#that's not very nice and kind of you Mr. Pelvic Area

[dredshirtroberts]

dry swallowing pills is my stupidest flex. i'm not even showing off anymore i'm just impatient

[softboywriting]

Summer Heat Part 8

Synopsis: A fic where you and Shawn are camp councilors and you hate his guts. Sexual tension ensues. Part 1  | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

You can see Shawn’s house at the end of the street as you pass your own. You look to see if anyone is home as the car passed your place and there isn’t. It’s a Monday so your mom would be at work and your brothers at school. It’s strange being so close to your house but not being able to go home. You suppose you could probably go in the backdoor, you had your keys, and you could get anything you might need while you’re at Shawn’s but you decide you probably shouldn’t in the event that your nosy neighbor Betty might see you. She would rat you out about everything in high school, you really hated her.

Shawn pulls his car into the driveway, opening the garage door with the button on his visor. He pulls in and you look at the loads of sports equipment on the walls next to yard tools and various other home hardware. There are bats, lacrosse sticks, a handful of hockey sticks and a variety of helmets hung by their face guards. “I didn’t know you played so many sports,” you say as you open the door and get out.

“Yeah, I’ve played a few I guess,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his head nervously. “I guess my dad doesn’t want to get rid of anything just in case.” He opens the trunk and pulls out both of your bags, leaving his in there and just grabbing his guitar case.

You sling your backpack over your shoulder and follow him up the steps to the door in front of the car with your suitcase in tow. He pushes open the door and an alarm starts beeping. You freeze and he drops his guitar case on the tiled floor just inside the door before taking off into the house. After a second the beeping stops and he comes back. “Security system?” you ask, peeking your head in, hoping it wasn’t going to go off again when you stepped in.

“Dad must have armed it before he left. We don’t usually arm the garage door but since no one was home I guess he thought better to be safe than sorry.” Shawn takes your suitcase and drags it into the kitchen. He closes the door behind you and puts his hands on his hips. “Welcome to my house,” he laughs and makes a sweeping gesture to the room.

You look around the kitchen and out into the open floor plan of the connecting living room. It’s gorgeous, well decorated and clean. It looks kind of like one of those homes you see on those remodel shows. “Your house is really nice....damn,” you walk around the big kitchen island and peek down the hall to your right. “I wish my house was this nice. My brothers destroy everything.”

Shawn laughs, comes around and grabs your hand. He leads you down the hall past a few open bedrooms and to a door that goes downstairs. He continues down the stairs and you see the basement open up into a big family room. It’s huge and there is a massive tv on the wall with two pit sofas lining the wall opposite. There’s even a kitchenette in the corner complete with a small oven/stove combo and a fridge. Shawn takes you past the living area to a door behind the stairwell and it opens to a dark room. He flips the light on and you see a couple guitars on the wall, a bed in the corner is a complete mess, there’s a computer set up on your left with a mic and a keyboard hooked up to it. There are purple and blue scarves with intricate patterns hanging like posters around the walls his bed touches. It’s such a cool room, very chill and relaxed feeling.

“Is this you room?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

Shawn shifts nervously, stepping in and trying to straighten his bed spread. It was interesting to see him act so reserved because since camp started he had been Mr. Confident. “Yeah, sorry I forgot about cleaning up before I left.”

You laugh and close the door behind you. He was acting shy because he room was a little messy. Gods he was cute. “It’s great,” you pick up a picture on his dresser and see it’s of him holding some kind of trophy in one hand and flexing, arms curled up in a ‘look at these guns’ pose. You chuckle to yourself before putting it back down. “You’re sure you want me to stay here?”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” he says as he walks toward you and wraps his arms around you from behind. “Nothing could make me want to send you home.” He kisses your shoulder and noses against your hair. “Don’t want you to ever go back home.”

You giggle as his breath tickles your neck. “Nothing, huh?”

“Nope, nothing.” Shawn rubs over your stomach, fingers teasing into the waistband of your pull-on shorts. “I wouldn’t even care if my parents came home right now.”

“Shawn, that would be embarrassing!” You squirm under his touch. His fingers are running along your lower belly under the waistband. It tickles like crazy as he passes over the spot under your navel.

“You’d love it,” he slides his hand down and past your panty line. He teases his fingers back and forth over your pelvic area. “You’re getting wet just thinking about getting caught aren’t you?”

You let out a soft whimper. He tilts his hips up against your back and you can feel him starting to get hard. You desperately want to turn around and push him down on his bed but he’s got his free arm holding you against him. He was such a control freak and you loved it.

