I’m thinking of Robin. I undress him. Lay him totally naked on my hospital bed and lick him from his tailbone all the way up his backbone to his neck. He has a lot of dark moles. Maybe he should visit the skin doctor. It would be a shame if he died of skin cancer. He’s a nurse, after all. A nurse shouldn’t die of something overlooked. A nurse should get run over by a car or kill himself because he’s fallen hopelessly in love with someone. Like me, for instance. I lick each vertebrae all the way back down. To his butt crack. I spread his cheeks apart and lick his asshole. At first just in a circle. Then I make my tongue pointed and stiff and bore into his tightly closed sphincter. My left hand makes its way underneath to his cock. It’s so hard it’s like a stone column wrapped in warm skin. I shove my tongue deeper into his ass and hold my closed hand against his bell-end. I want him to come so hard into my pressed-together fingers that it streams out the other side. Which is exactly what he does. There’s nothing else he can do. I don’t let go of the tip of his cock. Hold it tight. I open my eyes again. He’s a pig, this Robin. I have to laugh. I love my emergency sex fantasy. I don’t need TV to entertain myself.

A knock at the door. With my luck it’ll be Robin and he’ll instantly figure out what I was just picturing. Nope. A female nurse. She asks whether I’ve had a bowel movement.

“No, have you?”

The nurse gives a pained smile and leaves.

Helen, you wanted to be a good patient. Yes, but with the constant questions and the phrase “bowel movement” it’s tough to be nice. And now. I’ll combine two things in one trip. I’ll pee and go out into the hall to get mineral water for my hidden avocado pits. I slide out of bed backward, as always, dropping my feet to the ground until they are both solidly planted. Twinges of pain are beginning. The anesthesiologist warned me about this. It’s on the way. I waddle to the washroom, lift my hospital gown and piss standing up, just the way an ass patient is supposed to. No need to flush. Nobody else is going to use it but me. Drives hygiene-freaks nuts. From the sink I grab the glass you’re supposed to use to rinse your mouth out after you brush your teeth and fill it to overflowing with water. Dad taught me that water can stay in a glass even if you fill it above the rim—because of the surface tension or something like that. I can’t remember exactly anymore. I’ll ask him again when he shows up. Now I’ve already got a conversation topic prepared. You need to do that with him. And this is just the sort of thing he loves to talk about for long periods of time. There won’t be any embarrassing pauses in the conversation.

I drink the entire glass in one go. Nice change. Still water instead of sparkling.

I leave my gown gathered and tied in front. I’d be ashamed to have any of my schoolmates visit me, but I don’t care if everyone here sees me undressed all day long. They’ve seen it all here, that’s for sure. From the bathroom I don’t go back to bed but out into the hall. I stand there for a minute and look around. On the way to the cafeteria I saw a little seating area for visitors. Where you can make tea or get coffee out of a big urn. And right there was a tower of stacked water-bottle crates. Surely they’re self-serve. I’ll try it out. Because to fill the pit glasses I need more than one bottle. And the nurses only bring a new bottle once the last one is empty. It’s too indulgent for me to make a nurse take several trips back and forth. I head for the seating area. There’s a family sitting there speaking to each other very quietly. The nurses should follow their lead. One of the men in the group is wearing pajamas and a bathrobe. That signals to me that he’s the ass patient of the bunch. I don’t feel like saying hello. I take three bottles out of the top crate and head back. I can hear that my rearview has created a stir among the family. Have a ball. I walk as quickly as I can back to my protected cave.

I squeeze into the far corner between the windowsill and the bed without letting my ass brush up against anything. Back to where I’ve hidden my avocado greenhouse with the Bible. Shielded from the view of the doctors and nurses and from Robin. Although Robin’s allowed to see them. I’ll show him at some point. He’s already seen a lot. Come to think of it, he could take some pictures of the current condition of my ass.

I lift up the Bible carefully and refill the glasses. In the sun here on the windowsill the water evaporates pretty fast. Don’t think you have nothing to do, Helen. There are living things depending on you. You can do a better job keeping them watered. Some of the pits are already out of the water, and here you are saying you’re bored. Tsk, tsk. They all look to be doing okay, though. Sometimes one here or there will start to mold and I have to part with it despite all the effort I’ve put in. The roots aren’t yet sticking out of most of them. But one has started to split, and another has a root growing out of the bottom. Things are going well with my pits. All healthy. I put the Bible back and shield them from view again.

I think I’d like to stand here for a minute. The room looks completely different from here.

