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covid-safer-hotties · 3 months ago

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Long Covid activist Meighan Stone didn't want to take her mask off. After pressuring her multiple times, an ER nurse called security on her. This public health failure happened at Sibley Hospital in D.C. These incidents are happening on a regular basis now as mask bans and proposals spread from L.A. to New York. You're not going to hear much about it in the news. When you do, it's framed as a problem for the vulnerable, with blue fascists freely associating masks with crime and hate.

None of the handful of stories that discuss these mask bans mention that we're currently in the middle of a deep Covid surge, at a million cases a day. None of them talk about mask bans in the context of Long Covid in adults and children.

A widely cited study declaring "strikingly low" rates of Long Covid in children was recently retracted due to major flaws in methodology. The researchers who pushed for this retraction are heroes and champions of truth.

Is the media covering that?

Not really.

To their credit, Time did recently run a very important piece on Long Covid in children, focusing on a recent study published in JAMA.

Here's the highlight:

They estimated that 20% of the previously infected younger children and 14% of the previously infected adolescents met that threshold [for diagnosis]. Kids infected before the Omicron wave were especially likely to fall into the Long COVID category. Those numbers are higher than some previous estimates—for example, a recent U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention report concluded that only about 1% of U.S. kids had had Long COVID as of 2022. But other studies have come to similar conclusions, estimating that somewhere between 10% and 20% of kids who catch COVID-19 will develop long-term complications.

Media outlets like USA Today and NBC are also covering this study. For once, major news networks are devoting attention to something that deserves it. Of course, they're doing it after years of running stories blaming children's school performance and developmental delays on smartphones and lockdowns.

Earlier this year, The New York Times published a misleading, biased story on the "long-lasting" harm of school closures. And The Washington Post recently ran a story also blaming absences on everything except Long Covid and immune system damage. Even Education Week has run pieces attributing weak academic performance to school closures and stress, not the virus itself. It's like shooting fish in a barrel. Pick a magazine or newspaper and you'll find stories like these, but very few talking about the ongoing harm of exposing children and teenagers to Covid. The ones that do are almost always sitting behind a paywall.

Absence speaks louder than words, and not just about Covid.

In 2022, barely 1 percent of all corporate television focused on climate change. That was, in fact, a record high. A year later, it fell 25 percent. That was 2023, the year we surpassed 1.5C of warming for all practical purposes. It was the hottest year in recorded history, and also the worst year for climate disasters, costing us $600 billion in the U.S. alone. Entire countries shut down because it was too hot for work or school. All that, and the corporate media spent even less time talking about the problem. Meanwhile, one columnist after another published long screeds against doomers and fearmongers, insisting that we still had plenty of time to turn things around.

A compelling piece by Ryan Hagen breaks down the unsettling relationship between western news media and the fossil fuel industry. As he points out, internal reports from companies like Exxon celebrate their campaign to turn liberal news outlets like The New York Times in favor of their own industries, convincing the public they were working hard to shift toward renewable energy when the plan was always to use it like icing on top of a cake made out of coal.

Tireless work by Amy Westervelt has chronicled the impact of these campaigns. As her research shows, climate change has morphed from a topic that 80 percent of the public felt an urgency about to, now, a divisive issue and a point that most people would rather not talk about. On top of that, think tanks like the Atlas Network have made a major push to criminalize peaceful climate protests and turn public opinion against activists. A Yale study found that more than 60 percent of Americans hardly ever hear anything about climate change now.

And if you bring it up...

You're a doomer.

There has been a concerted effort across the internet to paint anyone who actually cares about the future as a deeply unhinged fearmonger. Meanwhile, social media giants like Meta have relentlessly censored information about Long Covid.

Have you noticed?

Nate Bear pulled the curtain back on how the media works roughly a year ago. As he puts it, "A lot of the stories you see in the headlines are the result of a PR agency. And depending on the news, the PR agent might not send out a release en-masse but “sell in” the story as an exclusive to just one outlet... Every day a proportion of all news you read starts at just a handful of these agencies."

PR firms are constantly wooing journalists, creating an atmosphere where conflict of interest is more of a feature than a bug.

Caitlin Johnstone did a thorough breakdown of mass media bias. Perhaps the most egregious example: MSNBC reporter Krystal Ball leveled blunt but accurate criticism of Hillary Clinton's 2016 campaign and correctly predicted that she would lose against Donald Trump because of all her neoliberal baggage. In response, the Clinton campaign threatened the entire network "not to provide any access during the upcoming campaign." The head of the network told Ball that she "could still say what I wanted, but I would have to get any Clinton-related commentary cleared with the president of the network."

So, she couldn't say whatever she wanted.

Right?

Johnstone cites a piece by Jeff Cohen in Salon that also outlines the peer pressure, groupthink, and careerism that dominates the newspapers, magazines, and mainstream news networks in the U.S.

As she further explains:

Journalists either learn how to do the kind of reporting that will advance their careers in the mass media, or they don’t learn and they either remain marginalized and unheard of or they get worn down and quit.

Christopher Hedges, who left The New York Times after a written reprimand for criticizing the Iraq War, has gone on to describe in disturbing detail how the U.S. media caters to the Israeli government, continually overlooking its war crimes. An outspoken critic of U.S. policy, Hedges has endured persecution for speaking the truth, including the cancellation of his news program for defending other writers and real journalists from charges of antisemitism.

Another outspoken critic, Mehdi Hasan, was dropped from MSNBC for speaking out over Palestine. As Sharon Zhang wrote after the decision, "Hasan has been one of the only news anchors on a major broadcast outlet speaking up against Israel's brutality." He was also one of the few news anchors who told the truth about Covid. As Hasan recently made clear in The Guardian, it's imperative for Democrats to take a stronger, pro-humanitarian stance on Gaza and break with Biden's approach, which has sparked outrage and disgust across the left.

Hasan makes a remarkable point in this column, looking to history for cues about how Democrats need to act to ensure history.

It's not vibes.

It's guts.

Nobody really remembers Hubert Humphrey, LBJ's vice president who lost the 1968 election to Richard Nixon by about a percentage point. It's a lesson worth talking about. Humphrey was losing badly because he couldn't stand up to his own party, the Democrats, who were actually very, very pro-Vietnam War. He managed to close the gap considerably in the 11th hour of the race, finally standing up to his own party and promising to end the war if he became president. Hasan wonders what would've happened if he had trusted his gut sooner.

Well, history gives us a few clues. After all, Nixon did end the war. In the decades since, the Vietnam War has gone down in history as one the biggest mistakes the U.S. ever made. Psychologists use it as a case study of entrapment in escalating conflicts. It's a touchstone used to rate our other failures.

Time and again, history tells us that doing the right thing actually serves political expedience far more than vibes.

Democrats could ensure a landslide victory if they would just take a clear stance on our biggest threats and challenges. They could be honest about Covid. They could stand up against mask bans. They could stand up against genocide. They could renew their promise to take on climate change.

We're not seeing that.

Instead, we see the same groupthink and indirect censorship that dominates the news media. It's not a surprise, given how entwined they've become.

Look at what's happening to Taylor Lorenz.

Outlets like The Washington Post and NPR, who pride themselves on their devotion to democracy and diversity, have assailed Lorenz for referring to Biden as "a war criminal" in a private social media post.

Here's the worst part of NPR's story:

Lorenz has also courted controversy, online, in print, and in real life. During the peak of the pandemic, and since its ebb, she has inspired mockery from conservatives over her insistence on wearing masks, even outdoors. She has cited autoimmune issues as the reason.

Look at the verbs here. Far from objective, they describe Lorenz as "insisting" on wearing a mask "even outdoors," and then frame her autoimmune issues not as a reality but as a reason, almost an excuse. For the record, multiple studies have shown that Covid spreads outdoors, especially at crowded events.

This is what writers and real journalists deal with as they try to do the right thing. It's disturbing to watch.

Both Jared Yates Sexton and Sarah Kendzior have expressed an ambivalent reluctance to get on board with the vibes as the DNC hosts their national convention. The kindest thing Sexton can say is that "It was a masterful feat of political theater" as organizers clambered to put down pro-Palestinian protests during speeches and tilted cameras away from violence and toward more soothing, therapeutic shots of Tim Walz with his family.

As Kendzior writes, "Today both the Democratic and Republican parties operate on cult logic, which means they sometimes have the same policies, but wrapped in different rhetoric--because cultists will abide anything so long as their leader is the one pushing it. Policies they would protest if they were carried out by the other side are suddenly deemed acceptable when pushed by their own."

The same goes for media coverage.

It's worth pointing out that Kamala Harris no longer supports a ban on fracking. She no longer supports a single-payer healthcare system, otherwise known as "Medicare for all" which would provide healthcare access to everyone. Her stance on border patrol and police funding have all shifted right. The media signs off on it, saying "Progressives said they’re disappointed but still support her as she works out the best strategy to defeat former President Donald Trump — even if it means leaving their cause behind."

But it's not just causes getting left behind.

It's human beings.

Is it simply a desire or a wish that nurses don't call security on us because we want to wear masks at an ER, like Meighan Stone? Do we have to leave our human rights behind so we can ensure our human rights?

Do we have to lay down our lives for vibes?

That's the current groupthink.

So there you have it.

The media doesn't report the truth. They spend about 1 percent of their time on things that actually matter. Politicians cater to an underinformed public, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy that leads to nurses calling security on immunocompromised patients for wearing a mask, while newspapers and networks fire real journalists for daring to do their jobs.

It's really something, isn't it?

It doesn't help when readers and viewers complain anytime someone salts their mood with the truth. In an era where free, independent content matters more than ever, it's also harder than ever to come by. How are content creators supposed to tell the truth or talk about things that matter when they're constantly being reprimanded, penalized, and punished every time they try?

We desperately need a free press, and we need a public that supports a free press and not silos of dueling echo chambers.

You get what you support.

It's that simple.

#covid #mask up #pandemic #covid 19 #wear a mask #coronavirus #sars cov 2 #still coviding #public health #wear a respirator

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clara-the-independent · 16 days ago

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Exclusive Interview with Ljudmila Vetrova- Inside Billionaire Nathaniel Thorne's Latest Venture

CLARA: I'm here with my friend Ljudmila Vetrova to talk about the newest venture of reclusive billionaire Nathaniel Thorne- GAMA. Ljudmila, could you let the readers in on the secret- what exactly is this mysterious project about?

LJUDMILA: Sure, Clara! As part of White City's regeneration programme, Nathaniel has teamed up with the Carlise Group to create a cutting-edge medical clinic like no other. Introducing GAMA– a private sanctuary for the discerning, offering not just top-notch medical care and luxurious amenities, but also treatments so innovative they push the envelope of medical science.

CLARA: Wow! Ljudmila, it sounds like GAMA is really taking a proactive approach to healthcare. But can you tell us a bit more about the cutting-edge technology behind this new clinic?

LJUDMILA: Of course! Now, GAMA is not just run by human professionals, it's also aided by an advanced AI system known as KAI – Kronstadt Artificial Intelligence. KAI is the guiding force behind every intricate detail of GAMA, handling everything from calling patients over the PA system to performing complex surgical procedures. Even the doors have a touch of ingenuity, with no keys required- as KAI simply detects the presence of an RFID chip embedded in the clothing of both patients and staff, allowing swift and secure access to the premises. With KAI at the helm, patients and staff alike benefit from streamlined care.

CLARA: A medical AI? That's incredible! I've heard much of the medical technology at GAMA was developed by Kronstadt Industries and the Ether Biotech Corporation, as a cross-disciplinary partnership to create life-saving technology. Is that true?

LJUDMILA: It sure is, Clara! During the COVID-19 pandemic, GAMA even had several departments dedicated to researching the virus, assisting in creating a vaccine with multiple companies. From doctors to nurses and administrative personnel, the team at GAMA is comprised of skilled individuals who are committed to providing the best care possible. All of the GAMA staff are highly educated with advanced degrees and have specialized training in their respective fields.

CLARA: Stunning! Speaking of the GAMA staff, rumors surrounding the hiring of doctors Pavel Frydel and Akane Akenawa have made headlines, with claims that they supposedly transplanted a liver infected with EHV, leading to the unfortunate demise of the patient shortly after. Such allegations might raise questions about the hospital's staff selection process and adherence to medical guidelines and ethical standards. Do you have any comment on these accusations, Ljudmila?

