It turns out that the sniper who’d partially severed his spinal cord didn’t destroy all sexual function, and his doctor said that, among other things, prostate stimulation was still on the table. The kid had never stimulated that before and has a few special considerations for his back-door area, so he hadquestions.
On Benning’s advice, he’d approached me a few weeks ago and invited me to lunch with his girlfriend. She was down for whatever, so we had a super-open discussion and I told them which plugs to start with, the shower attachment I use for cleanout, and my favorite lube. I was tempted to tell them that if they’re out of lube, that good, deep back-of-the-throat spit would work just fine, but I didn’t want to traumatize them.
Baby steps.
They were so stoked, and it was cute as all get-out. I’m glad—and not at all jealous—that it’s working out for them.
I’d already told the group my big, dramatic story weeks ago; I even told them about how I have a hard time reconciling the person I was with the person I am now, and they’ve been incredibly supportive.
I’m usually pretty willing to share, especially if I’ve had a bad day. But tonight… I’m feeling awfully quiet. Unfortunately, when you’ve got a big mouth like I do, people tend to notice it, and Benning’s not willing to let it slide. Ugh.
“Roly?” Benning asks gently, “You haven’t said much. Do you have anything to share?”
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“Are you not going to talk about what happened with Jake?”
I look around the circle we have gathered and give him my bestdrop itlook, and he responds with his bestnot a chancelook.
“Don’t feel like it’s my story to tell. I was just there to help and barely did anything at all.”
“Okay, sure, but you’re obviously feeling some kind of way about it, like maybe it brought something up for you. And that’s the stuff we share here. If you want to.”
If I want to? Yeah, right. Just to make it easier, I go ahead and give them a quick rundown of the facts—Jake had a panic attack, we all worked together to help him, Jean-Pierre did some magic trauma whisperer shit in French—shrug, no big deal.
Benning’s face is unimpressed. “Thanks for that news story, Roly. Now, why don’t you talk about how it made you feel.”
BecauseI don’t want to.
But I look around the group and see the faces of the people who, for the last several weeks, have been sharing their struggles, large and small, and I know it’s a matter of trust. That the sharing helps people not feel so alone in their experiences. And I could probably use some help processing the thoughts swirling in my head.
The group looks at me expectantly.
I let out a frustrated sigh and say what I know he wants to hear. “It’s just… I feel bad about my reaction.”
Benning’s in his chair tonight, not his prosthetics, which usually means he’s had a bad go of it physically, mentally, or both. My petty jealousy doesn’t even begin to rank.
Scratching his chin with a metal finger, he asks, “Why are you judging a natural, valid reaction?”
We have another silent volley, which I lose, again.
Fine.
“Is it, though? I mean, is itreallyvalid? I feel like I’m going to sound like an asshole.”
Benning scoffs, as do a number of people around the circle. “Roly, I’ve never heard you sound like an asshole. I doubt very much that you have it in you.”
Nods all around. Honestly, that feels pretty nice. I want to dismiss it because maybe they just don’t know me, but… I’ve shared some unfiltered feelings and thoughts, and they haven’t kicked me out yet.
Still.
“Well, you’re wrong there. I’ve absolutely been an asshole—just ask Heath.”
Eye patch guy sitting next to me asks, “Isn’t that the guy you almost killed last month?”
Helpful. Thanks, eye patch guy.
“You literally just made my point for me.”
