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Porn King
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Личная информация
Я:
James Liao, мужчина, гетеро
Откуда:
Комптон, Калифорния, Соединенные Штаты
Друзья 66
st3vonico
coyoteee
F
foolguy
H
hootenbobby
A
Anitaslut44
L
leiin
GabySlut
G
gazman75
B
Blahqwerty
S
SativaFox
I pulled out my phone, shot a picture and sent it off to my friends Lauren and Lizzie with the caption, “Saturday morning cucumber shopping!”
“Bwahaha!” Lizzie texted.
“OMG,” wrote Lauren, “I tried to cut up cucumbers for my husband’s salad and I just couldn’t do it.”
As both Lauren and Lizzie knew, the cucumbers in my basket weren’t destined for crudité. A few days before, a physical therapist from Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore instructed me to go buy some cucumbers, peel them and push them up my vagina.
Yes, my vagina.
According to physical therapist Julie Everett, cancer patients receiving chemotherapy should insert a peeled cucumber into their vaginas to neutralize a rise in pH level and soothe irritated tissue. It makes sense if you imagine a smiling woman in spa mode resting cucumber slices on her eyelids to reduce puffiness. I had already learned lots of rules for taking care of my chemically altered body during chemotherapy, rules like, “no caffeine” and “always wear sunscreen.”
So far, no one had said a thing about cucumbers, but maybe that’s because most patients I saw in the chemo suite at Johns Hopkins were either middle-aged or senior citizens. I was in my mid-30s, and thankfully had been invited to a “Sex and Intimacy” night that Everett was leading for young adult cancer patients.
A social worker and two other female cancer patients in their 20s and 30s joined me for the gathering at the Ulman Cancer Fund for Young Adults. Only one significant other had shown. The kind-faced young man kept his hand on the small of girlfriend’s back the whole time.
“What a prince,” I thought. I was jealous.
The other girl, a brain tumor patient, had brought along her best friend instead of her boyfriend. “He was too embarrassed,” the friend said. She went on to boast about her vagina’s Kegel prowess like she was talking about how much she could bench press.
And me? I was single, not great at lifting weights and I had mixed clear cell carcinoma in my ovaries, arising from out-of-control endometriosis. So far, I’d survived two abdominal surgeries and two rounds of chemo.
Everett began the session by passing out white sheets of paper. She asked us to write down words to describe how we felt about our bodies. I wrote “betrayed” and “bisected” (dedicated to the nine-inch scar running down my stomach). Then she asked us to tear up the papers.
Everett held up the shreds.
“This is your sex life after cancer,” she said.
She was right. All the normalcy in my life was slipping away like water through a sieve.
To my mind, I was losing everything that made me a “dateable” young woman — my fertility, my ballerina-like body and my ability to get wet, that is, to feel any sort of hormonal arousal.
Gently