Contributor: Moxie Malone
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Poor Jerry.
It was difficult to watch him slowly deteriorate day after day. It's never easy seeing someone you care about suffer. Unable to do anything to ease the pain, you feel helpless, irrational and guilty. There were moments - fleeting moments - when it crossed my mind that maybe, just maybe I was somehow responsible. Hell, at the end, Jerry blamed me, but any rational person would know that it was ridiculous to fault me. To my knowledge, stepping on cracks never broke any mother's back and secret curses don't come to pass.
It's true, there were times when I was angry with wickedly cruel thoughts, but I would never act on them and certainly never tell him. I didn't really mean to cause any actual harm, which is not to suggest that it is possible to inflict pain with a simple thought. Obviously, it's just not possible.
Still, if he had just apologized, even once, I would have taken it all back - those thoughts, those vividly destructive images that played in my mind and the silly little rhymes that I would chant in my head. He hurt me and I lashed out in the only way I would. It was a defense mechanism from my childhood, I suppose - a harmless defense mechanism.
To be clear, I never once laid an angry or hurtful hand on him, which is more than I can say about Jerry. He was still under the affects of anesthesia the first time he smacked me. Although, that was not my first inkling that he had a temper.
I figured out pretty early on in our relationship that he was prone to flaring up in anger, quite unexpectedly. I still don't know what set him off that night when he threw my brand new laptop across the room, smashing it against the wall.
Of course, I didn't actually kick him in the balls for that; I just pictured myself doing it. Even now, I can almost feel the satisfying yield of his scrotum as my imaginary foot sunk deep into his imaginary nut sack. I would liken that satisfaction to the deliciously indescribable feeling you get when you press your fingers against those little plastic air pockets found in bubble wrap and they acquiesce with a final airy pop.
I felt badly for him when we had to take him to the doctor's office later that same week. He could hardly walk from the pain in his crotch. It came on quite suddenly and worsened over the next few days. The doctor couldn't find anything wrong with him and suggested that he had likely pulled a muscle in his groin. Perhaps he did that when he heaved my laptop across the room; secretly, I thought it served him right, if he had. Rest and aspirin were what the doctor ordered.
The laptop survived with only a small crack in the plastic case and Jerry seemed to get better for a little while.
He suffered a relapse a couple of weeks later right after a particularly aggressive fuck session. Jerry had a tendency, on occasion, to get rough during sex. I remember that time specifically, because he actually bit my shin, causing me to scream out in pain. It left an ugly purple-black bruise that lasted for months. He must have re-pulled that muscle too, because we had to make another trip to the doctor.
I found it mildly amusing when the doctor cupped his balls during the examination. It was not unlike what I pictured doing right after he bit me. Except, in my little mind-movie, I dug my nails into his flesh and squeezed until he cried like a little girl. I confess that it made me giggle. The truth is, it still does.
It was just a harmless fantasy - a tension reliever that allowed me to get past my anger. It worked, too; I forgave him for both the pain and the horrible mark he left on me. In time, the bruise faded and disappeared but not before turning a grisly shade of green. I'd say that it was about the same shade of green as the phlegm that Jerry started hacking up from the cough he developed. Damned cigarettes; he really needed to give those up.
At the doctor's suggestion, we bought Jerry a cane for walking; that muscle pull was really causing him a great deal of pain and wasn't showing any signs of improving.
I think the worst of it was the blow to his ego. Understandably, he felt a bit emasculated, though he would never say so. I knew that there were two things that Jerry was most proud of besides his intellect: his cock and his hands.
I suppose most men are fond of their organ, but Jerry took special pride in both the form and function of his penis. As for his hands, he was very fast on the keyboard and did a good deal of computer work - scripting, coding and the like. He once remarked that his greatest fear was to lose the use of his hands, presumably because it would affect his ability to work. I think he feared that if he lost the use of his hands, he would not be able to hold the love of his life - his cock.
He became difficult to be around while we waited for his groin injury to heal. He was always snapping at me and being generally mean spirited, grouchy and ungrateful. The more I did to help out and care for him, the nastier he became. He never even offered a simple, "thanks" for everything that I was doing to make him comfortable - to make his life easier. It wasn't expected, but neither was his miserable attitude.
Undoubtedly, it was a combination of the pain and his inability to have sex that made him so disagreeable. Oh, he tried repeatedly - the man had a nearly insatiable sexual appetite, but it always ended with him unable to cum or if he did manage to orgasm, he wound up doubled over in pain.
Frankly, the nastier he got, the less I wanted to be around him, let alone have sex with him, but I kept those thoughts to myself. Admittedly, I wasn't proud of the mean thoughts I was having at the time, especially in light of his condition. I really wish he had offered a simple "thank you" or an "I'm sorry." I can't say that it would have made him feel better, but I know I would have been in a more charitable mood.
His condition worsened and, once again, we returned to the doctor. This time, the doctor did find something and ordered tests. Somehow, Jerry had managed to get a double hernia that had gone undetected; surgery was scheduled. I knew there had to be a reasonable explanation for his ever-increasing pain.
That was the day that he smacked me - the day of his surgery. It was an out-patient procedure so he was still groggy from the general anesthesia when I was driving us home. To this day, I'm unclear what he thought I said or did that gave him cause to smack me. I was stopped at an intersection and just started to pull out when, out of nowhere, there was a jarring, stinging pain to my cheek. I swear my brain rattled in my head.
Reflexively, I stomped back onto the brakes as my mind ran scenarios to determine what happened: Accident. We were hit. No. I was hit. He hit me. That fucker just hit me.