LJUDMILA: Er- well, Clara, the management of GAMA Hospital has vehemently denied all allegations of unethical practices and maintains that they uphold the highest standards of care for all patients. They state that they conduct thorough background checks on all staff members, including doctors, and that any individuals found to be involved in unethical practices are immediately removed from their position. The hospital has a strict code of ethics that all staff must adhere to, and any violations are taken very seriously. In response to the specific claims about the transplant procedure, GAMA states that they are investigating the matter in cooperation with the relevant authorities.

CLARA: Wonderful! I'm afraid that's all we have time for at the moment- lovely chatting with you again, Ljudmila!

@therealharrywatson @artofdeductionbysholmes @johnhwatsonblog

#newspaper #sherlock rp #bbc sherlock

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thebramblewood · 1 year ago

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Read an exclusive excerpt of "Chapter 5: The Mysterious Cal and Lily" from Tangled Vines: A Complete Investigation of the Vatore Disappearances, the bestselling phenomenon sweeping Sim Nation!

The advent of the Roaring '20s put a new city on the map. Prohibition was in full swing across the nation (though often loosely and selectively enforced), but citizens were more eager than ever to revel in excess. Producers of alcoholic beverages (including the Vatore family itself, having swiftly resumed business operations despite the loss of its future inheritors) transitioned to an outward emphasis on medical spirits while moving recreational production underground. Equally clandestine speakeasys began cropping up by the dozens, but one city's winding sidewalks, grimy storefronts, and labyrinthine system of underground tunnels made it particularly well-suited to hosting these secret locales. Soon enough, San Myshuno was the pinnacle of glitz, glamor, and elegant debauchery. All who attended a party wanted to be seen. Curiously, though, two of the names most often uncovered in tabloid archives, Cal and Lily, seemed to fully avoid the increasingly ubiquitous flash of the camera. While other frequenters of the speakeasy circuit often found their grainy black and white faces in print, providing endless fodder for the burgeoning gossip rag industry, this pair remained elusive, which of course sold even more papers. Fellow partygoers pitched first-hand accounts to the highest bidders, and readers clung onto every salacious word. Lily and Cal were always observed to arrive together, but she would soon make a beeline for the gramophone while he settled in at the bar. Nearly every report calls Lily an exquisite beauty with an almost supernatural ability for drawing men into her orbit. In some instances, partygoers describe a herd of suitors nearly erupting into fisticuffs as they competed for her attention. It is impossible to say how many of these accounts are exaggerated or even fabricated. Nevertheless, it is clear she was quite the force. At the end of the night, she would leave with her chosen companion, stupefied by his stroke of good luck, on her arm. Meanwhile, Cal would watch listlessly from a distance, nursing a glass of whiskey he was never observed to actually drink. The relationship between the two was unclear, as was his reason for accompanying her, as he seemed to have little interest in the raucousness surrounding him. He rarely engaged with other guests or even Lily herself, though there is at least one report of an argument in which he seemed with little success to be dissuading her from leaving with yet another man. One cannot help but draw parallels to a certain set of siblings with suspiciously similar names. Despite being younger, Caleb Vatore was always said to be protective over his sister Lilith's interests, even if she rarely heeded his advice. Digging into the newspaper archives at Myshuno Meadows Library unearths several more disturbing accounts. Increasingly, there were whispers that the men Lily seduced completely vanished from San Myshuno society after coming into contact with her. While there was a small spike in unsolved murder cases at the time, a concrete connection between the victims and the mysterious Lily cannot be made. In one story, which admittedly reads like a hallucinatory drug trip, Lily is described as a succubus with glowing red eyes and sharp blood-stained teeth. This account was clearly dismissed, for its revelations were never entertained further. All at once, the champagne and glitter dissolved into a more sober era, and these socialites vanished from public life just as swiftly. In isolation, similarities between Cal and Lily and the disappeared Vatore siblings may seem like mere coincidences. In truth, it cannot even be proven that they existed. No official records matching either individual have been discovered. One could argue that they were works of fiction concocted to boost sales or composites drawn from several individuals. However, considered alongside the evidence to be presented in later chapters, the theory that this duo and the Vatores are one and the same becomes too tantalizingly probable to dismiss.

#ts4 #sims 4 #sims 4 story #ts4 story #simblr #story: hzid #lilith vatore #caleb vatore #oops i dropped something #thanks to the magic of storytelling i've obtained the footage #anyway i've decided lilith only kills men (on purpose anyway)#she doesn't count the accidents #also i realized while writing this that it was very subconsciously inspired by this kind of obscure british film called bright young things #(which is itself based on the novel vile bodies by evelyn waugh)#i remember it mainly being about vapid awful people in a downward spiral of increasingly debauched behavior #(in other words highly recommended)#but specifically there's a reporter character played by james mcavoy who picks up intel at parties #and then feverishly dictates his reports by phone in the middle of the night to ensure they make the morning edition #that's exactly what i'm picturing here #it's like the '20s version of celebrities being papped #anyway if you read everything under the cut and then also made it this far you're a real one #gonna cool it on the lore for now and hold onto the more interesting bits a while longer

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braveclementine · 5 months ago

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Chapter 35

Warnings: None

Copyright: I do not own any Marvel characters or locations. However, I do own a few OCs like Elizabeth, Katherine, Stacy, and Jessie. I do not condone any copying of this.

Bucky was the first to break into your room with surprising force. There was a complete look of panic on his face that made you raise your eyebrow. You could hear running footsteps down the hallway from probably either Steve and Sam following Bucky, or Fury and T'Challa.

Upon the people entering the room, it was all four.

"Y/N, are you alright?" T'Challa asked.

"I'm fine." You said, trying not to laugh at their obvious panic. "It's not like the baby is going to shoot out of me immediately. Calm down and breathe."

"Do you need help standing?" Fury asked. You could hear commotion down the hallway and finally Elizabeth was next to enter the room.

"What?" She asked, rubbing her eyes.

"Her water broke." Sam said.

"Oh." Elizabeth stated, smiling. Then she looked quizzical, "Are you calling a doula?"

"I thought we were going to hospital." Tony said, entering the room next.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Welp, I don't trust the medical industry as far as I can throw them. See you guys tomorrow then."

You laughed at the typical Elizabeth fashion, before sliding out of the bed. Your soulmates immediately converged on you as though you were suddenly made of glass.

"Give her some breathing room." Stephen commanded, leaning against the wall.

You took Bucky's arm and he helped you out of the room. Upon exiting the house, you saw the large bus that Tony had gotten and equipped.

It wasn't really a bus, it was much smaller than that. It was painted black and had nice leather seats inside. It would fit everyone comfortably.

To your surprise though, Elizabeth was sitting behind the wheel, looking at the rest of you impatiently.

"I thought you didn't trust medical facilities?" You questioned as Bucky helped you up the stairs, putting you in the front seat.

"I don't." Elizabeth sighed, starting the bus so that Chandelier by SIA came on. "I hate hospitals, I don't trust them. But I'm not going to miss your babies birth either. As long as no one sticks me with some needles I'll be fine."

"Why would someone stick you with a needle?" Stephen asked in interest as he was the last to pile onto the bus.

Elizabeth looked at him seriously and said, "Why, because vaccines send our brainwaves to Facebook so that Zuckerberg can read all of our thoughts."

She threw a wink at you as you tried to keep your face straight. Stephen was missing an inside joke as he had never been on the gymnastics team with you. He didn't know the story.

Meanwhile, Stephen was staring at Elizabeth in the utmost confusion, trying to figure out how someone he thought was highly intelligent had suddenly come out with the most ridiculous conspiracy theory he'd ever heard.

At least, until he realized both of you were holding in laughs and he rolled his eyes, sulking next to Tony who hadn't heard a word that had passed between the two of them.

Elizabeth finally dropped the lot of you off at the hospital doors before she went to park.

Tony checked you in at the front desk and a nurse brought you to a room in the maternity ward.

"On a scale of one to ten, how painful are your contractions?" The nurse asked.

"Just a one right now." You said. You could barely feel them at the moment.

"Triplets, right?" She confirmed.

"Yes."

She simply nodded, marking stuff off on her clipboard. "You have you taken any medication while you were pregnant?"

"No." You said. Elizabeth, Wanda, Stacy, and Nat had all shown you different books where it was scientifically proven that taking even an Advil or a Tylenol for a headache could prove detrimental to a baby's organs since they were forming in your womb and didn't have a strong enough system to deal with second hand drugs.

There was a slight purse of the woman's lips as she made another mark on her clipboard. "Who is or are your soulmates?"

Was that actually pertinent information?

"We are," Tony said, gesturing behind him to the eleven of them.

The nurse had a glimmer of recognition behind her eyes, her cheeks burning pink. "I see. Which ones are the father?"

"Unimportant. They're all of ours." Tony finished again.

You smiled.

The nurse seemed aggravated with Tony's interference. "Biologically."

"Like said, it doesn't matter." Loki said slyly. The nurse paled seeing him, made another note and gave you a strained smile. "The doctor will be with you shortly."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, settling herself on a chair on the far side of the room. She plugged headphones in her ears and you could hear her blasting a mixture of BLACKPINK and also Tom MacDonald. You smiled a little.

Steve was also in the corner of the room, an artbook in hand. You wondered what he was working on.

T'Challa wasn't in the room, on the phone with Shuri who had wanted to know the moment your water broke. Fury was on one side of the bed, his good eye roving the bed carefully. Clint, Rhodey, and Bucky were on the other side of the bed.

Thor, Tony, and Sam had taken the couch in the room, that was pressed up against the window, while Loki had his arms crossed over his chest, staring out the window.

Stephen hovered around, his sharp eyes taking in every medicine that they planned to use.

"No anesthesias." He said to you. "You want to be conscious and aware when you have the children. You don't want to be asleep while you do it, even if there is some pain."

You just nodded. You had been over these steps hundreds of times. But of course, they were starting to feel helpless and nervous now that you were actually at the point where the babies would actually start coming.

Funnily enough, nothing actually happened except a few contractions. You slept the entire night almost pain free, before waking up again the next morning.

Everyone else looked like they'd either slept well or badly. Elizabeth and Stephen both looked like they hadn't slept at all.

"We're going to go and get some breakfast for you, okay?" Tony said, leaving you behind with a still fast asleep Clint- on the couch this time instead of the vents- Elizabeth in the corner, and Stephen who was refusing to leave your side.

Stephen started lightly dozing, trying to keep himself awake for the most part. Elizabeth just stared at the wall, one earbud in, music blasting.

"Hey, Elizabeth?" You asked and she paused the music to look at you, "Why don't you trust the doctors?"

She winced, looking up into the room before coming to sit next to you on the bed, "They have microphones in here you know."

"They do?" You whispered back.

She nodded, "They use them in case an abusive parents comes in. That's why doctors leave so long between the switching or nurse to doctor so that they can overhear if a mother or father is telling their child to tell a certain story to the doctor."

"I never knew that."

"Me neither. My mother told me. A nurse told her." Elizabeth mumbled and then said, "There are shots that doctors give children when they are six months old. There has been a lot of debate about whether or not these shots later cause metal problems in children. When I was six months old, I had an allergic reaction to the whooping cough vaccine."

"Oh?" You looked at her.

She gave a stiff nod, "It was only two hours after we got home. My mum laid me down in the crib. If she had come to check on me five minutes later, she would've missed the reaction I had. I was screaming and she thought I was having a seizure. They immediately took me to the doctors. They couldn't find anything wrong with me. Another nurse pulled my mother to the side and asked for her to tell her what had happened. My mother described the entire day."

"What did the nurse say?"

"She said that when she was in medical school, they used to teach that seizures were a side-effect of the whooping cough vaccine. However, they don't teach the young nurses that anymore. The doctors refused to say there was anything wrong with me. Even to this day, they still try to push the vaccine on me. Whenever I say I'm allergic, they still try and press it on me."

"But why?"

She shrugged, "'It's just a five minute seizure and you're protecting the old and young alike!'"

"They said that to you?"

"They're corrupt. They're all corrupt." Elizabeth muttered, hugging her knees.

Stephen's eyes were open, watching Elizabeth. You wondered what he was thinking about, as he had once been a doctor- although he wasn't the kind of doctor giving vaccines, but performing brain surgeries.

You had no idea what to say, so you just put a comforting arm over her shoulder.

A half hour later, the boys came back with food from Panda Express. Elizabeth perked up, eagerly accepting her fried rice and orange chicken bowl. You had gotten the same thing, with an addition of the lo mien noodles, and the two of you ate. Elizabeth slowly shifted back to her corner so that the boys could sit around you.

