All posts in deception

Travel Diary: Bottoms Blah Blah Blah

Bareback top visiting New Hampshire
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Flakes are universal, along with fakes and catfish Open-New-Window-External. This I know.

But when it comes to superstar flaking out, New Hampshire takes the fucking cake. In fact, my visit to Concord might take the bakery.

Allow me to explain.

I always post future destinations in my travel plans on my BarebackRT.com profile Open-New-Window-External. I notify readers here Open-New-Window-External that I’m visiting. Of course, all this is tweeted Follow on Twitter and ends up on my Facebook Open-New-Window-External.

To enhance it all further, I post on Craigslist an add that looks something like the following:

TOP blogger visiting looking for bottom writing inspiration – m4m (Concord Area)

I’m a blogger who writes about my sexual experiences on the road with bottoms I encounter… My blog is read by thousands every single day, reproduced on several sites and even some entries end up on a famous porn studio’s website.

Perhaps you might like to be the inspiration for a piece when I slide into town next week?

I don’t identify the bottoms I fuck, just write about the experience…

Hit me up with your info — a pic, stats, etc. I’ll respond with my blog details so you can check it out. We’ll go from there.

The site contains a lot of information beyond my fucks. And if you happen to be a top, we can tag team or maybe you’d like to try sitting on my cock… it’s a perfect 7 inches cut.

Thanks!

P.S. The only major requirement (other than bottoming for me) is that you don’t smoke.

From all this, I do get a lot of inquiries. Most of them are lurkers who never intend to meet. This I get. It’s also an opportunity to find new people to read my blog since not all barebackers have found the Bareback Brotherhood or my blog.

With many there’s the “I just fuck safe,” and then more than half switch their story.  But some don’t. Yet, with my blog, it becomes a jerk-off destination for many.

When I do finally arrive, I e-mail the best back to see if they’re still up for that fuck.

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Arriving in Concord

My arrival in Concord allowed me to long in locally to BarebackRT.com, Grindr, Scruff and Manhunt.net, all of which use a geographic tool to notify one who’s closest. I also posted to Craigslist.

Two men of the many interested e-mailed me back saying they were still up for the fuck, but one 4 p.m. pump-and-dump session became a no-show with regrets arriving several hours later because he was “stuck somewhere.”

Flake.

All of my online activity netted me a lot of interest. A lot. I was fresh meat in a town that didn’t see a lot. Of course, I got the usuals…

People just wanting to collect photos, see my cock or face.

I had one prospect on BarebackRT… he was a fucking hot dude in his late twenties… seemed like a good one. But here’s where we begin one issue that baffled me for Concord.

He had no vehicle.

I needed to come to him and pick him up, bring him back to my hotel to fuck and then take him home.

Now please check out the map.

Concord is not a major city. It’s 1½ hours north of Boston. It’s not a walking city. How can you not have a car and survive, especially when you’re not in college?

This turned into a theme of the night. No car. No transportation. My car is in the shop. My car is in the shop due to the storm. I don’t have a car.

By the way, none of these bottoms ever asked where I was staying to see if I happened to be within walking distance.

I don’t guess Northeastern tops teach bottoms they’re the ones who need to make the effort Opens new window of a page on this blog.

While some of them were hot enough for me to go and fetch them, it turns out I didn’t rent the car but a colleague did. I simply wasn’t an option.

Then came the other morons.

I also get a collection of those who want to postpone. These guys appear in every city, without fail. I wonder if they ever fuck. All conversations go something like this.

THEM: “How long you in town?”

ME: Just tonight (no matter how long I’m in town, I always say I’m here “just tonight”)

THEM: “Damn! It’s getting late tonight.”

ME: It’s just 9:30.

THEM: “I know but I have to get up early. I wish you were here…” fill in the blank with “tomorrow night” or “this weekend”

In other words, they can never come over now or today.

Proximity Alert

My first promising opportunity looked like a threesome, which I won’t get into too much detail on. In his early thirties and a scruffy blond, wanted to know if I wanted to fuck both him and another guy, in his early twenties — both online at the same time. As if on cue, the younger one sends me a message.