Quickly, I moved from confusion to understanding and a flash of anger exploded inside of me. I couldn't even speak, which was probably for the best. I can still recall the picture that played over and over in my head as I stared at him in disbelief - the picture of slamming the offending hand in the car door again and again and again. It took me a couple of minutes to regain my composure so that I was able to drive.
I had to repeatedly remind myself that he was under the influence of the anesthesia and while he could be cranky at times, he had never struck me before that day. Even though it was out of character for him and it was an unusual circumstance, it was difficult to let go of the anger this time. I even made up a childish chant in my head; the kind that made me feel better when I was a young girl - when I fancied myself a powerful, good witch who could cast spells to defeat evil and banish monsters back to the sewers from whence they came.
Jerry, Jerry quite mean and scary;
There's something you should know:
'til you look in my eyes and apologize;
Your pain will grow and grow.
I think I silently repeated that silly chant in my head for weeks until I was able to move past the incident and forgive him.
Sadly, it took longer than expected for Jerry to recover from the surgery. The doctor was perplexed and commented that this was not a complicated procedure; Jerry should be further along than he was. He was given a different prescription of pain meds and reminded to refrain from heavy lifting or extended periods of standing.
The newest prescription was a stronger dosage than before and I remember noting a glazed, dull look in Jerry's dark brown eyes as he sat at that damned computer typing for hours on end - sometimes for eighteen hours a day - day after day. At least he was staying off of his feet.
It shouldn't have come as a surprise when he developed carpal tunnel syndrome; that much time spent on a keyboard was bound to cause problems in his hands. It also didn't come as a surprise that his already dismal mood spiraled ever-downward. That was when he started chasing the pain meds with vodka.
It was heart breaking to see someone so young fall apart right in front of my eyes. I worried that he was slowly killing himself as he swallowed more and more pain pills and drank larger quantities of vodka all while seated at the center of a cloud of thick, blue smoke that hung lazily around him from the cigarettes that he burned non-stop.
I blame that lethal cocktail combination on his inability to get an erection even with the aid of those little blue pills that his doctor prescribed. Jerry blamed me.
That was the gist of the argument the night that he grabbed hold of my arm and twisted it painfully behind my back, bending me to my knees. "This is your fault," he screamed at me as I tried to contort my body to relieve the agony that burned along my arm.
I knew it was the pills and booze talking, but that didn't change the lingering pain that seared up my arm every time I tried to move it. I no longer pictured terrible things happening to him; he was creating and living in his own hell that was worse than anything I could dream up. I did write another poem in my head that gave me comfort, though.
For every pain you inflict on me;
You will suffer it three times three.
I fear your "sorry" will come too late;
And, soon you can't even masturbate.
Gradually, as my pain subsided, I no longer needed the chant to feel better and returned to tending to Jerry who was now scheduled for another surgery. This time, it was on both of his hands. Though we never spoke of it, we were both painfully aware that he was teetering dangerously close to realizing his greatest fear.
You'd think that he would have shown some degree of gratitude for the extra effort it took to help him as he recovered from the surgery. I became his hands since his were wrapped in bandages and essentially useless. Jerry - being Jerry - not only showed a complete lack of appreciation, he acted as if he held me in contempt. The expression in his eyes said, "This is your fault."
He was supposed to keep the bandages on for three weeks at a minimum and not use his hands to allow them to heal properly. He lasted only a few days before he ripped off the bandages and stubbornly went back to the keyboard on his computer against the doctor's explicit orders.
There was no convincing him otherwise, either. I'd see him wince in pain as he stroked the keys then reach for his glass of vodka that was ever-present on his desktop. His typing was much slower than before - impeded by his unhealed hands and the affects of the pain pills and liquor.
I couldn't watch him self destruct any longer and took to staying in the bedroom. Rarely, did I hear any movement coming from the living room. He was becoming more of a fixture than a person sitting in the same spot all day long until the early morning hours. Oftentimes, he didn't even come to bed.
He started watching his extensive porn collection for hours at a stretch. Even with the door closed, I could hear the artificial moans and panting of plastic babes taking a pounding. "Yeah, baby, give it to me. Fuck me baby. Harder. Harder," echoed through the walls and invaded my dreams well into the wee hours of the morning.
Sometimes, from the doorway, I'd watch him sit there with his limp cock laying lifeless in his crippled hand as he starred blankly at the screen - a cigarette burning in the ashtray next to his glass of vodka. My heart ached at the sight, "Please stop," I whispered from the dark.
The last time that he hit me, I was sitting on the bed watching a movie. He charged in and whacked me on the back knocking the breath from me. I jumped up in a panic gasping for air as piss poured out of me. He'd managed to nail me in the kidney.
He recoiled in pain, grabbing his hand and ducked just as the lamp flew past his head followed by everything in a five foot radius of me. Oddly, I don't even remember picking up and throwing those things. I do recall the shocked look on his face as books, lamps, a bed tray, and various bed stand items flew through the air and bounced off the wall mere inches from his head; I think he was surprised at my reaction. I was surprised at my piss-poor aim.
He stayed away from me until he departed days later. I've not seen him since.
It's a shame we parted company under those circumstances. No apologies. No thank you for the good times. Just the sound of a door closing. I sent my silent wishes with him on his journey.
So, the time has come for you to go;
There's still something that you should know.
I send you love as you walk away;
May you get what you deserve each and every day.
Good bye, Jerry.
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Moxie Malone is a purveyor of dreams, fantasies and the occasional nightmare --
Purv for short. Usually sensual, often romantic, frequently erotic, sometimes humorous and nearly always offbeat aiming for provocative, the stories that she writes as well as the people, places and events found in them are pure fiction and nothing more - as far as you know.