More hours passed. A lot of them drifted in and out of sleep, including yourself. But everytime you were awake or awoke, Elizabeth was still awake, curled into herself.

"Elizabeth." You said when all the boys had collectively decided to take a walk and bring back dinner. Your contractions had gotten slightly more painful and the doctor was sure that they would be out either tonight or early tomorrow morning, "Seriously, call Pietro or Hogun and go home. You don't have to be here."

She just shook her head, the stubborn ice ninja she was. "I'm fine, really."

You didn't push it.

"Here." Tony said proudly, putting your favorite dish from your favorite restaurant in front of you.

"Thanks Tones." You said, smiling at him. You leaned upwards a bit and he quickly dipped down so that you could kiss his cheek.

A few hours later, it was around eleven o'clock and you hit your first huge contraction. You gritted your teeth in pain, hating the fact that this was happening. But at the same time, you were ecstatic.

Your babies were finally coming!

The doctor showed up and they made the others clear the room. Stephen was the only one they allowed to stay, though you had a sneaking suspicion that Loki was invisible somewhere in the room. And it wouldn't have surprised you if Clint made his way into the vent in your room.

You followed the doctors orders to the dot. If he said push, you pushed. If he told you to relax, you did as told. They all seemed rather nervous with Stephen in the room, like they were scared of failing under his watch.

Eventually after a good twenty minutes, the first baby was out. It was obviously Bucky's, just by the fact that it was a girl. One of the nurses took her over to the other side of the room to clean her off before coming to lay her on your chest.

She was a precious thing, tiny. Though she had just come from the room, she already had a mess of brown fluff on her head. You nudged her lightly for her to take your bud into her tiny mouth so that she would get used to breast-feeding. It was the healthiest choice for them.

She seemed a natural, sucking though she couldn't actually find any milk. The doctor handed her over to Stephen who took her carefully into his arms as another contraction hit and the second baby was on his way.

"Do you have a name?" Stephen asked over the nurses shoulder, trying to distract me a little bit.

"No idea." You muttered through your teeth as you pushed.

"The second one is almost here." The doctor said, smiling at you, trying to reassure you.

There was a lot of pain and the nurse on the other side of you was telling you in undertone that it wasn't to late to take something to knock you out yet.

You refused. You could do this naturally. After all, if mothers could push out a half dozen babies back in the 1800s with no medicine and in the middle of nowhere, you could push out three in a hospital room with none too.

Natural birth. You just wanted your babies to be born naturally.

The second baby was out and the third was very close to coming out as well, slipping out only seconds after his brother.

The doctor chuckled, "Technically, this one is now a single and those two are twins."

You looked at the clock. 12:01. Damn.

Stephen chuckled, coming over to see how you were holding up as they laid the boys down on your chest.

"How are you feeling darling?"

"Fantastic." You huffed with a light laugh and a huge smile on your face.

The second boy was slightly lighter than his brother. He was very obviously mixed, whereas the third baby was much darker.

"Which one do you think is which?" You asked Stephen.

"You'll have to ask Thor." Loki said, appearing visible now in the corner.

One of the nurses jumped, screeching, running from the room. Loki rolled his eyes and Stephen sighed.

"Hi Lokes." You said sternly, trying not to smile. Loki just grinned.

"Can Bucky come in first with Stevie and Sam?" You asked Stephen. "I want him to see his baby girl first since he's been so terrified."

Stephen nodded, carefully placing the little girl on your chest too. Your arms came up to hug all three of them and Loki carefully moved over to put his hand on one of the boys backs.

Bucky came into the room quickly, Steve and Sam shadowing his footsteps. He had dark circles under his eyes, his hair sticking out every which way like he'd been messing with it. His red shirt was wrinkled and a huge smile lit up his face when he saw the little girl on your chest.

"Does she have a name yet?" He asked as he picked her up carefully in his arms.

"No. I didn't know if you had any preferences." You said earnestly. "I mean, I have names, but um. . . they're not very good."

"Can I hear 'em doll?" Bucky asked sincerely. "I named my cat after a plant."

You giggled. "Alpine is a perfectly good name for a cat. I don't know." You said, growing more serious. "I was kind've thinking something sort've. . . old timey, you know? Like Ruth or Daphne. Lucy. Sadie maybe. Angela. Those sorts of names."

[I know a lot of fanfics have them name their kids after like their dead parents but I'm just like- I can't. Like maybe middle names, but not first names. I honestly just can't. Also, every name mentioned here is on my baby list so yeah-]

"I like all of those." Bucky said. He looked at her. "She looks like a Lucy."

You giggled, "Lucy then?"

"Lucy Sarah." Bucky finished.

"Last name?" The nurse asked.

You all looked at each other. Usually soulmates came up with a name that combined the two last names. Yours was just a tad to long to do that.

"Marvel." You finished.

The nurses nodded.

Bucky, Steve, and Sam went to sit in the corner of the room with Lucy while Loki left to go and get Fury, T'Challa, and Thor.

Thor entered first, picking up the lighter skinned baby, before handing him to Fury. T'Challa picked up the darker one in his hands.

"Do you have names for them, my Nkosazana?" T'Challa asked.

"Yes. Fury's is Vincent and yours is Marcel, though I have not decided on middle names." You said. The names had just hit you as you saw your soulmates hold them.

"Vincent Jack." Fury said. He looked around, "Do we have an official last name that's better than than what we have at the moment?"

"Marvel." You said.

He squinted, "You mean Mar-vel?"

"Marvel." You said, smirking and then shrugged. "F.R.I.D.A.Y. has started calling me Mrs. Marvel ever since I've been married to you guys. I think it's better than Mrs. Avenger but ya know."

Sam smirked at you before turning back to Lucy.

"Yomoya." T'Challa said. "It means of the wind. A free spirit. That will be his middle name."

The nurse blushed, "Er- and could you spell that out for me?"

You smirked and then relaxed into your pillows. Everything had gone as smoothly as you could hope.

The others slowly filed in. Elizabeth hung around Bucky and the soldiers, looking at little Lucy.

"Okay." One of the nurses came in with a needle. You saw Elizabeth cringe backwards.

"What's that for?" Tony asked, frowning slightly.

"We always give this to mothers before they leave the hospital with their babies." The nurse said, looking somewhat blankly at Tony. "It's a DTaP vaccine. It's the whooping cough, diphtheria, and tetanus shot. It's just to keep the babies safe as they are susceptible to these diseases easiest."

You saw Elizabeth pale. She stood and hurried from the room.

Stephen's eyes trailed after her, "We don't need it."

The nurse frowned, "It's mandatory."

Since when?

"No, I mean, we don't need it." Stephen said with a charming smile, "We have a private doctor. You'll have to forgive us, but we are the Avengers after all. The only shots we get are from a friend of ours, Bruce Banner, the Hulk. He'll give her the shot when we get back to the compound."

The others just stared at him, not aware of why he was lying through his teeth.

"Oh." The nurse said, looking troubled, "That's fine. . . I guess."

She looked rather taken aback and then left the room.

"Wha-" Stephen stopped Tony from talking with a simple shake of his head.

Bucky stood up quickly, obviously thinking a threat was around, "We can go home now, right?" He held Lucy protectively to his chest.

"Yes, let's go." Stephen said. Rhodey hurried to the front to sign the rest of you out. Clint got you a wheel chair so that you didn't have to walk. T'Challa let you hold Marcel on your lap while Thor rolled you out.

Rhodey drove home instead, Elizabeth finally falling fast asleep in the bus. You smiled as Stephen put a blanket around her shoulders. Then he sat next to you.

"What was that in the hospital?" You asked curiously.

"Bruce does have vaccines if you want them." Stephen said thoughtfully. "I don't know. Hearing Elizabeth's story, it just. . . made me realize some things. It's up to you of course. I want to wait on the kids though, if that's okay. Their organs are still growing so if we want to get them vaccinated, I'd much rather wait till they are around six or eight years old, if that is alright with you. T'Challa won't have his kids vaccinated period, but it is really up to you for Lucy and Vincent."

You nodded, "I [Will/Won't]"

Once you guys pulled up to the mansion, Steve helped roll you inside while everyone gathered there. Hogun stayed just long enough to glance over the babies and find out their names before he was ushering Elizabeth off to bed. Pietro soon followed.

You were slowly falling asleep, having had a stressful, confusing, and also euphoric night. You're kids were here.

And if you honestly couldn't wait to have more.

"Let's go put them to bed, eh?" Steve said to Bucky, clapping him on the shoulder. Bucky hadn't put Lucy down once since you had handed her over. He couldn't see to be able to tear his eyes from her.

"Look how tiny she is in my arms." Bucky murmured, smiling down at the sleeping babe. "She fits just perfectly. And she doesn't even seem to hate my metal arm!"

Your heart melted, a smile coming over her face, "C'mon Bucky bear, let's put her to bed."

Bucky nodded again and you slowly got out of the wheelchair. You were super fricking sore, but Steve and Sam made sure to walk next to you if you needed it.

Inside the Princess themed room, Bucky finally laid the baby girl down in her pink crib. He tucked a pink blanket around her.

The three of them went ahead and climbed into the bed underneath the Princess castle, knowing full well that they were going to have to get up every two hours to feed and take care of her.

In the room across, Nick and Maria were leaning over Vincent's' crib, the both of them smiling. T'Challa had already laid Marcel down, snapping a picture to send to his mother and sister. He put an arm around me and kissed me.

"Are you doing alright Nkosazana?"

You simply nodded, exhausted. "I'll see you guys in the m-morning."

Nick wrapped his arms around you, placing a firm kiss on your lips, "Sleep tight babydoll."

"You too muscles." You winked, before heading back to the room with Lucy and your soldier boys.

You wiggled your way into the middle of them. Steve and Sam wrapped arms around you. Bucky's eyes were open, fixated on the crib. A warm smile and eyes full of love was all you could see.

You snuggled into Steve's chest and promptly fell asleep.

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roosterbruiser · 2 years ago

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𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝟑

☿ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞: 𝐂𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐧) ☿ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Another day in the sun. You meet someone new. ☿ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7.5k ☿ 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐲 ☿ 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬 ☿ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ☿ 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭. 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭--𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟕𝟎𝐬--𝐚 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐞𝐫𝐚.

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬, 𝐂𝐀 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟗𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖

Rooster is lying in a sun chair, his swim-trunks still damp from his dip earlier. He’s holding a sweaty glass with half a Tom Collins left and his face tilted towards the sun, shades over his eyes. It’s warm--there’s a sheen of sweat covering his skin, sitting atop the oil he covered himself in.

There are birds calling in the palm trees and cars rumbling down the residential street before his house. He has a sound system set up on the bar and Do It Again by Steely Dan is playing right now. Below the music, he can hear the soft sounds of you splashing as you take languid laps around the pool.

You’re naked--partly because you don’t have a swimsuit and partly because you just like to be naked--and you were slathered in oil before you got into the pool, but now you’re thoroughly soaked in water. Your skin is already growing darker, soaking up all that precious sun. This will be your first time not having swimsuit lines in your life and your first time getting tan in a pool in California instead of a pond in western Nebraska.

Pulling yourself up to the side of the pool, you grab your sweaty glass and take a long, long drink. A few beads dribble down your throat and onto your chest. This is your third Harvey Wallbanger and Rooster makes them just the way you like; strong. Your fingertips feel fuzzy and your belly is warm.

You keep yourself propped up as you gaze at Rooster’s resting form, kicking your legs to stay afloat. Your head is fuzzy and your skin is warm and the water feels fucking perfect right now. If this hasn’t been the way you’ve been living your life the past three days, you would consider this your perfect day. You feel like perfect days are supposed to only happen once.

“So, why didn’t you go to Vietnam?”

Rooster sputters out a shocked laugh, face snapping to yours in an instant.

You’re staring at him, smiling softly, still nursing your drink.

“Jesus Christ, Cherry,” Rooster mutters, shaking his head. “Can’t just ask a guy why he didn’t go to war.”

“Sure I can.” You shrug, furrowing your brows. “I just did. Duh!”

Rooster laughs again, sitting up on his elbows.

“How do you know I didn’t?”

You eye him like there’s a physical marker on his body that gives it away. You noticed the other day that he has some faded scars littering his face and throat, little lines that stretch a few inches. They’re white--old. But you’ve seen boys come back home from Vietnam; their scars are deeper and pink still.

“I can just tell,” you simply answer. “You weren’t a college student, right? Since you started in the industry so young. So, how’d you get around it?”

