But now?
Shit, now at least I have areasonto be at a standstill. My diagnosis at least gives me permission to slow down a little. Let things slide. But I don’t want tostaylike this either. I want to move. To live. To feel again. I just… don’t know how to get there. The most alive I’ve felt since the doctor said those dreaded words—multiple sclerosis—has been when Fletcher and I talk late at night. Everything else is just… numb.
I sigh and grab a few more things. My leg spasms as I bend for more clothes. I pause. Nearly all the articles I’ve read about MS have mentioned the same thing: canes and wheelchairs. It’s terrifying to imagine myself in that position. What will my life be like if I lose mobility?
I can’t think about it.
Not yet.
Finally, with my bag full, I sling my guitar over my shoulder and carry everything downstairs. I move slowly. Carefully. My feet ache by the time I get to the car, but I make it there without cramps or stumbles. It feels like a victory.
I grin as I slink into the driver’s seat. I did it. I managed to come back without incident.
Back at the house, I go into the main house to switch the laundry before returning to my room. Changing into soft shortsand a t-shirt, I flop onto the bed and start a movie on my laptop. Something loud and full of explosions—the kind of noise that usually drowns out the intrusive shit in my head.
Not that I need it today. Today, I feel really damn good. The successful trip to the apartment has lifted my spirits more than I expected.
The actor on screen reminds me of Fletcher, with a thick beard and warm eyes. My thoughts drift back to him. To his laugh. To his stupidly soothing presence. What is it about him that calms me? Is it the way he seems to see me? No one has looked at me the way Fletcher does. Not even Ace.
A slow heat curls low in my stomach, making me shift lower on the bed. Fletcher invades my mind so easily now. I try to ignore it, but it grows and grows, steady and warm.
My cock stirs. It’s been so long since I’ve felt it that I don’t even recognize the sensation until I see the bulge in my shorts.Jesus. I’m aroused thinking about Fletcher.
Can I even still function that way? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t masturbated or had sex in ages.
I cup myself through my shorts and my body responds instantly, my balls aching. Heat spreads through me fast and intense—burning deep. A groan slips out before I can stop it.
I slide a hand in, eyes fluttering as soon as I grip my aching dick. The sensation is better than I remember… yet wrong too. Numb where I need sensitivity, tingling where it should be pleasure. I swap hands, but that’s even worse. It’s like someone else is touching me, and not in a good way.
Frustrated, I strip my clothes off and settle back into the pillows. I refuse to let my illness win.
Wrapping my right hand around myself again, I stroke—but it’s still all wrong. How can I be hard yet not feel anything at the same time?
I adjust my grip, trying to find the old rhythm. I add some spit for smoother strokes, and even pull up some porn on my phone. Anything to help me feel again.
But the problem isn’t the arousal—it’s the sensation. All I can feel is the numbness in my hands, the misfires, the pins-and-needles static that haunts me.
My cock softens.
“No. Come on.”
With every failed stroke, every unfelt touch, my frustration burns hotter. All the good and wonderful things I achieved today are quickly reduced to this—my body failing me yet again. In the most painful way possible. Not literal pain, but emotional.
A man should be able to enjoy his own dick.
I shut the movie off and focus on this, teasing my cockhead, squeezing my balls, anything to get the feeling to come back. I get flickers, tiny spurts of pleasure, but they’re quickly chased away by the numbness, and I can’t tell if it’s my hands or my penis.
Please don’t let the nerve damage reach my penis. I can’t imagine not being able to feel anything there again.
Getting desperate, I reach into my duffel and pull out the first vibrator I can find—a small, bullet-shaped one barely the size of my finger. The sound echoes loudly in the room when I turn it on, but the moment I touch it to my sensitive head, I cry out.
“Oh, fuck yes.”
Lying down, I run the vibrator along my cock, relieved that at least something can break through the blocked messages in my body.
I add some lube to my shaft and stroke until I’m hard again, running the vibrator over every inch. Lifting one leg, I reach lower, gasping when I feel the pleasure around my rim. It’s so intense, so good, that I curl my toes into the bed.Thisis what I want. What I need.
Rolling to my knees, I reach behind me to tease my opening with the toy, using my other hand to jack off. My stomach tightens and my breath stutters as my climax builds.
