Shimmying Through The Wetlands – Chapter Ten

Harrow, friends! Ready for boners? Didn’t think so. Here we go!

Her visit was a lot shorter than dad’s. Your own fault, Helen.

Helen is referring to her mother here, and is beating herself up about being rude and withdrawn and driving her mom away too quickly. I feel like Helen doesn’t really care if her mom visits, they don’t really have anything in common. At least Helen and her dad had comfortable silence. Her mom seems like a bitch.

Helen plans to try to get them together again the next day, and muses about how she can extend her hospital stay by not taking a shit.

Also, maybe by injuring myself again I can force another operation. Then I’d have many more days to work toward my goal.

Please don’t do that.

Maybe something will occur to me. Definitely. I certainly have enough time here in my boring, atheist room to think up all sorts of possibilities.

Helen notices that she has bad breath because she hadn’t been opening her mouth to talk enough, so she buzzes for someone.

Robin comes in. I have to think of a reason why I pushed the call button. Ah – a question.

She asks him when she’s going to get the device to self administer her medication, and he tells her anytime now. He’s about to leave and she asks him if he’s okay.

Typical of you, Helen. He’s a nurse. Yet I think I have to look after him and make sure he has a nice shift.

See, sometimes Helen is so likable. Remember this moment in the next chapter. Because the next chapter is horrifying.

Don’t be scared! Think of cute puppies!

“Yes, I’m doing fine. I’ve been thinking a lot about your wound and how cool you are about it. I even talked about it with a buddy. Don’t worry – nobody from here at the hospital. He thinks you’re an exhibitionist or whatever you call it.”

“Show-off is what I always say. And it’s true. Is that bad?”

“No, I wish more girls were that way. Like the girls I meet at clubs.”

Smooth, Robin.

To keep the conversation going and maybe also a little to try to turn Robin on and get him into me, I tell him about my nights out.

Would any male nurse seriously put his dick into a patient that has self inflicted anal hemorrhaging? Not after healing, I mean, but like while still laid up and bandaged in the hospital? If this happens, Robin has some damage.

I dig chicks with anal lesions.

I do a cool thing [at the disco] when I’m meeting a boy and want to fuck him. To prove I’m the one who initiated the fuck that night.

Don’t need proof, girl-who-is-perpetually-horny.

To make totally clear what I want from the get-go, I cut a big hole in my underwear so you can see the hair and the lips. Basically, the whole peach should peek out.

Miss me?

Obviously I wear a skirt. I start to make out with him and we grab at each other. After he’s stroked my breasts for long enough, at some point his finger wanders down to my thigh. He thinks he has to painstakingly work his way into my underwear and is worrying whether I want to go that far. You’re not going to discuss that kind of thing when you haven’t known each other long. Then, with no warning, his finger comes into direct contact with my dripping wet pussy.

I feel like this is a waste of underwear. Why not just wear none?

Boys all react the same way to this gift. The finger has a heart attack and pauses for a second. Then there’s more feeling around because he can’t believe what his finger has found. They always think, She’s not wearing underwear. Once they realize – like they’re playing a sensory perception game – that there’s a hole in the underwear, it becomes clear that I got ready for this and tinkered with them hours prior.

Still seems easier to just not wear underwear. I think that would send the same ‘I was already ready’ message, without mutilating your panties.

I break out into a bit of a sweat just telling the story. What would possess me to do this? I think I just got a rush from his compliment. Always have to dial it up a notch, eh, Helen?

That’s one way of putting it.

Robin stands there with his mouth slightly ajar. My story has achieved its desired effect. I can see his cock bulging in his white scrubs.

This scene might actually be kinda hot if it weren’t for the circumstances.

While I’ve been telling him the story, the call buzzer’s been going nonstop out in the hallway. Other patients who want something from Robin. But not the same thing I want.

It should be, other patients who NEED something from Robin, Helen. I’m sorry that you’re horny for the nurse, but some people actually want to recover from their illnesses.

“Okay, see you later,” he says, and leaves.

I’ve unsettled him. It’s like a sport. In any room I have to be the most uninhibited of all those present. This time I’ve won. But this was an easy opponent; it wasn’t even a real contest.

See? This. Helen needs to be noticed, and doesn’t know how except by being as outrageous as possible, usually in a sexual way. I’m no psychologist, but I’d be willing to bet this has something to do with her shitty parents.

I’m already curious what the effect will be, whether he’ll still be able to look me in the eyes. I put myself in strange situations. Is it possible that anyone who works in a hospital – whether they’re old or young, good-looking or ugly, seems sexually attractive just because there’s nobody else around?

Not sure if a few days in a hospital would make a normal person desperately want to fuck their nurse, but okay.

I exhale through my nose to settle my breathing. Better already. I don’t have to muster the strength to get up and go brush my teeth. Just push the call button and tell filthy stories and I’ll get plenty of fresh air in my mouth.