Rooster bites his lip, watching water drip from your hair and onto your shoulders and chest, your skin pinkening.

“Take a guess,” Rooster says, grinning.

A pang of guilt spreads across his chest: he’s grinning while talking about the atrocity of war. But he feels like it’s impossible not to grin at you, no matter the conversational topic. For a moment, he thinks of Jake and the guilt multiplies and starts to make his stomach ache. But then you start to hum, tapping your chin.

“Did you tell them you were gay?”

Rooster shakes his head.

“Conciencense objector?” You ask, tilting your head.

“I don’t agree with it,” he breathes, “but it doesn’t say that on paper, no.”

You nod again. You take another long drink and continue humming, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“I know you didn’t fail your physical. You don’t seem like a dodger either,” you tease. He laughs, nodding. It’s true--he didn’t fail his physical. And he’s definitely not a dodger, either. “Fine. I’ll bite. Why did the almighty Rooster Bradshaw get excused from the war?”

Rooster takes a breath, propping himself up further in the chair. He hasn’t talked about this in a long time--honestly, no one’s asked him in a long time. No one wants to talk about the war, especially now that it’s been almost four years since it ended. But you’re young--the notion of war must seem so abstract to you, so far removed from your reality.

“My old man was in the Navy,” Rooster starts, watching you chew an ice cube. “Croaked during a hop. Technically during active duty.”

He doesn’t like to think about his life before very much--it’s hard, simply put. His dad died before Rooster was old enough to tie his own shoes. He got seventeen good years with his mom before the cancer started eating her; then he got two bad years with her before she let go and he became an orphan.

Something catches in your chest--something that clogs your throat and slows your breathing. Jesus Christ, he’s saying it so casually. And he’s watching you now as you digest it, as you realize what he’s saying to you. His dad is dead--and from what you’ve gathered here and there, so is his mom. He spends Christmases alone, which is probably why he was so willing to share his special caviar and wine with you that first night.

“So, you were exempt from service,” you say softly. “When did that law pass? ‘64? ‘65?”

Rooster takes another drink.

“‘64,” he answers.

“How old were you in ‘64?”

God--it seems like a million years ago.

“I was seventeen,” Rooster answers, sucking in a deep breath.

Your eyes are wide, your breath finally escaping your parted lips.

“Jesus Christ,” you mumble, shaking your head. “Just missed it, then, didn’t you?”

He nods.

“Do you know anyone that went to ‘Nam?” He asks.

You nod, too.

“A few boys back home,” you answer. You still remember their hollow gazes and scraggly hair, the way they carried themselves around town so precariously. “Came back all freaky deaky. Poor chumps. You?”

Rooster considers lying to you--Jake doesn’t like telling people about his time in Vietnam. But everyone knows and soon enough, you’re going to know everyone. It’s going to come out.

“Yeah,” Rooster answers. He rakes a hand through his damp locks, tutting. “My man, Jake. You’ll meet him on Sunday, he’s an actor for Goldman Homevideos. Don’t bring it up with him, though--he tries to forget it. You dig?”

As audacious and rambunctious as you are, Rooster understands how deeply you understand him when you nod. Your eyes are big and earnest and your lips are flat and unsmiling. You get it. You won’t ask.

You’re having a hard time imagining some veteran being good at porn. All the boys back home were so scrawny and sad--who would want to watch scrawny, sad boys fuck on camera? You can’t imagine fucking one.

“How old were you in ‘64?” Rooster asks, content in his decision to change the direction of the conversation.

You grin something fierce at him.

He knows it’s gonna feel like a blow to the chest.

“Six for most of the year,” you answer, sticking your tongue out at him.

He grimaces.

“Christ, Cherry,” Rooster mutters, swiping a hand over his eyes as your melodic laughter echoes off the concrete. “I need another fucking drink. You down?”

You shake your empty glass at him with a tight smile.

As he fixes the two of you another drink, you rest your cheek against the warm concrete and cut through the cool water very carefully. All your limbs are loose and flowing freely beneath the surface, skin skimming the slippery red tiles.

“So, where’d you grow up?”

“Am I on The Dating Game right now or something?”

“You wish,” you tease.

He peers at you over his shoulder, glasses low on his nose. You blow him a kiss and a wink and it makes him sigh deeply. You really are going to be the death of him.

“Virginia,” he answers finally, pouring a couple ounces of gin in his cocktail shaker. “Small town near a Naval base.”

“What was it like?” You ask.

He chuckles, dropping a few ice cubes into the shaker and screwing the lid on tight.

“Boring,” he answers. “Moved out to California right before my eighteenth birthday.”

“Why?” You ask.

You have a way of making him feel like all you want to do in the world right now is listen to him. When you ask him questions about his life, he feels like he’s doing you a favor by giving you the skinny.

“Well,” he starts, shaking his cocktail and chewing his bottom lip, “my ma was sick. Wasn’t much they could do for her in Small Town, Virginia. So we came out here and I just never…left.”

It makes your chest feel hollow to think about losing your mother so young--even if she isn’t being a good mama to you now, even if you’re not sure if she loves you anymore. You imagine that there is little worse than losing your mother.

“You look like you grew here,” you tell him with a sigh. He glances at you and you grin. “Like you just sprouted out of the dirt. Got pulled up ‘stache first.”

“Ever heard the phrase don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Cherry?” He asks. You laugh again. He starts on your drink, pouring a few ounces of vodka and orange juice in another shaker. “Funny, though. I think you look like you aren’t from here.”

Ouch. You frown at him, scoffing.

“I’m gonna freak if you tell me that I look like I’m from a fucking chicken farm,” you threaten, pointing at him with that cherry-red nail.

“No,” Rooster quickly corrects. “You just look…tougher than the broads brought up here, you dig?”

“Tougher than you?”

He gives you an exaggerated nod.

“Most definitely,” he says. “Didn’t you prove that last night?”

He’s referring to when you rode him last night after a few glasses of nice brandy, when you held tight to his wrists and pushed them against the flimsy water bed. You and Rooster have had little else to do but peruse his liquor collection and fuck--both of which you two have been doing frequently.

“You’ve got such a good memory for an old man,” you say gingerly. “You probably eat, like, all your muesli, don’t you?”

Rooster laughs again. He’s already used to you calling him an old man--he’s used to everyone calling him an old man, really. He’s the oldest among his friends by a substantial margin.

“You clearly don’t have an issue fucking old men,” he says, shaking your cocktail now as you smile at him. “So, in turn, I don’t mind being called an old man.”

“Hey, grandpa’s need love, too!” You exclaim, watching him strain your drink into a frosted glass. “And I’ve got a lot to give!”

“Thought you tried to keep love and sex separate?” Rooster asks, crossing the concrete and settling your drink in front of you before sitting down to dip his feet in the water. “Ms. Arsan.”

You take a long drink and then nod.

“Ever heard of a euphemism?” You ask. Rooster nods, spreading his legs when you move in the water to settle between them. You let your elbows prop on his knees and stare up at him, skin gleaming in the sun. “Love is a euphemism for sex sometimes. Wise guy.”

He grins.

You two like to keep each other on your toes.

“Isn’t that the antithesis of everything you stand for?”

You cough out a laugh, pinching his thighs softly. He can see every inch of your naked body from his spot above you, especially with your arms spread out the way they are right now. He’s nearly gotten used to you in this state--prancing around the house in little more than one of his shirts and nothing else most of the day. He’s had you everyday, multiple times a day since you met, but he is still learning your body. He likes this part of sexual relationships; tweaking here, rubbing there, curling, thrusting, pulsing, pushing.

Honestly, you want him again. Right now. You’ve never had sex on tap like this before--it was always a bit difficult back in Nebraska. Sneaking off the farm, finding a suitor, convincing the suitor, finding somewhere to actually fuck. But living here with Rooster, who seems to have an identical sex drive and mutual want, has been heavenly. Anytime you want that itch scratched, anytime you want that hill climbed, anytime you want to be cast into the choppy seas of an orgasm--Rooster’s here.

This is your version of Utopia, really.

“Well, let me rephrase my sentence, then,” you say, sighing. You clear your throat. “Grandpa’s need to get fucked, too! And I’ve got muff to give!”

At that, Rooster clinks his glass against yours and the both of you take a few gulps of your respective cocktails.

“So, you don’t mind fucking older men?”

You purse your lips.

“You don’t mind fucking younger girls?”

He purses his lips.

The two of you clink glasses again and take a few more gulps.

“How many people have you fucked?” You ask.

He takes your glass and with your free hands, you gently knead his thighs. It’s something you do absently--your daddy worked long, long hours on the farm. Whenever he would come inside late in the evening, you would help him take his boots off and rub his calves like this. It’s just something you do.

“Haven’t kept count,” he tells you, tucking a few strands of wet hair behind your ears. He likes the way your fingers are digging into his skin--he hadn’t even realized his legs were sore until you started to massage them. “But if I had to guess? God, I’m not sure I could even do that.”

“We talking Jagger numbers here?” You ask.

His throat is warm.

“We are,” he says. And that’s all the answer you need. “What about you, Cherry? Keeping score?”

You are.

“Seventeen,” you answer proudly, squaring your shoulders. “You make seventeen, actually.”

For some reason, it makes Rooster feel bad that you know precisely what number he is and he couldn’t take a shot in the dark for you.

“That’s my lucky number,” Rooster tells you.

You blink up at him in surprise, eyebrows raised.

“You jiving me?” You ask suspiciously.

“No! Swear it,” Rooster says. “Seventeen’s my lucky number.”

It is now.

You just nod, sighing. Strange.

“Your turn,” you tell him. “Ask away.”

He only has to think for a moment.

“How old were you when you cashed in your v-card?”

It’s a good question--relevant. But it makes your chest feel a bit tight. You haven’t ever told anyone this before--not whatever few girl friends would stick around, not any family, not any other boys. This has been sitting alone in your chest for a long time.

“I was thirteen,” you tell him. Your voice is thin and your cheeks are warm. “He was fifteen. He mucked the stalls on my family’s farm. Seasonal help or whatever. It was just once. I think his name was Grover.”

You’re not telling the entire truth. You know his name was Grover. He’s come back to your family’s farm every single summer to shovel chicken shit. He’s never looked your way again, though.

Rooster studies your flaxen face and the way you maintain his gaze like you’re afraid to show him a weak spot, like a dog lying on its belly.

“Where was it?” He asks.

“In the barn,” you answer. “Smelled downright funky in there.”

Rooster grimaces.

“Gnarly,” he laughs.

You just shrug.

“It was the first time I ever wanted to jump someone’s bones. I was just…watching him. Like, not in a creeper kind of way. I was just--I was just, like, noticing him for the first time, I guess? The muscles on his arm and back, his thighs. His hands.” You exhale wistfully, remembering the way the muscles curved elegantly beneath his smooth, dark skin. The way sweat gathered on his hairline and clung to his curls so deliciously. Even now, at twenty-one, it arouses you to think about it. “I just had to have him. And he took me. It was good--only lasted a few minutes. But it still is probably, like, the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

Rooster lays a hand over his heart, frowning.

“Ouch,” he says softly, grinning when you roll your eyes. “Why only twice?”

You shrug.

“The first time was random. The second time, I told him to come to my room that afternoon and he did. I think he was kinda scared of me or something, because he didn’t stay long. It was barely sex the second time. I didn’t ask him again and he didn’t try anything.”

Rooster nods again.

Again, he tries to imagine you in some ineffective farmhouse, asking the workers to come into your bedroom and cum inside you. It’s strange--he can’t picture it at all. Even with you here before him, totally nude, he can’t picture it.

“Your turn,” you tell him, squeezing his thighs.

Rooster sighs, leaning back on his palms. You scoot forward and settle yourself higher up between his legs letting your elbows rest on his upper thighs.

“I was sixteen. It was with Lisa-Anne Monterey at the drive-in. We were seeing The Great Escape and she cried on the way home because her pantyhose snagged.”

You laugh loudly, wrinkling your nose.

“What a casanova,” you tease, pinching his taut belly. “Snagging pantyhose and making girls cry since ‘63!”

He knows you’re joking--he does. Of course you are. But he doesn’t like the sound of that suddenly--being known for making girls cry. He doesn’t want to be known for that at all. And he can’t help it when an image suddenly flashes through the forefront of his mind, one of you crying before him, mascara running down your cheeks. You don’t seem like the crying type, though--he wonders what would push you that far.

“Your turn,” Rooster says, squeezing you between his legs.

You’re pleased that he’s playing along now.

“You ever been in looove?” You ask, grinning up at him.