Shawn kisses along your neck, holds your hips back as he rubs himself up against your butt. Just as he dips his hand down to touch you he pulls his hands away, tickling his fingers over your stomach for good measure as he does. You half squeal half groan at the gesture and he laughs loudly. “We should get your stuff down here. I wanna see what pretty little underwear you packed for camp,” he says as he winks at you, pulling the bedroom door open and running out before you could smack him. You’re left standing there, aroused and desperately wanting to get him back for what he’s just done.

[missymwac]

A Necessary Pain in the Butt

There comes a time in everyone’s life when the need for a certain procedure occurs. It might occur due to age; it might occur in response to a problem. But either way, the moment will more than likely happen in your life when a healthcare provider looks you square in the face and says, “You need a colonoscopy.”

In my case, it was in response to a pain I’ve been having in my lower left quadrant. (That’s “doctor talk” for my left pelvic area) I’ve had the pain for awhile now. Years, actually. But as of late, it’s been bugging me more than normal. I would blame it on my left ovary if I still had my ovaries, but alas, that area is now a barren wasteland. All the reproductive organs hit the road twenty years ago, so I know it’s not that. I shared all this information with my new doctor who, after poking and prodding around said the words I did not want to hear: “Let’s schedule a colonoscopy.”

Not gonna lie; I threw myself back onto the exam table, rocked back and forth and said, “No. No. No. No. No.” My new doctor just stared at me. He’s not used to my ways. He’ll learn.

Now, a colonoscopy is a very simple procedure. The Cliff Notes version of the procedure is that you drink some stuff, go to the bathroom every 3 minutes, arrive at the hospital the next day, get knocked out, and a doctor sticks a little camera up your butt to check on the status of your colon.

It’s Colon Photography. Intestinagram. (Yeah, I’m pretty proud of that)

If the doctor finds anything odd, they can remove and biopsy during the procedure. This way, a little problem can be removed prior to becoming a big problem. So after resigning myself to the fact that this is what has to be, I sent the DH with my prescription to the pharmacy. The prescription was for the liquid that needs to be consumed to carry out “the cleanse.”

He returns with a 4 LITER jug. Yes, that’s right: 4 liters. It was so large it had a handle built into it just so you could pick it up. The jug had a powder at the bottom and the instructions were to fill it to the top, chill, and then consume it the afternoon prior to your procedure, a day in which you may only consume clear liquids. The instructions read to drink a glass every 15 minutes until it’s gone.

I thought what I assume most people think upon hearing the news they must consume a 4 liter jug of mystery liquid by drinking a glass every 15 minutes until it’s gone: this must be a mistake. I called the doctor’s office.

“Hi. I have a colonoscopy scheduled for tomorrow morning and I just picked up the stuff you have to drink. It’s a 4 liter jug. This thing is huge. My husband had the procedure a couple years ago and he drank a couple water bottle sized things and took some pills. Can I do that, instead?”

“No. This is the method the doctor prefers.”

And with that one statement, I know that the jug before me would have to be consumed. To ease the pain of consumption, they include a little “Lemon Flavor Packet.” I guess this is somehow meant to trick the mind into thinking it’s drinking lemonade. I immediately think of ways to make it better. Would they know if I added vodka to it? A quick Google search throws cold water on that idea. I settle on pouring it over ice and chugging it down, one pint glass at a a time.

Four glasses in, I begin to wonder if it was going to work. I mean, I have four glasses rumbling through my system and not a hint of it working. Maybe I will be the one person for whom the “cleanse” doesn't work. Maybe I’ll drink the whole damn thing and nothing will happen.

And then…it begins to work. And work. And work. And work.

It is working so well, I consider moving my office into the bathroom. It is working so well, I begin to be concerned. SHOULD IT BE WORKING THIS WELL?

By 8:30 that night, the jug is empty. I am hungry. I am cold. And still…it keeps working.

By 10pm, it quiets down. And as I lay in bed with extra blankets, I begin to ponder if this is what GOOP’s Gwyneth Paltrow feels like. I mean, people like Gwyneth pay a lot for these cleanses. They feel healthier and lighter. They get excited about them. I didn’t feel healthier or excited. I was just hungry and cold. I would have happily taken my cleanse money and bought a pizza.

Morning arrives and I roll out of bed at the last minute. No food. No coffee. No water. It’s in the best interest of everyone in my house if I just go from the bed to the car. My head is pounding. The DH drives me to the procedure place. I sign in, get my ID bracelet, and am told to take a seat. I pick the seat right next to the bathroom, because, surprise, it’s STILL WORKING.

