Memphis funny.
Visiting Memphis during the International Blues Challenge while committed to a four hundred pound wheelchair and an equally committed wife and caregiver, tasked with gaining access to a dozen clubs packed to the rafters with human activity requires vast imagination and huge testicles and an even huger bladder, neither of which I possess. I'm sure Amy's bladder is larger than her symbolic balls, but not nearly as big as her heart. Of course, since she can empty it freely, unlike myself, her problem lies with my constrained biology.
Have you ever heard of a Motorman's Friend or a Stadium Pal?
Let me explain the physics to those of you who continue reading.
A (smallish) condom-like thingy is (you know) installed (you know) and a hose is attached thereupon, running it's course down my left leg to a 300ml plastic bag Velcro strapped to my calf, all assembly neatly tucked beneath my trousers and boxers. The only real difference between this and a catheter is the painful insertion of a tube designed to perforate the bladder and allow the free flow of urine without control compared to using pure willpower to pee your pants. I definitely prefer the latter, no matter how difficult.
The first night out things went smoothly and so did I. Twice. Filled it up. To anyone who saw me staring into space, eyes half closed and mouth half open just know that it is all okay.
I'd not thought that a warm sensation tracking down my thigh and pooling at my calf could be so erotically splendid.
The next night was oh so much more interesting.
Rum Boogey. Crowded behind the judges and under the stairs.
No room for Amy except on my lap. Yup. She nestled there for hours. Then it happened. I slacked my jaw, lidded my eyes at half mast, imagined myself a cow astride a flat rock and let go.
I knew something was not right and with all my effort I locked down my hydraulics, certain to have broken at least one law of Thermodynamics. The warm sensation was creeping down the channel of my ass. I knew this to be all ways not good. For an instant I rationalized that most people expected this of drooling quadriplegics.
Amy was spared the moisture. I had trouble communicating with her but managed to signal pain in my groin area and she managed to get a handful of the REAL issue.
Normally I would sit in my own pee if it meant keeping my seat. This was no exception. Later we plugged back in and I finished up. Amy steered clear of my lap.
I'm amazed at how fast urine goes cold.
Visiting Memphis during the International Blues Challenge while committed to a four hundred pound wheelchair and an equally committed wife and caregiver, tasked with gaining access to a dozen clubs packed to the rafters with human activity requires vast imagination and huge testicles and an even huger bladder, neither of which I possess. I'm sure Amy's bladder is larger than her symbolic balls, but not nearly as big as her heart. Of course, since she can empty it freely, unlike myself, her problem lies with my constrained biology.
Have you ever heard of a Motorman's Friend or a Stadium Pal?
Let me explain the physics to those of you who continue reading.
A (smallish) condom-like thingy is (you know) installed (you know) and a hose is attached thereupon, running it's course down my left leg to a 300ml plastic bag Velcro strapped to my calf, all assembly neatly tucked beneath my trousers and boxers. The only real difference between this and a catheter is the painful insertion of a tube designed to perforate the bladder and allow the free flow of urine without control compared to using pure willpower to pee your pants. I definitely prefer the latter, no matter how difficult.
The first night out things went smoothly and so did I. Twice. Filled it up. To anyone who saw me staring into space, eyes half closed and mouth half open just know that it is all okay.
I'd not thought that a warm sensation tracking down my thigh and pooling at my calf could be so erotically splendid.
The next night was oh so much more interesting.
Rum Boogey. Crowded behind the judges and under the stairs.
No room for Amy except on my lap. Yup. She nestled there for hours. Then it happened. I slacked my jaw, lidded my eyes at half mast, imagined myself a cow astride a flat rock and let go.
I knew something was not right and with all my effort I locked down my hydraulics, certain to have broken at least one law of Thermodynamics. The warm sensation was creeping down the channel of my ass. I knew this to be all ways not good. For an instant I rationalized that most people expected this of drooling quadriplegics.
Amy was spared the moisture. I had trouble communicating with her but managed to signal pain in my groin area and she managed to get a handful of the REAL issue.
Normally I would sit in my own pee if it meant keeping my seat. This was no exception. Later we plugged back in and I finished up. Amy steered clear of my lap.
I'm amazed at how fast urine goes cold.
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