Rooster immediately wrinkles his nose at the question. For a moment, you think maybe you shouldn’t have asked him--but then he shakes his head, humming.

“Not that I know of,” Rooster says.

He’s telling the truth. He hasn’t had the time for any of that junk.

“Heavy,” you sigh, frowning. “Me neither.”

“Does that make us unlovable?”

“Probably,” you answer, a smile biting at your lips. “What makes you unlovable? For me, it’s that I’m too foxy. It’s been a real issue in the past.”

Rooster grins at you. As if to agree with you, he reaches forward and pinches your cheek softly. He does think you’re foxy--real foxy. But even just like this, naked in his pool, bare-faced and soaking wet--you’re beautiful. It’s a different form of foxy, one that isn’t as easy to come across.

“It shows,” Rooster teases. “I guess for me, it’s probably that I’ve got too much money, you know? People hate that. And my house is, like, way too big.”

“How’s that Fleetwood song go? Rulers make bad lovers, better put your kingdoms up for sale, right?”

You’re giggling, shaking your head softly. He can see every one of your teeth when you smile that big toothy smile at him. God, he already feels like he’s getting used to it--that big, toothy grin and those freckles sprinkling across your cheeks.

“Bradshaw!”

The voice echoes out across the backyard, vibrating across the pool and skimming the calm waters you’re still submerged in.

You’re surprised, but you don’t move to cover yourself--it seems pointless. And even if you felt the need to protect your modesty, you wouldn’t have much to cover yourself with other than Rooster. And even Rooster doesn’t have much clothing on--just some little swim trunks that sit high up on his thighs.

Rooster whips around, straightening his spine, pushing his glasses up in his hair. And there, walking across the threshold of the backdoor is Hangman. He’s grinning at Rooster beneath his bushy mustache, his hair tucked behind his ears and his cheeks pale pink.

“What it is, brother! I’ve been trying to hit your line like crazy!” Hangman says, swaggering over towards Rooster. “Where the Hell you been, Rooster--?”

It isn’t until he’s close enough to smell all the tanning oil Rooster is donning that he catches his first glimpse of you: you’re completely naked, standing shamelessly between Rooster’s legs, grinning up at Jake from your spot in the red pool.

Hangman’s cockwalk stutters and then falters entirely, his grin spreading as he lets his eyes rake over you. A naked woman in Rooster’s pool isn’t an uncommon sight--honestly, a clothed woman is more of a rare sighting in this backyard--but you’re a stranger. He’s never seen you around before--anywhere.

“Thanks for knocking,” Rooster says, frowning at Hangman.

Hangman barely glances at Rooster before he utters, “I was knocking for like five minutes, dipshit.”

Hangman is handsome--like the Ken-doll type of undeniably handsome. He’s wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a Western-style button down with a bolo tie loosely secured around his neck like some sort of California cowboy. He’s drinking you in, you can tell, and there’s not an ounce of shame in all of that hunk of that blonde, tan muscle.

“Who’s this?” Hangman asks, settling his hands on his hips.

“This is Cherry,” you answer, mirroring his stance. “Cherry Arsan. Who’re you, cowboy?”

He licks his lips, glancing at Rooster, who is watching you with a fondness secured over all his soft features.

“Hangman,” Jake says.

You bite your lip and then shrug.

“I like Cowboy better, I think.”

Hangman swallows hard. His eyes are lingering on your bare chest, which is slightly obscured by the water. Fucking Christ--there isn’t an ounce of shame in your body.

“Right on,” Hangman says. “You can call me whatever you want, baby. I’m no square.”

Rooster smiles at you with tight lips, then turns to Hangman again.

“Cherry here just signed a twelve-movie deal with Goldman Homevideos,” Rooster explains to Hangman. “She’s crashing here until she gets her dough.”

Hangman’s mouth is ajar. You’re the girl Dennis is buzzing about--God, Dennis wouldn’t shut the fuck up about you whenever Hangman went into his office for a meeting the other day. You should see the way she sucks cock, Jake, it’s out of this fucking world! She ain’t even acting, the kid just likes to fuck! On and on he’d gone about you, talking about all the films he wanted you to be in and who he was going to let go so you could replace them. She’s gonna be the next big thing, my man.

“I’ve heard a thing or two about you,” Hangman coolly says.

“Radical,” you tell him. “I haven’t heard anything about you.”

You don’t know that this is the Jake that Rooster mentioned earlier--the one who was in Vietnam. But even if you did know, you wouldn’t tell Hangman that you and Rooster had been talking about it. Not just because you’re a trustworthy person, but because you feel indebted to Rooster now--you feel that the two of you have formed some kind of alliance the past few days.

“I’ve been at my pad all week, man,” Rooster tells Hangman, squinting up at him. “Haven’t gotten any phone calls from you. Right, Cherry?”

“Uh huh,” you confirm. “We’ve been hunkered down. I don’t own any shoes.”

Hangman quirks a brow at you. You’re sinking lower into the water, your hips bending and your arms moving peacefully below the surface. Your chin just barely grazes the surface.

“You don’t own any shoes, baby? Rooster, what are you doing to the girl? Holding her hostage?” Hangman grins.

Before Rooster can answer, Hangman grabs one of the lounge chairs and drags it over to the side of the pool, plopping down with a sigh. You’re in between the two men now, not touching the side of the pool. You’re just watching them watch you.

“We just haven’t left the house,” Rooster explains. He knows for a fact that Jake hasn’t tried calling the house--he would’ve picked up. But he doesn’t say anything; not yet, at least. “Shoes are on the docket before Sunday.”

“What kinda shoes you like?”

You raise your brows. Hangman’s grinning at you, holding his chin in his palm.

“Pretty ones,” you tell him. “Expensive ones.”

You’ve never owned expensive shoes in your life. You owned a whopping three pairs of shoes back home: rain boots, leather Mary Jane’s for school, and tennis shoes for gym glass. You didn’t take very good care of them, especially when you started to outgrow them after you graduated; they were all three falling apart.

“Solid,” Hangman grins. “Dennis paying you the big bucks?”

You nod.

Rooster pats Jake on the shoulder amiably.

“You want a drink, man?” He asks.

Hangman nods, barely dragging his eyes away from you.

“Aperol spritz,” Hangman answers, patting Rooster’s shoulder in gratitude. “You nervous, Cherry?”

“Right now?” You ask, shaking your head.

Hangman laughs a big laugh.

“Nah, baby. About being in the business,” he answers. “You know--erotica. Spank movies. Triple-X. Porn.”

Biting your lip, you shake your head.

“No,” you answer. “I like sex. I’m just getting paid for it now.”

He nods, smoothing his hand over his mustache. He likes that answer. It’s how he felt, too.

“This is gonna be like living a different life, baby,” Hangman tells you, crossing his arms. “You won’t even remember what life was like before once you really get into the thick of it.”

That sounds good to you. That sounds very, very good to you.

“Groovy,” you answer. “Not much life to remember before, anyway.”

He thinks he remembers Dennis saying something about you being from some desolate, nowhere state. God, he thinks he can remember Dennis saying something about a farm, too, but maybe he just made that up. No way you’re from a farm--they don’t make girls like you there.

Rooster is mulling over to the bar, keeping his ears perked to listen in on your conversation with Jake. Jake is like a brother to Rooster--Rooster took him under his wing a handful of years ago when Jake was just breaking into the scene. And because Hangman is like a brother to Rooster, Rooster knows that Jake has a bit of an issue with nose candy. It’s a rather new thing that Rooster’s noticed, only in the past couple months or so, but it’s definitely something that’s happened. Rooster knows all about nose candy--which is why he is so vehemently against doing it himself again.

“What brings you around, Hangman?” Rooster calls, popping open a bottle of Aperol. “Not that I’m not jazzed.”

Hangman, legs spread and fists resting on his thighs, leans back in his lounger and glances at Rooster.

“Wanted to talk about the party,” Hangman calls back. “See who’s coming.”

Hangman also wanted to talk about this new broad Dennis has been going on and on about, but you’re standing right in front of him.

“The usual,” Rooster answers, slicing an orange. “Anyone can come. Same as always.”

Hangman nods. His fingers are starting to tingle, his nose is starting to burn. You’re just watching the two of them, letting your chin submerge in the water so you just breathe through your nose.

After shrugging on his paisley pool-robe, Rooster crosses the concrete again and hands Hangman his drink. Then he sits back down on the edge of the pool and nods for you to retrieve the orange he carried over for you.

“You’re gonna prune, kid,” he says to you, eyebrows raised.

You’re swimming towards him, grinning. You take the orange from his hand and press a chaste kiss to his mouth before burrowing your thumb through the soft skin of the orange.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” Hangman excuses, jumping out of his seat and wandering inside the house.

Rooster knows what he’s going to do in there--you don’t, not yet. For now, you’re oblivious, just eating your orange in the pool and tossing the discarded skin on the hot concrete beside Rooster.

“That’s Jake,” Rooster says to you, fingering a piece of orange skin. He watches the realization dawn on you, orange juice dripping from out mouth and onto your chest and into the water around you. “You picking up what I’m laying down?”

“I get you,” you answer softly.

You’re perplexed. Hangman seems fine. He seems chipper, even. You can absolutely imagine fucking Jake--he doesn’t seem like the boys you saw back home, the ones who didn’t care much to be alive anymore.

When Jake skips out of the house a few minutes later, there’s a new energy about him. He’s grinning something fierce, practically vibrating with excitement. He feels good--his heart is racing the way he likes it to, his ears have that slight ring, and he just feels fucking good.

“Room in that pool for two, Cherry-berry?”

Cherry-berry. It tickles you.

You chew the rest of your orange carefully, nodding with a smile. The juice is sweet and tangy on your tongue; it makes your belly warm.

“Fab,” Hangman answers. He starts stripping just beside Rooster, letting all his clothes fall in a heap on the concrete. “Get in with us, Rooster!”

Rooster can see the white powder dusted across Jake’s mustache. Jake is moving with a rapidity that can only stem from taking a bump--even if Rooster already knew that’s what he was doing, it’s good to have confirmation. Jake hasn’t really been trying to hide it these days, not that anyone really does. Rooster did whenever he did it--but that was a long time ago.

“Hangman,” Rooster says quietly.

Jake’s gaze lands on Rooster’s easily--his pupils are blown and he’s naked now. Rooster just subtly swipes a finger across his own mustache and nods at Jake. But Jake gets the memo immediately, carefully dusting his stache off and swiping his finger across his gums.

You watch the interaction curiously, tilting your head.

But then you go back to admiring Hangman’s naked body. He looks like California the same way Rooster does--carved out of marble, his form broad and serious. He’s flaccid right now--it’s not a sight you’re used to. But even in its softness, you find a certain beauty in the natural state of being.

Then Hangman grins at you.

“I feel like me and you are gonna get along just fine, Cherry,” he tells you, pointing to you. He’s suddenly much more energetic than he was before, his smile impossibly wider and brighter. “Fuck swimming. Wanna fuck instead?”

Rooster glances at you, a frown tugging at his lips. He loves Jake--really, he does. He’s the closest thing to family that Rooster has. He always brings good wine to parties and fought in a pointless war because it was a duty placed upon him by the big guys.

But for some reason, he really wish Hangman wasn’t here right now. Things have been blissful between you and Rooster the past few days: in between fucking, the two of you have talked politics and literature and art. You’ve ate dinner together and watched whatever spaghetti Western’s have been playing on the television. You’ve watched the television sign off every night together, which Rooster hasn’t done since he was young. Strangely, he just wants to preserve that. Not that it’s going to be possible in your line of work. He knows he’s being stupid. He knows it. So, he says nothing.

You bite your lip, raking your eyes across Hangman’s body again.

“Sure,” you answer. “Practice makes perfect.”

It isn’t uncommon for Rooster’s friends to talk about this so openly in front of him, even if they’re at his house. Especially Jake--he’s shameless. Rooster’s grown comfortable with sex surrounding him on all fronts, especially when Jake shows up.

Rooster stays sitting on the edge of the pool, sipping on another Tom Collins, as you take Jake through the house and lead him into your bedroom. He fiddles with the orange peels you left behind and thinks about you between his legs, asking him if he’s ever been in love.

Jake doesn’t waste any time when you get into the spare room across from Rooster’s, the one you’ve been sleeping in. The room is the nicest you’ve ever had--big windows that you keep open to let the evening breeze float through, a gargantuan waterbed that curves around your body, dark walnut furniture that you have precisely no use for, and a big fluffy rug that feels like feathers on your perpetually-bare toes. Your room back home was little more than an antique mattress and magazine cutouts on the wall; and you were sleeping on the pullout portion of Jenny’s trundle bed when you were staying with your aunt.