Up to now I’ve mostly looked out from the bed. From here the room looks bigger. Of course. I’m in the farthest corner. With all my power I push the bed a few inches into the room and then let myself slide down into the corner until my ass touches the floor and my legs are bent so much that my knees touch my breastbone. I feel the cold linoleum on my peach and ass cheeks. I don’t even know if it is linoleum, but that’s what people always say is in a hospital. This position is straining my ass too much. I need to straighten out my legs under the bed. I can hide here. If I can’t see the door, nobody who comes through the door can see my face either. My legs yes. But they’d have to purposefully look under the bed first. Nobody who comes in will have any reason to look under the bed. Everyone will just look at the bed and, if it’s empty, think that I’m wandering around somewhere or that I’m on the toilet. I feel between my legs with my hand. I stick two fingers in and use them like tweezers to pull out my homemade tampon. I put it on top of the shoulder-high radiator. The tampon wobbles back and forth unsteadily so I press it down between two ribs of the radiator. I don’t want it to fall on me. I don’t want to have any bloodstains in strange places on my back or wherever that nobody can explain—and that I can’t either because I can’t even see them. As soon as I’ve positioned the tampon securely—it’s a bit sticky now, too, which helps—I take my middle finger and put the tip of the nail directly on my snail tail. I press on it with the edge of the nail. That must make an indentation. Nobody sees it though. It’s the fastest way to get wet. My pussy immediately begins to drip with slime. One hand is busy with the snail tail—I alternately press on it and rub it; I need two fingers of the other hand to shove into my pussy. I spread the two fingers apart inside my pussy and make a twisting motion. Normally, as I get more and more into it I stick my pussy fingers in my ass. That’s not going to happen, though. The ass is fresh from surgery and already occupied by a plug. I could try to feel that, though. I move the pussy fingers inside me toward the back. It feels like a very thin dividing wall between pussy and ass. I can feel the plug. Even though I’m in the pussy. I know this feeling. But not from a plug, of course. From shit. It’s often lined up at the exit before it’s allowed to leave. And if you’re in the pussy you can feel the log of crap through the thin dividing wall. I wonder if men have ever felt one in me when we were hooking up?

They would never say anything about it anyway. It wouldn’t seem like the most appropriate thing to say right before you stuck your cock in someone.

“Hey, wow, you know what I just felt inside you?” Not likely.

I also like to feel the sphincter work from my pussy. I tighten it, cinch my ass closed, and feel it from inside.

There’s a cow on the grass, hallelujah. Opens and closes its ass, hallelujah.

Now I want to feel the front wall of my pussy. The back wall has been sufficiently investigated.

By turning my fingers all the way around—a feeling that really turns me on, I love quick twisting motions inside me—I’m touching the front wall of my pussy, directly behind the pubic bone. Here the pussy feels like a washboard. You say a muscular man has a washboard stomach, too. But that’s not a very good comparison. The front wall of the pussy feels like an actual washboard, in miniature. Like a cheese grater. That’s it! A cheese grater. It’s a hard landscape of bumps like that—like the top of your mouth but with bigger bumps. The way the roof of a lion’s mouth looks when it yawns and you can see inside it. That’s exactly how the front wall of the pussy feels. When I press hard against it, it feels as if I’m going to piss all over my hand and I usually come immediately. When I come that way, a fluid often shoots out, too, like sperm. I don’t think there’s much difference between men and women. But that’s not how I want to come today.

I have to stop exploring the inside of my body.

I need both hands now. I rub my dewlaps really hard with both pointer fingers. Almost there, almost there. One hand works its way up. I want to brace myself on the windowsill. When I come I like to hold onto something sturdy.

I come fast. Usually.

Suddenly there’s water all over me. It’s ice cold. No way I can come now. I’ve knocked over one of the avocado glasses and the water’s spilled onto my head and run down my chest.

I look down at my body. My hospital gown is see-through now from the water. My maroon nipples show and they’re sticking out because they’re cold. If there’s a wet T-shirt contest at the hospital today I’ll win.

But first I’ll finish my mission. I press my middle finger against my little snail tail again and make tiny circular motions with it. This gets me back in the mood again and starts to warm me up from below. But that feeling that spreads across your pelvis just won’t come back because of the chill of the water. It’s just not going to work. I can’t even quietly give myself a handjob hidden under the bed in my own hospital room. Usually the easiest task.

Sorry, Helen.

I want to get back up. Just as I’ve lifted my ass a few inches above the puddle, there’s a knock at the door. As always, the door opens simultaneously. Nobody here waits for a “come in.”

They must already have their right hand on the door handle as they knock with the left. As they are knocking they open the door.

They keep catching me with my hand on my pussy. I’ve given up trying to quickly pull my hand away. It’s even more obvious than just leaving your hand there.

There are no secrets in the hospital. I’ve given up on secrets. Otherwise I’d have to hate all these intruders too much.

I can see feet and a handle with a big mop attached to the bottom of it. The cleaning woman is making her rounds.