Uuugggghhhhhh. If I give one more hospital hand-job I’m going to hang myself. People my age shouldn’t have to deal with such woes as sneakily performing fellatio under hospital gowns, or clumsily attempting to screw behind a medical curtain. These troubles should be reserved for the terminally ill, not beautiful people at the height of their sexual desires. I live a burdened existence.
A medical curtain, or “privacy curtain” as it is sometimes referred, is the blue, paper drape that swings all the way around your hospital bed, temporarily concealing you from the other patients on the ward. It’s there to provide solitude for those who can’t get out of bed to use the bathroom, or those who are shy, or those who have suffered a bad accident and don’t want to frighten the other patients with their mutilated face. Things like that. Although it can also be useful when you want to fuck your ever-hospitalized boyfriend without an audience of drooling senior citizens and hostile nurses awkwardly glaring at you. However, the soundproofing is terrible, and the smell of dying old people is a slight turn-off, so either way the conditions are not ideal.
To make the situation even more heartbreaking, it’s an NHS hospital. This means that each patient has to share a room with five other mutilated, incontinent, drooling mugs. It also means that everywhere you look there’s foul-faced proletariat wandering around, picking their nose or sucking their thumbs or whatever it is common people do in their free time. It’s repulsive.
But aside from making-out surrounded by bedpans and people with missing limbs, what’s worse is that I think my boyfriend is having a mental breakdown. Maybe it’s the meds, or perhaps it’s the overwhelming stench of hospital air, but he’s been acting very strange lately. For one, he’s started growing this heinous little mustache. (Well, it’s not as much a mustache as it is twelve scraggly red hairs pathetically hanging from above his upper lip, but he refers to it as a mustache, so I’m playing along out of sympathy.) I keep asking him to please shave it off, telling him it looks ridiculous. But every time I beg he just refuses, saying, “It makes me feel like a man.” I then try to explain that it actually has the opposite affect, and that even most fifteen-year-olds can grow more than twelve measly facial hairs, but he is far too intoxicated within his own delusion to give me the time of day. It’s frustrating, to say the least.
Although it is sort of funny getting to watch him try and eat soup while lying down. People tell me I’m an expert at finding the good in even the worst of situations. Sort of like a saint.