Top Ten List of Signs We May Be in a Gay Recision

10.  Summer trip goes from Auckland Cruise to Habanna Inn, Oklahoma City.  Relax, you’ll have just as much fun.

9.  You find yourself passing on the CVS gift card aisle despite the perfect card for Aunt Sherry is staring straight at you!

8.  You enter a Wal-Mart and don’t burst into flames.

7.  Your new house wine is Strawberry Hill.

6.  You’ve traded in your little yippie dog for a lot less yippee BF.

5.  Lesbians are not waiting to second date to move in with each other, but plan it someone time after the “Hi, my name is Pam” and “We’ll have the shrimp appetizers”.

4.  You cruise the IHOP rather than the bars.

3.  You pretend to be an alcoholic so you have someplace to be on Friday night.

2.  You’re not afraid to be seen holding hands in Macon, Georgia.  It replaces gym fees.

And the number One Sign You May Be in a Gay Recession....

One....   You’ve cut down on mani/pedi until your BF refuses to play “Push My Buttons”... at least the fun kind, anyway.

A New Hope? 42 has got to be better.

It’s been challenging.  I have been in the hospital for 67 of the last 120 days.  That’s not a record.  In fact, for the elderly, why it’s better than the social calendar at Aunt Bee’s Old Tyme Retirement Village and Saloon.  However, I just turned 42 today.  Yeppers,  get my groove on, it’s my birth- anyway you get the idea.

Why so sick?  The inner drama of being a gay man who hasn’t been to a club in 2 years?  No, but there is a definite connection.  The condition has to do with my lungs.  Of the 6 hospitalizations, all have been for pneumonia of unknown origin.  There is a certain fear and pride of growing a bug that stumps the full staff at John Hopkin’s.  It was nice of them to send me the “Warning:  Leper” lapel pin.  That’s love, darling, that’s love.

Earlier in the year, I was very productive.  I wrote a 120,000 word autobiography called All Gays Go to Heaven at the rate of 2000 word per day.  I had it edited, it was “developed” and then, finally, a publishing house sniffed out the fact that it was and is a great read.  I highly recommend you pick up a copy.  Or visit www.allgaysgotoheaven.com and tell me why you don’t want to buy a copy.  I promise to respond to all inquiries.

After finishing and getting All Gays ready to go on to the publisher, I found myself bored.  But, not for long.  McGraw-Hill sent a request to publish an article in a middle school textbook about bullying.  Lord, have mercy when I saw that they had left the amount of compensation blank and asked me to invoice for the article.  I took a shot at it and actually got my asking price.  Woo hoo!

Sadly, I  have had some real bummers this year as I have failed to be the man I should be.  My apologies for missing appointments and appearances.  If I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, I was in the hospital.  Hey, it’s an improvement.  Two years ago if I wasn’t somewhere I was supposed to be I was in the bar. 

My specific apologies to  M.K.H.,T.W., and F.M.  You know who you are and you know you are loved.  And, of course, thank you to all the people who have touched my life – large and small help in the steps to reaching the ripe old age of 42.  Now, I’ve got to push the “Nurse Call Button”.  How lucky can a guy be?

Ms. Muhacca Hussein, RN

Three AM found me in the darkness of my hospital room pushing my Nurse Button while shouting “Sweet Holy Jesus, Somebody Get Me Something for Pain.”  I’ve been at it a while.  According to the clock it has just been five minutes but I know they slow down the damn clock when it gets close to the time for some small bit of relief.  

I’m here, in the dark, betwixt antibiotics flowing into my body because a doctor decided I needed to have a lung biopsy.

“It’s a very common procedure with very little pain,” the Doctor had said.  Well, if The Doctor said it, it must be true.  The Doctor also felt the biopsy was a grand idea.  He would, no doubt, deliver immediate insight and results.  The Doctor is your friend, don’t you know.

It’s time for another scream because the pain has moved from Hurting Badly to Just Shoot Me, Dumbass.  Somewhere on the second use of the “bitch” word, a word interchangeable with the little Pakistani nurse, she opens the door.  Finally, I am out of the dark. 

“Mr. Manley, what is wrong with you? Such cursing I have never heard,” she sounds like Apu from the Simpsons.  Except female.  I think.

“Well, I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me", Nurse Ratchet-Hussein, "it seems that yesterday they poked four nice sized holes in my side.  They inserted a little pair of scissors and snipped and pulled out healthy lung tissue.  Then, they left a tube they could be used for farm irrigation coming out of my side to drain off fluids.  Said tube is now flowing like a river and believe it or not, there is a tad of pain.”

