When we were done, 1 rushed to the front door. 1 still had a hard-on-my hard-ons remained for over a half an hour after 1 fucked when 1 was really turned on-but it was rude enough keeping him as long as he'd already had to wait. 1 noticed right away that he didn't seem impatient at all. He seemed in a great mood in fact, and when I looked down, I noticed the gummy wet spot near his crotch which he'd neglected to wipe off. 1 guess he felt if we were letting it all hang out, he could too. His name was Ting, and he became our regular delivery person. I later learned that Ting was a refugee who had been forced to flee his native land because he was a member of the Falun Gong. I got so used to seeing his face at the window as Monica took my dick in her mouth, it was almost as if we were having a menage a trois. We'd thought of inviting him in, but both of us agreed that the fun was in having someone looking at us. Anyway, Monica was afraid that, being a diminutive fellow, he'd probably have one of those skinny little cocks that she said look like dead mice. Needless to say, our problem with getting our take-out orders filled, in even the most inclement weather, was solved. We never went hungry again. We had blizzards, hurricanes, and even a tornado, but Ting was always there with our food, his beady eyes and flat impassive face pushed up against the window as I exploded my load into Monica's cunt, face, or ass.
Even though Monica couldn't bear the mention of General Shapiro's name, I often thought about the things he'd discussed with us. Shapiro had wanted to make it clear that modifying our behavior would not take anything away from us. In fact, it would increase our pleasures. And though we hadn't exactly followed his advice, I attributed our move to his sagacity. If we hadn't seen General Shapiro, we might have gone on fucking people out of their apartments; if it hadn't been a busted beam, it would have been a floorboard, or an overflowing bathtub (we couldn't get into the bathtub together without creating tempestuous currents and flooding-a man-made tropical storm that resulted in property damage that nearly rivaled the real thing). General Shapiro's advice made us look at our lives and take action. He was essentially saying shit orget off the pot. And we knew we had to get off the pot. But Shapiro was also trying to show us we didn't need to have such a narrow view of pleasure. There's fucking, and there are things like fucking when you don't explicitly fuck. Being in the arts world, I knew he was talking about sublimating sexuality into creative activities. But every time I said, "Let's do something like fucking, but not exactly fuck," Monica replied, "No… what're ya talking about?" By the time I started to explain that Shapiro wanted us to broaden our interests, Monica would already have my dick in her mouth-something that hastened the end of any conversation we might have had.
There's an old line from Freud, "Neurosis is reminiscence," which probably summarized the paralysis I was facing. I was stuck in repetitive behavior which derived from conflicts I'd always had with women. I didn't want to change anything in our lives, but I was troubled. One night after a particularly mindblowing fuck, in which I was thrusting with such ferocity as Monica cried out for more that I thought the end of my dick was going to come out of her ass, I found myself wandering in the neighborhood just as in the old days. For a moment I didn't know who I was or where. No one had ever bothered us in our industrial neighborhood, and at night the streets could be quite empty. On this occasion, I was confronted by two oversized gentlemen who called me a "punker" and started to punch me in the head. Seeing me staggering and disoriented after the fuck, the two bullies probably thought I was on something. Speaking of reminiscence, I had a feeling of deja vu.
"I'm not a punker. Punk has been dead for decades anyway," I cried as I fell to the pavement. My attacker showed his appreciation for the historical correction by kicking me in the head.
I was knocked unconscious as I had been that first night I met Bill. It was all just a weird coincidence. Once again, when I awakened I couldn't move my arm. I'd dislocated my shoulder. However, in terms of knowing what was going on, I was in better shape this time. I called Monica. Of course, on the way to the hospital in the ambulance, Monica insisted that sucking my dick would be the best way to alleviate the pain.
In the aftermath of a traumatic event, the victim tends to feel totally helpless. I was imprisoned by my sling and the mixture of pain and paralysis I faced whenever I tried to take the arm out. How would I mount Monica with my arm in this condition? How would she be able to climb on top of me? But all human beings are entrepreneurs at heart, and the ability of the individual to use invention to counteract adversity is almost endless. You have only to look at the ways in which humans have adapted to the exigencies of eccentric environmental and topographical challenges. Look at Mont St. Michel! Within the confines of the hospital, where I also recovered from a concussion and a broken finger, we came up with positions we had never tried before. My injury had unleashed the childlike propensity to play that lurks deep down inside all of us. Rather than bemoaning the loss of my arm, I actually began to enjoy the limitations that had been imposed on me by illness. Monica and I became deeply involved in toe sucking, which is also known as shrimping. At one point, as she stood over my face, looking down at me imperiously with stiletto heels, a leather bustier, and nothing else on, I actually thanked my assailant aloud. I was silenced from continuing with my encomium to his ability to maim when Monica took off her shoe and shoved her big toe into my mouth. She'd just gotten a pedicure, and the alcohol smell of nail polish mixing with the herring scent of pussy is an aroma I will always connect with room 810 in Central General Hospital.
How reticent we are to break the rigid routines which dominate our existence! Strange as it may seem, getting mugged opened my eyes up to some aspects of Monica I'd never seen before. Normally, I mounted her from her right side, so I got a good view of her right arm and shoulder. When it came to caressing, I paid more attention to her right breast because I was there first, and I used her right shoulder to catapult myself on top of her. Now with my left side immobilized, I had to start to mount her by pushing off with my right arm, thus favoring her left shoulder, arm, and breast. I'd never noticed it. Her left nipple was slightly larger then her right. Isn't it strange that you think you know a person, and it's only under conditions of great stress-like soldiers under fire-that you really come to know each other? The time I spent in Central General was a journey of discovery. In two days, Monica and I discovered what General Shapiro had been unsuccessfully trying to show us for months-that pleasure was an open door rather than a set of rigid rules. During my first day I was in great discomfort. There were a few times when Monica wanted to fuck that I couldn't rise to the occasion. I was in so much pain that I didn't even want a blowjob. Monica started to tell me stories to relax me and hopefully to lull me to sleep. The stories, of course, reflected her preoccupations. They were all about stud-like princes with enormous cocks, and horny maidens who wanted to get fucked in the ass by the stud-like prince and all his friends. There were romantic moonlight gangbangs on deserted beaches and tales of lonely beauties on windswept heaths with only their trusty stallions to blow At one point, as my eyes closed and Monica's tale spread itself out before my imagination, I felt myself starting to come without her even touching me. I look back on this as a white-light experience, a moment of spiritual enlightenment I wouldn't have had if it weren't for the brutal beating I took.