The younger one asks if I’ve got poppers, which of course I do.

Then he asks if I’ve got anything “more fun.”

WTF.

“Dude,” I respond back. “You’re well aware I’ve come into town. That means I flew. That means I went through security. At an airport. Are you fucking kidding me? Why would I have any drugs?”

He responds, “Oh yea, I guess you’re right. But I still want to fuck.”

Anyway, the vibe is off and the duo then go even more weird. The young one claims the old one is stalking him. The old one claims they’re “together.”

I don’t want to get into the shit. Kick them both to the curb.

Right Downstairs

One last opportunity happens as a guy indicates he’s in a hotel. I ask which one and it turns out he’s in the same one as I am.

Bingo.

He won’t disclose his room, so I give him mine, knowing my colleague isn’t on that floor. He tells me he needs 10 minutes to shower and get cleaned up.

Those 10 minutes pass. Then another 10. Another 10. Yet another 10. And at 45 minutes, I finally message him.

He apologizes, saying it’s taking him longer than he thought to clean out his ass.

Whatever, I say, just get his ass to my room.

Then he says come to his.

I tell him I don’t have his room number.

He says okay, he’s now putting on his clothes.

At an hour after we started this exchange, he says he’s on his way.

Then I get a text asking me if I’ll suck his dick too.

I’m baffled. I just ask, “What?”

Then he writes, “I need to run by the front desk real quick.”

Fuck that.

This fucker is just playing me.

“Forget it.”

He gets all bent out of shape. Says he won’t go by the front desk. Blah blah blah.

After some back and forth, I say he can some to my room, but he has three minutes to get there.

He says he doesn’t like my attitude.

I tell him to fuck off.

The next morning, he begs me to come to his room to fuck him.

I tell him I’m not disturbing  guests actually staying in the hotel.

Postscript

Perhaps the little fucker actually was staying in the hotel or maybe he was one of the guys I’d e-mailed earlier and said I was in town and knew the hotel from that. I’ll never know. I’m proud I never knocked on anyone’s door. That shit pisses me off. He probably kept delaying things to try and get someone else to come over and knock on my door but, like me, couldn’t find anyone to do it.

My luck is your luck, fucker.

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When Anonymous Hook-Ups Don’t Work Out: Atlanta Tops Need to Beware of This Catfish

Catfish Uncovered, Fake Profiles Online
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Let’s be honest that there’s plenty of flakes and fakes out there. The Manti Te’o case Opens new window of a page on this blog brought a lot more attention to the plight and scourge of catfish Open-New-Window-External and it’s been a theme on this website Opens new window of a page on this blog.

I tend to expose the assholes stupid enough to use photos of convicts Opens new window of a page on this blog, porn stars Opens new window of a page on this blog or others.

This one is different.

The Ass of a CatfishIn late September 2012, I began communicating with a person who wanted me to stop by his house and breed his ass. We began via e-mail. On the particular day, the person had a particular window of time, wanting to arrive home. As it turned out, it would be after I would drive past where his house happened to be on my journey home.

Through the course of our correspondence, in which we traded photos and eventually phone numbers to text, we would finally settle on one afternoon where the timing worked out. He gave me his address again (so I’ve received his address both via e-mail and text). I drive to the location.

It’s October 8, 2012.

The sun is dipping behind the fall leaves and there’s a coolness to the air. Pumpkins already sit out on the portico of this lovely brick home in an upscale neighborhood far outside the Perimeter (Atlanta’s interstate loop around the city). I’ve diverted my normal route home in order to hit a few extra red lights and visit this man’s home.

It doesn’t look like he’s gay. It appears he might be married with kids. This home is too large for a single man and this community just doesn’t have a signature of young couples. The house has to be five or six bedrooms at least.

I’m awaiting a text from him to say come inside, the front door is unlocked. He’s had me waiting in my car, in the driveway for way too long. I already know something is a little up.