“You use too much pain medicine I think is the problem, Mr. Manley.  It is not good to use so much.”

“Look you little Nurse Ghandi Nightingale, you will bring me my medication or I will scream rape at the top of my lungs.  Now, how would you like to explain that accusation.”

“I think you are crazy patient.  But here is pain medication.  Are you sure you need such a dose as ordered by your doctor.  Your doctor left too much, I think.”

If it was up to Nurse Ghandi , Tylenol would be a controlled substance. She checks my armband and sees if I really am who I seem to be.  She thinks, perhaps, I snuck in, killed off Reece Manley, hid his body under the bed all for 3mg of Dilaudid.

 

After delaying the action of administering the damn shot as much as she could, she slams the full amount.  My body almost immediately puts the pain reliever to work on the bandage as quickly as it can.  However, it cannot not post it up to the right nerves quite as quickly as the drug is coming in.  I sit up with my tongue wagging happily out of my mouth, “Why, or why, do we always hurt the ones we love, truly”, I say, overcome by a strange warmth I’d missed so.  “Oh, Mahaca Hussein, you cute little nurse, I loves you.”

Mahaca pauses in fear.  Finally she decides to protest.  “No no, no.  Mr. Manley I am asking you to sit down.  No, Mr. Manley you must get back in bed.  Yes, yes.  Back in bed.”

Oh, she’s tricky.  She dodges left, then right.  That’s okay, I’ve got poppy joy for another few moments today.  “Damn it, with your no, no, no.  My heart cries yes, yes, yes!  Come here and let me hug all 4’ 2” on your squat little happy haji frame!”

“Back in bed, back in bed, Mr. Manley.”  Finally getting a break between me and the door, Mahaca makes for the exit and freedom.  I finally give a final shout, loud enough to be heard by the wing. “Nursre Mahaca will break your heart!”

Ladies who Lactate are Lovely Ladies Indeed!

I now understand the fun of lactation.  Oh, that special ability to feed life with the essence of self distilled and collected and finally bestowed by Demeter or St. Giles depending on your set of gods and goddesses.  I am not afraid to say, I am a man.  I have lactated.
It all began with a simple surgical procedure to do a lung biopsy.  I'd been hospitalized by different medical facilities on the rate of about one a year.  It was a matter of trying to diffuse this pattern of behavior.  I mean, New Year's Eve in a hospital with a tube in your pee pee so you don't have to bother the nice orderly to make the trip on your own.  If you're lucky, you sneaked in a 20 bag so you can at least mess with the minds of the cardiac monitors!  Oh, now THAT'S fun!

This year, I was determined to find out what went wrong with my lungs every year and to do that, it required a biopsy of the surgical type.  They explained it to me.  Four small incisions under my left arm.  So tiny as to be nearly impossible to feel.  Why, la-de-la might be out the same day!

The surgeon should be executed and the doctor should be shot.  The first didn't put in the tiny slits he described. No, instead there were tunnels and a fourth excavation cave.  I  think they had a hoover hooked up to me at some point.  And, a blender, a slicer, a dicer and perhaps even a Lean Mean Suckitout Machine! by George Foreman.

The next day, the miracle bestowed itself upon me.  Like I said, I do not know if it was Demeter or St. Giles, but whichever of the gender benders waved her wand and I brought forth milk.  And, not just a little milk.  I gave like a spigot.  A milked out like an old jersey cow forgotten in the fields while the Duleys were at the reunion dontcha know.  I called the nurse.  I lifted up the lactating titty and said "Help!"  She fixed her deep brown eyes and old scaggled face bearing the mark of the faithful in center forehead, took a deep breath, and said, "No, no, no, no.  No play with that!  Move your hand.  No touch."

I felt dirty.  As if I'd shown her a peep show rather than a valid nursing concern.  "Is this normal?"  She, "Is what normal, I am very busy, but patient comes first, no more pain medication, it will clear in five days.  Goodnight.  Lay back down.  No play with ... chest."  I was sure she was going to say "Thank You and Come Again ala Apu of the Simpsons."  But, she just exited the room her heart held up to the devoted God of the Dot at the idiocy of the white man in 517.

That was four days ago.  I'm still flowing but I've decided not to bottle it as the best cure for gout since 1901. But if you really hurry, you can get in on the milking action on your own.  Just bring a jar - a big jar.  Oh, and a lot of patience.  It happens in its own time.  Apparently I'm titty shy.

This blog brought to you by All Gays Go to Heaven by Reece Manley and published by Varsity Prints.  Pre-order at All Gays Go to Heaven (http://www.aggth.com).  Visit Today!