He holds your naked body close to his, your skin still slick with chlorinated water. He kisses you ferociously, all tongue and teeth and spit. And you’re kissing him right back, already keening at the hardening of his cock against your belly.

“Nice to meet you,” Hangman mumbles against your lips. He leaves a sloppy trail of kisses across your jaw and down your throat as you reach down and begin to pump him in your hand. He groans against your skin. “Where you from again? Mississippi?”

“Nebraska,” you breathe out. He cups your breasts and pinches your nipples hard enough for you to gasp out--it arouses you that he’s being so precise and rough. “Where are you from?”

“Texas,” he mutters, sucking softly on your collarbone.

“I can spot a cowboy from a mile away,” you breathe, thumbing the pearl of precum that’s dripping from the head of Jake’s cock. He’s big like Rooster, too--maybe a bit thinner and longer, but still sizable. Your mouth is watering. “You ever go by Tex?”

“Not after Manson,” he answers, leaning down to capture your pert nipple between his lips. He suckles harshly, bucking his hips up to meet yours. “Jesus.”

“Forgot about that,” you mumble.

Jake reaches down, everything moving in hyperspeed for him, and dips his fingers between your legs. You’re aroused already, aroused enough that the pads of his fingers slip easily around your clit. You bite into his shoulder, intense flames of pleasure licking your heels instantly.

This is the kind of sex that you’re used to. This is the type of sex you would have back home, except much less exciting. But this is how quickly the men and boys used to move back home--spitting in their cupped hands and smearing it over your cunt and rutting into you before their wives could come out of the grocery store or before their lunch break ended.

Rooster is sitting at the bar now, making himself another Tom Collins. He still has a little piece of your orange peel in his grip, pressing it between his fingers. He’s changed the record--now, It’s Your Thing by the Isley Brothers is playing. It’s louder now, too. There’s something heavy sitting on his chest--something that feels similar to envy. But he knows he’s being stupid; he’s had you all to himself since you were discovered.

And you are not his. You are thoroughly not his.

Jake sits down on the edge of the bed, gripping your hips and guiding you to him. He presses into you easily, securing your back against his chest and sighing deeply when your warmth surrounds him.

You feel good--you feel very good. He knows he’s high right now, he knows every one of his senses is heightened, but this feels like fucking magic. You’re warm and soft everywhere, letting your wet hair fall over his shoulder as you tip your head back. He feels good, too--he’s quicker, rougher than Rooster but it isn’t something you necessarily mind at all. He’s holding onto you tightly, already thrusting rapidly.

“Feel so good,” Jake mutters to you, kissing your exposed throat feverishly. “So fucking tight, baby. Been giving this to Rooster all week, huh? Holding out on me.”

You’re grinning--not just because he’s making you smile but because you love this. You love that you just met this man and that you were naked and no one cared and now you’re fucking. And after you’re done fucking, once that itch has been scratched, you’re gonna get back in the pool and have a few more drinks.

“Jealous, Cowboy? I just met you,” you moan out, hooking your legs over his so you’re spread.

His hand wanders down and lands on your clit easily, his strokes rapid and inexact, but you don’t care. Sex has never been about cumming for you.

“Maybe we’ve known each other all along,” Jake mutters, pressing himself deeply inside of you. You keen, squeeze around him and he bites into your shoulder to lessen his groan. “Like some sort of hippie-dippie shit.”

“You’re just saying that cause you like fucking me.”

“Mind your potatoes,” Jake grunts.

This definitely isn’t Jake’s first time having sex with someone within minutes of meeting them, especially not in his business. And this isn’t his first time fucking this high or even fucking in this bedroom. You can tell all of this somehow the same way he can tell that you’re no novice. No chance in Hell with the way you’re grinding yourself against him and keeping up with his pace.

“How long have you been in the industry?” You ask.

He chuckles dryly, settling his sweaty forehead against your neck. His nose is running, but he doesn’t care--he won’t let anything interrupt the pace he’s set.

The two of you seem to be in some sort of unspoken stand-off, asking each other questions and seeing who can fuck and answer at the same time.

“Since ‘73,” he mutters, digging his fingers into your hips when you clench particularly hard around him. He’s still circling your clit and you’re still moving your hips against his expertly. “After I got back.”

You know what he’s talking about. But you don’t know if he should know that.

“How’d you get started?”

His thrusts are starting to falter, stuttering. He’s close.

“Red, let’s talk about this later,” he groans. He moves to hold onto the crease of your hips and starts to guide your body down onto his cock over and over again as he pants against your skin. “Fuck, where should I cum?”

“Inside,” you pant.

He’s touching a spot deep inside of you, one that was opened up by your legs spreading, one that you always want to be caressed and pressed against. You’re moaning out, letting him guide your hips up and down against his rapidly.

You don’t have to tell Jake twice. He spills into you after a few lazy thrusts, holding down harshly on your body before letting your body relax against his. You’re both panting, your chests flushed.

“Trying to trap me or something?” Jake asks, playfully biting the slope of your shoulder.

Laughing, you shake your head.

Your hair is still dripping down both of your bodies. It smells like chlorine and cum in here now.

“Can’t make babies,” you mutter, swallowing hard. “Doctor said I’m twisted up in there.”

Jake lets his flat palm press against your chest.

“Here?” He asks. He’s teasing you of course.

You bite your lip. Your throat feels thick for a moment.

“Yeah,” you answer.

He laughs, then. Sometimes he’s accidentally cruel when he’s this high--all semblance of the Southern gentleman he really is fades and is replaced with someone with blown pupils and a bloody nose.

“Right on, Cherry.”

Jake stays for a long time.

The three of you swim around until the sun sets low in the hills, the sky painted an obscene shade of orange. You drink your Harvey Wallbangers, Hangman drinks his Aperol spritzes, and Rooster drinks his Tom Collins. Rooster picks a Fleetwood Mac record and dances with you on the concrete, both of you bare-naked while Hangman takes a couple more bumps in the privacy of the spare bathroom. Rooster makes everyone steak as you and Hangman scour the record collection and sip on brandy--which Rooster considers to be an evening drink.

By the end of the night, when the red waters in the pool glow beneath the pristine light of the moon, all of you are drunk. Hangman is high and drunk, but that doesn’t put a damper on his mood. Everyone’s lazing on the couch, half-dressed, telling stories about porn stars before and after them.

All day, you’ve had that warm feeling in your chest. It’s the feeling you get whenever you now that you’re somewhere you belong. And you know, with your entire heart, that this is where you belong.

“You ever been in love, Hangman?” You ask, combing your fingers through Rooster’s hair. He’s sitting on the floor before you, his limbs strewn about like spilled liquid. He’s very drunk--drunker than he’s been in a while. And he’s drinking in your touch and attention, absently rubbing circles on your bare foot as he lets his cheek rest against your knee. “I asked the old man earlier. Your turn.”

Hangman is laying across from you on his back, a tall glass of brandy balanced on the flat of his chest. Everything is fuzzy around him and he’s heavy and warm. No way he’s gonna be able to get up--let alone drive home. He’s gonna crash here tonight, he already knows it.

“You first,” Hangman declares, his head lulling as he glances at you.

He’s struck by how easily you and Rooster have seemed to click. There is some sort of immediate connection between the two of you, which Hangman doesn’t often see with Rooster. Rooster is like everyone’s dad, really--and he’s guarded about who he’ll spend his time with. But here Rooster is, drunker than a skunk, holding onto your calf and leaning against you as you play with his hair.

“No,” you answer. You point to your chest and shrug. All twisted up in there. “No from Rooster too, right, big guy?”

Rooster nods. Your fingers feel too good in his hair--you’ve rendered him silent. He’s so drunk that he doesn’t even comment on your new nickname for him: big guy.

“Once, I think,” Hangman slurs. “His name was Gentry. We were in the same…well, anyway. We never said it to each other. But I think I knew and I think he knew.”

You’re drunk--drunker than you’ve ever been, maybe. But you’re slightly more sober than Rooster and Hangman. You have had a significant amount less brandy than they have. So you see it when Hangman’s eyes get glossy, when his pupils shrink. You see it when the glass of brady starts to rise and fall rapidly.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” You ask.

You wonder if this is what it’s like to be good friends with someone. This feels like what girls at slumber parties talk about--which is something you missed out on entirely. But there is such a warmth in your throat right now, such a sense of admiration for both of these men here. It could be the alcohol--or that hippie-dippie shit Hangman was talking about.

“Oh, he died,” Hangman answers casually, tutting. “Bam! Landmine. All gone, Gentry. Later days, man!”

Hangman starts to laugh, his mouth wide open and his throat flushed.

And even as drunk as you are, as abstract as this all seems, you understand that this is not a normal reaction. You understand that this laughter is not born from humor and that gloss over his eyes isn’t just because of the aperol or the brandy or the coke.

Rooster told you earlier that he doesn’t like talking about it. You don’t know if Hangman is talking to you about it because he’s so out of his mind right now or if it’s because of how the two of you have clicked today.

You detangle yourself from Rooster--he’s almost asleep now, his eyelids heavy and your fingers as good as a wool blanket and warm glass of milk. He comes to a bit more as you crawl across the sofa gracefully, just a t-shirt covering your body. He watches you, his vision bleary, as you move the glass of brandy and lay your body on top of Hangman’s. You’re lying entirely parallel on top of him, holding him close to you. Rooster’s chest is starting to hurt. He misses your fingers in his hair, your skin beneath his thumb.

Hangman is surprised for a moment when you move his glass away and even more surprised when you lay down on top of him. For a moment, he thinks you’re initiating sex and moves to pull your t-shirt up since he’s always game. But then you’re just still, your arms wrapped around him and your cheek against his shoulder. He doesn't know what to do--but he suddenly feels bad for laughing. Gentry. Gentry.

His heart is racing below your ear. Your eyes are growing heavy at the sound, the constant and erratic beating. Hangman isn’t moving and neither are you. You don’t know what you’re doing, but it feels right.

You fall asleep there and so does Hangman, the lights in the room low and the record spinning soundlessly. And Rooster watches.

☿ 𝐚/𝐧: I'm not going to tell you all a story. I grew up in a very religious household--AKA my mom is a bible thumper and my dad is Jewish but my mom decided that all her kids were gonna be Jesus freaks--and I went to church every Sunday. like I was the kid that was like yeah, my mom said you can stay the night tonight but you have to go to church with us in the morning! and then my mom was like baptism time! and on THREE different occasions when they tried to baptize me...something went wrong. TWICE the water boiled. ONCE the pool was drained mysteriously. and the hospital I was born at burned down. why am I telling you this? I think it's bc God knew I was going to write this story and knew better than to grant me entrance.

☿ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

☿ 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠

☿ 𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐚𝐫𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐳-𝐕𝐨𝐮𝐬

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mariacallous · 1 month ago

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Almost one in five Americans over age 65 are unable to manage basic activities of daily life—bathing, dressing, eating, toileting—without assistance. Among those over age 85, the proportion is closer to half. Friends and family members can and do help out, but even so, about half of people reaching the age of 65-years of age will use paid long-term services and supports (LTSS) at some point. Most Americans do not have enough income or savings to cover these costs. The private long-term care insurance industry has never worked well despite many creative efforts to fix it and to encourage enrollment. The Federal Medicare program covers only short spells of home care after a hospitalization and does not provide coverage for long-term support. That leaves Medicaid. Medicaid offers a critical long-term care safety net for people who get their healthcare primarily through Medicaid—but it isn’t a good solution for most Medicare beneficiaries as it doesn’t align with the system that manages their care and pays their providers. Moreover, eligibility for Medicaid is restricted to those with very low incomes and few assets, so few older adults qualify. It is well past time to add a universal home care program to Medicare itself.

Prior efforts to move in this direction have been stymied. Some proponents have called for a universal, open-ended benefit. Critics have argued that any universal home care benefit would be a budget buster. These tensions are ubiquitous in social program design. An additional tension in designing a program that serves people towards the end of their lives is that public funds should be focused on expanding access to necessary care rather than protecting the ability of people to leave large bequests to their children. Designing a fiscally responsible, universal benefit that does all that is a challenging task—but we believe it is not an impossible one. In this post, we describe some design options for a Medicare home care benefit that could be dialed up or down depending on the priority assigned to program generosity or fiscal feasibility.