Worst patient ever.

Helen reflects on how people used to wash their children’s mouths out with soap, and wonders if it ‘works’. She adds it to her mental list of things to try, for some reason, and then thinks about the time she sprayed herself with pepper spray, and how much it burned.

I’m bored here. I can tell from the thoughts in my head. I’m trying to entertain myself with my own old stories. I’m trying to divert attention from how lonely I feel. It’s not working. Being alone scares me. Must be one of the afflictions of being a child of divorce.

I don’t think it’s just the divorce. I think it’s her parents in general. This poor kid is supremely fucked up.

I’ll go to bed with any idiot just so I don’t have to be in bed alone or spend a whole night sleeping alone. Anybody is better than nobody.

My parents didn’t anticipate that when they split up. Adults don’t think about the wide-ranging consequences of a breakup.

Seriously? I’m sure that it’s difficult ending a marriage when you have kids, but shouldn’t they have taken the time to sit down and talk to their kids about what was going on? If they had explained properly when it happened, then their eighteen year old daughter at this point should be mature enough to understand that it was for the best. Staying together when you shouldn’t is super harmful to a family, and generally kids won’t understand right away when they’re young, but she’s a legal adult now. She should be looking back on memories of conversations had with her parents where they explained that their romantic relationship fell apart. Obviously it ended badly, because they won’t even be in the same room together, which is a whole other issue entirely. But at this age, if Helen had been properly and thoroughly talked to about it during her childhood, she should be able to look back and understand that her life would have been worse had they stayed together even if they hated each other.

I don’t know, I’ve never been in the situation, and Helen’s concocted a pretty fucked up worldview as it is. But it blows my mind that she’s so deluded even at this age. When her parents split up, they must have paid no attention to their kids feelings at all during the whole process.

Helen listens to the TV with her eyes closed to play a game where she tries to guess the voices. She turns it off because it’s more fun to play with someone else. She hangs her head back over her pillow to look behind her.

I look at the grain of the wood and all I can see are pussies.

Why is she so obsessed with genitals? Can anyone answer this question for me?

You’re welcome.

I try to conjure something else in the grain of the fluorescent light cover. Doesn’t work. Just pussies. I ring the call button. What could I want now? Think of something fast.

A female nurse enters, and Helen thinks that she was sent because Robin is still too flustered to deal with her. She notices the woman (Margarete) is well-kept.

As if being “well-kept” represents something of great value. At school we call kids who look like that “doctors’ daughters” no matter what their fathers do. I don’t know how they do it, but they always look better washed than the rest of us. Everything is clean and carefully styled.

Everyone is better washed than you, Helen.

What these women don’t know: the more effort they put into these little details, the more uptight they seem. Their bearing is stiff and unsexy because they’re worried about messing up all their work.

Well-kept women get their hair, nails, lips, feet, faces, skin, and hands done. Colored, lengthened, painted, peeled, plucked, shaved, and lotioned.

They just have the money so they spend it looking good?

Those type of women would never let themselves get all messy fucking.

Except these women.

Everything that’s sexy – mussed hair, straps that fall of the shoulder, a sweaty glow on the face – is a bit askew, yes, but touchable.

I hate to say it, but I agree a little with Helen. Some people are just too perfect, where you look twice maybe because they’re beautiful, but they aren’t touchable. They’re like dolls, made to look at. People that look like they’re actually living life are definitely more approachable.

I feel this way about houses, too. If I go into a house and it looks like a showroom, I’m afraid to sit anywhere and get comfortable. I’m not saying I want to hang out in a dirty house, but a little bit of lived-in-ness makes it comfortable. Anyway.

Fuck, I’m starting to become a rambler like Helen. Kill me.

“I need a trash can for my dirty bandages. If I leave them on the nightstand it won’t smell too good in here.”

Very convincing, Helen. Well done.

The nurse seems glad that Helen is hygienic (if she only knew!) and leaves, coming back with a trash can.

“Thanks a lot. When it comes to hygiene, I’m quite particular,” I say with a broad smile.


She nods knowingly – though she doesn’t know a thing. She thinks I want to keep things neat here, that the smell bothers me, or that I’m ashamed of the bandages I magically pull out of my behind. In reality, what I’m quite particular about when it comes to hygiene is that I don’t give a shit about it, and I despise germaphobes like Margarete.

Helen wonders why she’s so worked up about Margarete.

When I instantly despise someone for no comprehensible reason, when I want to punch them or at the very least insult them in the harshest terms, it usually means my period is on the way. Just to top it all off.

Margarete says, “Have fun with your trash can.”

Yeah. Thanks a lot. You’re a barrel of laughs.

And, end chapter. Next time, Helen gets her period. See you there!



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