prick, Cooper. Just rub it a little."