Several features make designing a universal home care benefit challenging.

The need for home care is based on measures of functioning, not lab tests. A program must have simple and reliable ways to measure who needs care and how much care they need.

Most people report a preference for care in their own homes over that in nursing homes or other institutional settings. This is because, unlike medical care, which is often unpleasant and painful, home care typically provides support, comfort, and a degree of safety for beneficiaries. One consequence of these preferences is that a home care benefit would be susceptible to overspending. The program will need to have measures in place to avoid overuse.

Income alone is a poor indicator of how much Medicare beneficiaries can afford to pay for home care. For example, beneficiaries who are renters may depend on their incomes to afford housing; other beneficiaries may have very large, non-liquid assets but limited incomes, leaving them ineligible for Medicaid programs while unable to pay for care. Program design will have to address the importance of assets in this population.

Much LTSS is provided through informal care. Beneficiaries often prefer care provided by family members, but paying for informal care raises the potential for overspending, fraud, and exploitation of older adults.

State Medicaid programs currently cover the cost of home care for 4.2 million people, according to KFF, though eligibility and costs vary considerably across the country. Medicaid would continue to provide home and community-based services for people who are not Medicare beneficiaries. Some of this spending could be redeployed by states to improve the quality of nursing home care and for home and community-based services for people who are not eligible for Medicaid. The federal share of Medicaid savings could be used to defray the costs of a new Medicare home care program.

None of these challenges can be ignored—but none of them are damning either. As with any program, policymakers will need to make tradeoffs across these challenges to design a program that provides the maximum benefits consistent with their budget appetite. The good news is that the current landscape of home care financial protections is so limited that even a modest program that made conservative choices across these parameters, with costs we estimate at around $40 billion annually, would make many people who currently lack services much better off. Turning the dials more generously would, of course, cost more—and it would extend more benefits to more frail and vulnerable Medicare beneficiaries.

What might such a very-conservatively designed universal program look like? Eligibility for the program would be restricted to people who independent clinical reviewers determined were unable to perform two activities of daily living (e.g., bathing, toileting, or eating). That’s the standard that many State Medicaid programs already use, and it could be assessed annually during the initial implementation period to further develop and monitor the uniformity of functional assessments over time. Second, the program would include cost-sharing that varied according to people’s means. Medicare beneficiaries with high income and assets would receive modest assistance from the program to defray a portion of the costs of home care; those with fewer assets and less income would pay much less. Third, beneficiary contributions to the costs of their care would depend on both their current income and their accumulated assets, but through cost-sharing rather than a strict cutoff. For example, at the cost listed above, we could allow all qualifying Medicare beneficiaries to fully retain income up to 150% of the poverty line ($22,600 in 2024) and assets up to $30,000; beyond that limit, individuals would still qualify but would pay cost-sharing out of their resources to defray taxpayer costs. Fourth, only care provided by formal caregivers associated with home care agencies would be covered. Hours of support would be based on need, but provider agencies would be subject to a population-based hours of service budget. The combination of resource-based copayments with population-level budgeting will ensure that the costs of this program will not explode. Finally, Federal Medicaid savings from shifting home care benefits from Medicaid to Medicare would be used to defray the costs of the program.

The program we’ve outlined tightly focuses benefits on the most vulnerable people who currently have little eligibility for care, and few means to pay for services. But many others could also benefit from a new home care program. People who have impaired functioning that does not meet the two activities of daily living standard may also need assistance. Lower cost-sharing for middle-class people would leave them more resources to make the most of their lives. The tradeoff is simple: at a higher cost to the federal budget, more people would get more protection. We can’t define where the lines should be drawn—that’s Congress’s job—but our analysis suggests that there are programmatically tractable, fiscally feasible ways to add a home care benefit to the Medicare program.

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industrynewsupdates · 1 month ago

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Nurse Call Systems Market Key Companies, Growth and Forecast Report, 2030

The global nurse call systems market size was valued at USD 1.7 billion in 2022 and is expected to expand at a compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 12.11% from 2023 to 2030.

The growing need for a diverse and integrated platform that increases the preference for mobility aids are driving the market. Medicare decides to refund schemes based on quality and outcome rather than quantity owing to the rising healthcare cost. Medicare estimates that current reimbursement practices are costing an additional USD 2.1 billion and expects to curtail this by using technology-focused healthcare. With this change in reimbursement policies, hospitals and other healthcare facilities are trying to streamline their workflow processes by adopting technology-oriented nurse call systems.

Nurse call systems enable reliable and flexible communication between the patient and the caregiver. Increasing patient numbers in healthcare facilities and the introduction of advanced ways to expand communication, workflow, and management to provide quality patient care are fueling the market growth. The market is primarily driven by technological advancements that have allowed players to create innovative devices. For instance, in December 2019, Tunstall Group launched Tunstall Carecom, a wireless and digital nurse call system.

Gather more insights about the market drivers, restrains and growth of the Nurse Call Systems Market

Blood Screening Market Report Highlights

• The reagent segment accounted for the largest revenue share of around 73.0% in 2022 and is expected to grow at the fastest CAGR of 12.0% over the forecast period.

• North America dominated the market and accounted for the largest revenue share of 39.0% in 2022 owing to the presence of key industry players, increased adoption of the blood screening process, stringent FDA regulations for transfusion, rising infectious disease prevalence, and greater patient affordability are responsible for maintaining its position during the forecast period.

• Asia Pacific is expected to grow at the fastest CAGR of 13.5% over the forecast period owing to increasing awareness about blood donation, rising patient affordability, and the focus of key industry players on emerging countries in the region.

Browse through Grand View Research's Medical Devices Industry Research Reports.

• The global emergency medical services product market size was valued at USD 22.5 billion in 2023 and is projected to grow at a compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 6.4% from 2024 to 2030.

• The global scanning electron microscopes market size was valued at USD 4.34 billion in 2023 and is expected to grow at a compound annual growth rate (CAGR) of 8.6% from 2024 to 2030.

Blood Screening Market Segmentation

Grand View Research has segmented the blood screening market by product, technology, and region:

Blood Screening Technology Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• Nucleic Acid Amplification Test (NAT)

• ELISA

• Chemiluminescence Immunoassay (CLIA) and Enzyme Immunoassay (EIA)

• Next Generation Sequencing

• Western Blotting

Blood Screening Product Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• Reagent

• Instrument

Blood Screening Regional Outlook (Revenue, USD Million, 2018 - 2030)

• North America

o U.S.

o Canada

• Europe

o UK

o Germany

o France

o Italy

o Spain

o Sweden

o Norway

o Denmark

• Asia Pacific

o Japan

o China

o India

o Australia

o Thailand

o South Korea

• Latin America

o Brazil

o Mexico

o Argentina

• Middle East and Africa

o Saudi Arabia

o South Africa

o UAE

o Kuwait

Order a free sample PDF of the Nurse Call Systems Market Intelligence Study, published by Grand View Research.

#Nurse Call Systems Market #Nurse Call Systems Market size #Nurse Call Systems Market share #Nurse Call Systems Market analysis #Nurse Call Systems Industry

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theoreticallysensible · 1 year ago

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The Power and Purpose of Strikes

Simone Weil, the philosopher/anarchist/mystic, describing an ideal political future for France after WW2, lamented that trade unions have become primarily concerned with wages. This might seem strange to us now, when even this activity is so contested by conservatives, but Weil saw it as playing too much into the capitalist spirit.

She saw this as just one of trade unions’, and the worst of the lot, because it encourages workers to think about personal monetary gain rather than justice, solidarity, and even their own needs beyond the material. It also risks the union becoming institutionalised through frequent direct interactions with established economic forces. Again, this will sound weird today, given how unions fighting for wages represent one of the few remaining avenues for working class justice, and yeah Weil was a Catholic with strong convictions about the importance of moralism, but I think fundamentally she had higher hopes than we can easily imagine today.

I think a lot of people sense the truth of what she says today - though unfortunately it’s usually conservatives, who would turn back on it immediately if they recognised what it was they were saying. You see it when they say “Why are train drivers striking? Why are writers striking? Why do they think they deserve more than nurses, or posties, or actors?” And of course, the answer is: “They should strike too!” (As some of them now are 🎉). But it’s true that the narrow focus on wages does foster a sort of competitive individualism which can undermine solidarity with other industries. This means that a more revolutionary conception of unions is needed, which is not what these critics have in mind, but it is what Simone Weil has in mind.

What Weil sees in trade unions is the potential for fostering community, freedom of intellectual and spiritual thought, and a degree of independence from capitalism, all of which amount to a greater degree of what she calls ‘rootedness’ - something involving confidence in truth, having material needs met, security in community, and relative freedom (among other things). She saw them as being able to foster solidarity to meet workers’ need for community, free them from the corrupting influence of monetary concerns, and fight for justice as a group. She also hoped that they could provide a space for freedom of thought, to avoid the fetishisation of community she saw in both the French and Russian revolutions.

Trade unions then should not merely concern themselves with accumulating resources, but also with accumulating time and freedom - with the expansion of what Henri Lefebvre called everyday life, the time in which we are free to do what we want and create new types of experiences. When we have enough of it, we can build our own institutions free from capitalist influence which can form the infrastructure for disruptive situations. This can be mutual aid groups, creative projects, intellectual and spiritual communities, and reimaginings of what it means to work, through permablitzing, learning crafts, and starting co-operatives.

The ideal version of this is the general strike. Walter Benjamin described the general strike as a form of divine violence, violence which acts instantaneously, bloodlessly, without coercion. Rather than sort of blackmailing capitalists, as most strikes do, the general strike is (ideally) a complete disengagement with the entire capitalist system. It asks nothing of it, and simply makes it irrelevant by building entirely new social relations in its place. This is not at all feasible with where we are at the moment, but I like to think that it can be used as an inspiration for incorporating more utopian ideas into our more limited actions, all of which are still so radical in this current climate.

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throwaway-yandere · 1 year ago

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I want to be honest (no this has nothing to do with fics lmao youll get it as scheduled)

This post is an explanation as to why I consider myself as "retired". I know I've said it's because of studies, but that'll be 1/3 of the truth. I want to talk about the true three real reasons why, and I'll do my best to be straight to the point. This isn't a cry for help (I swear to the heavens it is NOT). This is just to clear out assumptions.

Here's the other two reasons:

Grief & Mental Health

Writing itself & interactions

Grief & Mental Health:

I'll pour my heart out, so I'm sorry if it's long. As I said, I'll be straight to the point, so: my grandfather around the first week of June. I remember how I received the news so vividly. I was listening to Two Birds while washing the dishes at 12 AM. My mom went down the stairs with my father, crying as they tell me the news that he's gone. We drove half an hour to the hospital where I get to pat his head one last time. I remember mindlessly wandering the hospital halls— I remember mindlessly using the free alcohol attached to a wall. I remember breaking down as I realized I just cleansed away the hand that last had contact with him. I remember every detail, from the ride home where I messaged my good college friend to tell her that she needs to be a good nurse because the public healthcare system in the country is awful. I remember silently hating everyone and everything. I remember thinking about how cruel it was that life took away the one relative who genuinely cared about me and I was sure was related to me by blood. I remember thinking how much I'm distant to everyone else on my mother's side except him. I remember feeling so empty. I remember not sleeping for two days straight.

But let's back track for a bit. Before his death, I did have one final conversation with him. He was sedated and tubed miserably. Deep down, I knew his time was coming. So, I just made jokes about how grandma was growing senile and mistook me for a nurse for ten whole minutes. Then, I thanked him for everything he's done, and told him I'll become an engineer. Just like him.

And now here I am, dorming 3 hours away from home. I dormed because I had nearly decided my life meant nothing after lack of sleep through daily commutes and workloads. But I am lonely and unwell. I don't know what I want in life. I don't know what I actually want to be, but I already shifted courses as a chemical engineering student. I was so stressed to the point I've accidentally cried to my chem professor in a phone call. I don't know what I'm doing with my scholarship and education if it's for no one. And I am scared that I'm draining my parents' already limited resource for nothing. That I'm wasting the scholarship my country had given me nothing. That I am wasting my people's taxes for nothing.

It was only when another friend told me that I seem to live my life based on other's decisions and opinions did I notice just why I'm incredibly miserable.

I know I don't have dreams for myself. And even if I did, how the hell will writing and drawing feed me in the future when the industry in this 3rd world country is absolute garbage?

I guess Asians really do the things they hate so they can get what they love. Okay, I'll stop making jokes.