You Know You're an Old Queen When

You know you're an Old Queen when....
You regard enemas as being quite a thrill.
Your idea of hot sex is holding hands at the Denny's special.
Your partner gives you that special look and you turn around to see who he's looking at.
You bough SIRIUS just for the show tunes.
Your dog, like your partner, has no idea what "come" means.
Finding the right China pattern for Friday night bingo is your big event for the week.
You find the Bravo channel "just a little too racy."
You can name 50 white wine varietals but only one porn tape title.
That little something special simply means Ben-Gay.

Here's to us Old Queens everywhere!!

Boys in Prison Make Me Pensive

One of the things that keep me from getting all of my writing done is a pensive need for self-retribution.  That one you’ll need my shrink for.  However, another one is the network msNBC.  msNBC carries a number of things, slices of life, that are fascinating.  The number one is the Locked Up series.  Yep, boys in prisons.  What’s the attraction?

I’m watching this and these guys are hot.  Oh, sure, they’ve eaten their parents brains or gutted and filleted their brother-in-law.  Well, the mild ones have.  But, they are hot.  And, get this.  You know where they are at all times.  Within a few feet at 2 PM you don’t have to worry if they’ve taken a late lunch with Don from accounting or if they are in the exercise yard.

Now, the main thing I don’t like are the tattoos.  Tacky, tacky, tacky.  I can just imagine Christmas.  Did you hear the writer has a boyfriend this year??  Oh, my!  Really! Where is he?  Oh, he’s in prison!  Oh, thank God! A prisoner! How’d he do that well!?!  Let’s see photos!  Eeep! Tattoos on his tilly!  Oh, my!  Aunt Pam and Aunt Nina would converse strongly over the fashion statement of the 666 versus the whole SS motif.  Granted I could go brown and have a choice of a large Chevy with something called Kings Kross.  Or black with some intricate 9 scrolling.  Quite a beautiful piece of work.

My only problem with the idea of having a prisoner for a husband is that one day the little son of a bitch might make parole one day.  Now, what do you do with that?  They might let them OUT one day?  Now that is a bitch of a cinch in the plan, isn’t it?  What happens when I want to go play Planko at the Persuwitz Club on Friday’s?  Would he be there for my morning swim a la natural?  I already swore anyone witnessing to blindness.  And, now, honey, this released boy might really bother one thing I have that  I love.  MSNBC Lock Up.

But, still.  Yep.  Boys in prison.

How are the hand jobs at Presbyterian Hospital - Plano?

I can’t believe it.  I just spent a week in the hospital for an outbreak of MRSA Pneumonia.  Where’d it come from?  No, idea.  The doctors remain befuddled.

One of the really fun tests I got to do was called an endoscopy.  No, it’s not a festive sex toy.  Unless you happen to swing in a really weird way.  They take a tube, shove it down your nose and then take little snips of lung out.  Definitely 1 flag of fun.

The strangest part was, for me, the recovery.  They used a drug call Ativan to keep me from remembering  the whole procedure (did nor work) and make you very compliant with the doctor (what can I say, they threatened to strap me down.

When I had come through I found myself in the recovery rule awaiting the number one rule before returning to your room.  You had to pee on your own voluntary method.  Now mind you, walking is not possible at this time.  But, they can brace you up, let you use the urinal and if you pee, you get to go up.

I wanted to go back to my room and I figured I could handle it.  So I asked for the damn urinal.  I was also supplied with Assistant Operational Specialist named Mike Handle.  I kid you not.

While I tried to prop myself up, Mr. Handle did something I did not expect.  He took the urinal and placed, ever so gently, my penis in the urinal.  I was not expecting to go handle and Handle.  And, yes, I jumped. 

Now, my handle knew what it was supposed to do, but Mr. Handle did not have a good hold.  So, my handle escaped and began to share with the world.  For about 20 seconds my handle was enjoying sweet freedom and yes, it could pass.  It passed on the gurney, gown on a nurse and a physician who happened to walk by.

Mr. Handle was in a panic to get the handle back into the urinal and so he grabbed it firmly catching the tip of my handle on the urinal.  I howled with pain and surprise.  A elderly gent passing through saw a 6’2” hospital employee with his hand under my gown.  He shook his head.   This homo stuff was getting out of control. 

As handle was finally forced into submission it had only a few drops.  I could see on  bottle we were still several dots below Minimum Fill.  But, Mr. Handle was not wanting to continue with the excitement.

Moral of story:  If you get personal massage at Plano Presbyterian, expect brush boy no to granting Happy Ending.