I’m trying to relax. I’m a little nervous, not just for the procedure but for the anesthesia. I don’t do well with anesthesia. It always makes me sick. And while they don’t knock you out with general anesthesia, sometimes that “twilight sleep” stuff is just as bad. You wake up with a headache, nausea, disorientation. Kind of like me after a very good Cocktail Club gathering.

But I can’t relax. Why? Because some genius decided that the flat screen tv in the waiting room should be tuned to CNN. And on CNN, they are reviewing Trump’s speech in Arizona from the night before. The talking heads are tearing it apart, of course. And I realized that CNN is relaxing for NO ONE. This is not the channel you want to watch to put yourself into a zen mode. If you don’t like Trump, this analysis is just going to tick you off. If you do like Trump, then listening to them tear apart the speech is going to tick you off. You are going to be ticked off either way. You are going to be hungry and cold and battling a headache and a 4 liter cleanse with a lemon-flavored packet that is STILL WORKING and ticked off. The only thing worse on that tv would have been “The View.”

I get called back by a very nice prep nurse and told to put on the gown “open to the back” and climb into bed. My snark level is running high (I was hungry, people!) and I say, “Does anyone really put these on open to the front?” She laughs and closes the curtain. The DH gives me the warning look. But even he is a little afraid of the mood I’m in, so he doesn’t push it. The DH is wise.

I climb into bed, the IV is started and then I realize I have to go to the bathroom.

In an attempt to free himself from having to go get the nurse and be THAT person, the DH says: “I don’t think you really have to go. You haven’t had anything in your system. I think it’s just nerves. Besides, you’re already hooked up to the IV.”

“People with IV’s use the bathroom, you know.”

With a resigned sigh, the DH leaves to hail the nurse who gets me wheeled into the bathroom, where, yes, I did have to make pee pee. Huzzah!

I no sooner get back into bed when the anesthesiologist returns to go over things. I share with her that I don’t do well with anesthesia, so that’s the one part of the procedure I’m worried about.

“No worries, hon,” she says, “We don’t give you the twilight sleep stuff. We give you Propofal. You fall asleep in seconds and awake without nausea or grogginess. You are clear-headed and refreshed the minute you wake up.”

“OMG. That sounds great! Can I have some to take home?” I joke.

She gives me a look as she leaves and says, “That’s exactly what Michael Jackson did.”

And then I realized what she meant.

“O…M…G…,” I say to the DH. “Did you hear that? They are giving me the Michael Jackson drug! This is freaking me out.”

“Babe, they know what they are doing. They are legitimate healthcare professionals and you are not the King of Pop.”

They wheel me into the procedure room where I am greeted by sunlight coming in a window and 80’s music playing. The 80’s music put me at ease. I thought, “These are my people.” I roll on my left side and after a few more questions are asked and answered, the anesthesia is administered via the IV.

“Okay,” the anesthesiologist says, “I’m administering it now. It will feel warm going in.” I whispered into the pillow, “That’s what she said.”

“Okay,” she continued. “Here we go. You will be asleep in 5 seconds, so pick a sweet dream.”

I focused on the faces of my children.

I remember saying, “I can taste it in the back of my mouth” and “Oh…there it is!” as my vision split in two. And then…I was in the recovery room.

And I felt freaking amazing. I mean, I felt incredible. No headache. No grogginess. I was completely refreshed and ready to murder a breakfast burrito.

No wonder Michael Jackson liked this stuff.

I got dressed and waited for the doctor to stop by. To pass the time, I tried moonwalking, just to see if I could do it after the Propofal, but, alas, I still can’t. As I was practicing my MJ moves, the doctor came in.

Now, I come from a family with a long history of cancer. My mom, my dad, both grandfathers, numerous aunts and uncles. I braced myself for the news of what he found.

Nothing. He found nothing. Yessssss.

When I asked him about the pain I’m having, he said that over time, scar tissue can build up at the hysterectomy site and cause pain. I’m still not convinced that’s what it is, but at least I know what it isn’t.

“Wow, I am so relieved,” I told him.

He smiled and handed me color photos of my sparkling clean intestines taken during the procedure. “Your colon is beautiful,” he said, ‘it looks great.”

Yeah, that’s right. I have a beautiful colon that’s lemony fresh. Just like Mr. Clean was all up in my bizness.

I’m considering making it my Facebook profile pic.

xoxo