I miss my long-time friends, Phitre and Frost. I also miss my old blockmates when I was a BSEd-Math student. I am too used to eating alone, studying alone, walking alone. I am too used to being an outsider. But I'm not used to silence. I'm not too used to hearing actual silence.

All I have is Discord and Messenger.

And even then, it's quiet.

Writing itself & Interactions

I love writing and drawing. I just hate posting it at this point, which is why I made another account that's purely interaction-based.

I love writing a lot— my happiness is turning shtposts into something terrifying. I don't like writing romances, I like the thrill instead. I like laughing like I'm Hubert from FE:TH after thinking of an evil plot twist.

But I hate posting it. Because I know, no matter how much effort I put it, it's not enough. No matter how long it is— no matter if you learned basic coding for it— drew art— made interactive google forms— it's just not enough. I literally made two long separate fics with different endings depending on your choices and it just performs less on something I didn't actually put anything on.

Lord.

Lord I hate Creative Differences for that. I finally understood why bands hate their hit songs because of that lol.

Don't comment something like "oh, you content creators are just whining—" I am whining. Why? Because we don't treat artists and writers like they're human enough. Like we're just uploading content and that we don't want to hear what the others have to say. I remember there was one ask telling me how they're gonna miss traumatizing their friend— and I'm just sitting there wondering "why didn't YOU tell me their reactions? Why are you making me feel like I'm talking to a brick wall for 2k words and more?" It's not their fault. I am not mad at this anon. They've done nothing wrong, but lord do I hate feeling like this.

I could follow "part 2???" requests, finish all my drafts for the events. But I know. I know the chances of the person who requested them won't actually answer after all the effort.

[insert Berkut's "all that effort, what is it all for?!" voice line from FE:Echoes here to lighten the mood]

But that aside.

It's just silence. Just notes, when I feel like comments are what matters more. I'm used to being alone, but I really hate silence. I hate it so much. That's why I'm always so grateful to the people who do interact often, and don't say that's not true because I can prove it. You can see me make content just for them, dedicate fics, art, everything. I love them, I love the "noise".

I know we all have lives, I know we're all busy, I know. I respect your time, I respect you.

And I think it's just time I respect myself as well.

So that's why I'm retired. No pressure on events (idol and letters), no pressure on anything. I'm actually taking my time in End Of Year Blues. It's nice.

Edit: I forgot to mention

My father hates that I write. He constantly tells me to stop it, to prioritize my academics, when writing is my only way of coping.

So.

Haha, what the hell do I even do anymore, right?

#tw: suicidal thoughts #tw: grieving #astrilde-talks #tw: mental health

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wen-kexing-apologist · 9 months ago

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LITBC Part Three: Now Introducing, Kylie

Okay, it looks like I get to talk about what I am now claiming is my incredible, dead-center accurate read on Young and how his relationships continue to falter. In Part One, I talked about how I believed one of the biggest reasons that Young and Jaehee slowly drifted apart in their friendship was because at some point Jaehee got serious and Young still could not allow himself to experience deep emotion, brushing everything off as a joke. Pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending it didn’t hurt.

And it’s curious to me because I feel like we got to see Young leaning in to the deeper emotions, the heavier pain during Part Two, but it wasn’t enough to alter him wholly, though considering how he describes his relationship with Gyu-ho as boring it seems like there are parts of him that are starting to change. Just…not enough because when it comes down to the actual tough, serious shit, he still can’t bring himself to feel it, to voice it. He can’t do anything but smile through it, and as someone who has dealt with people like that it is frustrating as fuck to try over and over again to be there for someone, to offer support, a listening ear, understanding and sincerity and just be met with a joke.

Maybe it’s just cause I’ve spent more time in his head now, or maybe it’s because he’s starting to loosen his grip just a little, but the death by a thousand paper cuts was really bleeding through the chapter for me in relation to Young and how he navigates his HIV diagnosis. To be clear, I do not mind that he calls it Kylie, that he has put his own name to it, that he considers is a part of him, that it’s almost like family to him. But that does not negate the fact that he does not ever say it. He never says “HIV” not once in the entirety of Part Three does he write the words HIV.

He describes it all, how he got it, what his symptoms are (his description of the fever and the red patches matches common symptoms of acute HIV to a T), he jokes about it with his friends, and otherwise he keeps it hidden, until Gyu-ho becomes important enough in his life that he has no choice but to tell him. And in all these instances Young is taking it harshly. His healthcare providers don’t deliver the news with care, going the homophobic route of asking Young what sex position he prefers while delivering his diagnosis.

You know what I find extremely interesting about this book so far is how terribly the healthcare industry has been presented. That is not to say there aren’t problems, there are plenty of problems with healthcare both systemic issues and individual provider issues, I am not necessarily trying to say he is wrong in his portrayal. I just noticed that in Part One we got Jaehee’s terrible shame-y doctor and Young’s terrible homophobic nurses, in Part Two we got the psychiatric facility that essentially tortured Young for six weeks before telling him his mother was actually the problem and offering him no additional support for what they had just put him through, in Part Three his providers are homophobic and not only that but Gyu-ho’s brother who is in medical school is described as the most dickish, vile, piece of shit to date.

Young’s HIV diagnosis definitely recontextualizes some stuff from Parts One and Two, (forgive me for not going in to further detail, I was brain foggy when I ready Part Two last week and can’t recall a lot from it off the top of my head) but moreover it adds an additional layer to Young’s utter refusal to let himself feel. Every aspect of Young’s HIV diagnosis is harsh, the healthcare providers who break the news are harsh, T-ara’s jokes about the HIV+ guy they see walking past after Young is essentially forced to out his status (want to just call out the parallel here between Young having to out himself in college and then having to out himself with friends) are harsh, the barriers that he faces and his fears of discrimination in the workforce are harsh. The only person who is ever soft about it is Gyu-ho.

And I do think that scares him, and where Young calls himself dickmatized for his boyfriend in Part Two, in Part Three he just keeps calling Gyu-ho cute, he and Gyu-ho live together for awhile, they split up but come back to one another, Young seems more settled. And honestly, I think that has a lot to do with the fact that they aren’t having sex.

I feel the need to clarify, since book club has a lot of people who I don’t think are as familiar with my essay content, that I am not anti-sex. I don’t think that Gyu-ho and Young’s relationship is as successful as it is for as long as it is because sex is morally wrong and they shouldn’t be doing it or anything like that. I think that the absence of sex in Gyu-ho and Young’s relationship forces Young to actually consider what a relationship looks like to him and what he wants out of it. The Young we met in Part One was a fuck-the-pain-away kind of person, he and Jaehee got along so well partially because they were both sluts and therefore knew they could talk about their sexual encounters without being shamed or judged.

In Part Two, Young really seems to use his boyfriend as a distraction from his mother and his mother’s treatments. He allows himself to ignore huge disparities in his relationship for some dick, he changes parts of himself for some dick, he attempts suicide after losing that dick. As the wise @bengiyo always says, dick is not magical, it cannot fix you. And Young really has to reckon with that in Part Three when he gets in to a relationship with a man who actually feels things, unlike himself, unlike Jaehee, unlike his ex because Young can’t use sex as a crutch.

Full disclosure, I hadn’t heard about condom-associated erectile problems (CAEP) until reading this book. Had no clue that was a thing before. Bearing in mind that these studies are over a decade old, studies have shown that erection loss can occur in roughly 14-28% of people during condom application. At the time of Part Three, pre-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP) which helps minimize the chances of acquiring HIV should you be exposed to the virus was not on the market in South Korea. Truvada and Descovy are the two branded PrEP medications, Truvada has been on drug markets since 2004 (when it was taken in combination with other medications) but was not approved for use without other med combinations in the United States until 2012, the first CDC guidelines for Truvada usage came out in 2014, and Truvada did not hit South Korean drug markets until 2018 with Descovy following close behind in 2019. PrEP is an incredibly important drug in HIV prevention because it reduces the risk of acquiring HIV via by up to 99% (and reduces the chance of getting HIV from injection drug use by 75%!)

If PrEP had been around at the time, it would have been expensive and likely unaffordable for at a time when Gyu-ho’s income was helping to support not only himself by Young as well (Truvada in South Korea cost over $10 a pill and must be taken daily, so Gyu-ho would have had to shell out $300 a month for the medication alone). Compare that to the first antiretroviral treatment (ART) in South Korea, zidovudine which is supplied for free by the South Korean government, or their highly-active antiretroviral treatment (HAART) which was covered by insurance. Studies have shown that triple combination therapy, that is three different medications, were able to reduce HIV to undetectable levels within one month for 70% of patients and to 90% of patients within one year. Considering Young’s mention of liver protection medication, he is likely on a triple combination therapy.

Is this a tangent? Yes. But did this all make me realize something? Also yes. Young never gets a blood test. With a consistent HAART regimen this is an extremely high likelihood that Young would have had an undetectable viral load. For those of you who don’t know how human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) works, the virus destroys white blood cells in your body which are used to fight infections, with a compromised immune system the chances of acquiring additional infectious diseases are high as are the chances of having extremely bad cases of those infectious diseases increasing your chance of death from things like pneumonia, or in a lot of HIV to AIDS progression cases kaposi’s sarcoma which is a type of cancer.

The success of antiretroviral treatments is measured by how low of a viral load a person has (think of it like measuring how much HIV you have in you). Viral load is measured through blood work. When the viral load is low enough it becomes undetectable and when a person is undetectable they are untransmittable (U = U) meaning they cannot give HIV to their sexual partner. The U = U campaign didn’t really take off until 2016, so it is still entirely possible that had Young been undetectable at the time that he still would not know that he could not transmit the virus to Gyu-ho. But he never got a blood test.

All of which is an extremely long winded way of saying that Gyu-ho had infrequent success at remaining erect while wearing a condom resulting in infrequent penetrative sexual encounters with Young because the best way to prevent transmission of HIV is through condom usage. But The King of Kings of Avoidant Personalities sent Gyu-ho to his first blood test and withdrew his job application and essentially forced Gyu-ho to break up with him rather than get the second blood test. So it is likely, and honestly very highly likely that any concerns Young had about the lack of sex he and Gyu-ho were having could have been solved by Young getting his bloodwork done and keeping an eye on his viral load.

This of course also assumes that Young is keeping up with pretty meticulously with his treatment regimen, which he most likely is not. Inconsistent medication adherence not only makes it more likely that Young’s viral load would never reach undetectable levels, but also increases his risk of his HIV infection mutating and becoming resistant to antiretroviral treatments. Which is…bad.

So let’s say that his viral load never reached undetectable levels, or they didn’t know U = U, and the condom problem still existed. Maybe it is just a western lens coming in to this, but I think with all the queer media I’ve consumed, with all the queer people I am around on a daily basis the dilemma that Young seems to be carrying around knowing that Gyu-ho wants to have sex and that his CAEP and Young’s status makes that very difficult I see and understand where the barrier comes in. But because Young never talks about anything, especially what is troubling him, there is no room to really talk about solutions to that problem. I think about relationship structures like polyamory or open relationships. I think about a number of non-penetrative ways they could have had sex or how they could have used sex toys. But again, I don’t have the cultural context to understand what gay culture is/was like in Korea, and I know these are not solutions that always work for everyone anyways.

But just like we will never know if Young was undetectable before Gyu-ho left for Shanghai, we will never know if alternative solutions to sex would have been feasible for this couple because Young whether through circumstance or his own volition is constantly trapped between a rock and a hard place. He won’t engage in open communication with Gyu-ho, he won’t be vulnerable with Gyu-ho, so he doesn’t know how the lack of sex is impacting Gyu-ho in their relationship. He doesn’t want to experience discrimination based on his HIV status and possibly lose out on a job so instead he blows up all chances of getting that job by withdrawing his application so that he doesn’t have to get tested. Not getting tested means he doesn’t have an accurate gauge of his health, which means he doesn’t have an accurate gauge of how safe it would be to have unprotected sex with Gyu-ho, which perpetuates the cycle.

Young is running from his feelings, running from his pain, his loneliness, his fear. In Part One, Young and Jaehee started to drift apart after Young was not able to treat Jaehee’s abortion with sincerity; in Part Three, Young and Gyu-ho drift apart because Young is so scared of his HIV that he can’t even look it in the eye. He can’t even call it by its name.

#love in the big city #love in the big city book club #litbc book club #litbc #litbc meta #litbc analysis #love in the big city meta #love in the big city analysis #sorry not sorry for the PrEP and ART tangents #wka long post

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