I’m scanning the windows, which all have wooden blinds shut tight. Likely, he’d checked me here, but I never saw one move.

I walk to the door like I belong here and push the doorknob to open it.

It’s locked.

I text and knock.

He says he forgot to unlock the door. He’ll be down in a minute to unlock it.

Of course, that never happens.

Then, in the next few minutes, he gives me a brand new ZIP code. Says I got it all wrong.

Now remember that I’ve received his address twice. I check it both places and he’s clearly given the ZIP code to this place correctly.

As it turns out, there is another street with the same name but it’s several miles away in another suburb. For example, there’s Holly Bank Court in Norcross and Holly Bank Circle in Atlanta.

I’m not stupid. I’m not criss-crossing Atlanta.

That Brings Us to Today

These kinds of wild goose chases happen. I usually can weed out the fakes, but this guy was in for the long con. In a way, I’ve got to give him some respect for the play, keeping me on the hook and playing me for a few weeks until he was able to reel me in. I wonder how many men in Atlanta followed through on this process only to end up visiting two addresses and getting no response or meeting some folks who never expected these strange men to show up on their doorstep.

Not cool.

As is normal for me, I’m hanging on BarebackRT.com Open-New-Window-External this morning and I get a message from BtmCatcherATL Open-New-Window-External. In the course of going back and forth, he wants a load and, based on what I see, it doesn’t look bad.

Now I see a lot of ass. Visually, I don’t catalog every ass photo I see.

BtmCatcherATL Open-New-Window-External is only 13 miles from my house and, in the scheme of things for Atlanta and my normal travels to get some, that’s not bad. I ask for his location.

It’s the address of his house that I recognize. A nice cul de sac in an upscale neighborhood halfway between my home and my former place of employment.

I search my e-mail and there it is too. And then I check out the photos, which some are the same.

First, I do a screen capture of his profile (turns out to be a good thing). Then, I e-mail BtmCatcherATL Open-New-Window-External letting him know I’ve visited his home before.

At first, he denies we’d ever chatted and that people had sent people to his home.

Then I send him his e-mail address. FYI, if you ever have an e-mail conversation with clemsonscott1993@gmail.com, don’t trust it. He’s another catfish and the same as BtmCatcherATL Open-New-Window-External.

He blocks me.

Busted.

BtmCatcherATL or clemsonscott1993@gmail.com's profile on BBRT

PostScript

I do have his face photo (which you can sort of see but I purposely didn’t highlight in the profile above). I have a huge version from the e-mail exchange. However, I’m not convinced it’s the person who’s sending the e-mails. As for ass photos, I don’t know and they’re not identifiable.

I just want my top friends in Atlanta to beware of this man.

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Q&A: Truth Inside the Truth & the Truth When It Should Be a Lie

hiv-positives-and-negatives
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Grindr-Hate-MessageHIV is a stigma. Don’t ask me. Ask someone who has it. Ask anyone who’s bold enough to actually put on their Grindr, Manhunt or Scruff profile that their Poz and see what happens. Here’s an example I used earlier of a friend of mine on Grindr who was messages for his profile which honestly revealed he’s Poz Opens new window of a page on this blog.

It’s bullshit.

Lately, I’ve gotten a couple of questions from readers who had issues involving Poz men, one making me think of this particular bias. I thought both were particularly telling and deserved to be told. Forgive me for sharing because I didn’t exactly ask these gentlemen’s permission, but I think I’ve averted anything devastating and I’m obscuring their identities.

Truth Inside the Truth:
Who Should Fuck Me, Poz or Undetectable?

QuestionI had only ever barebacked with boyfriends…. But I’m feeling that total slutty sex itch from deep within my hole and I kind of want to try bareback with a total stranger. Let’s face it: it was fucking hot, man! So, I joined BarebackRT.com Open-New-Window-External.

The first couple of days the only hits I got were from guys in the country and a couple of men in my home state, but several hundred miles away.

Today, I got hit up by two VERY hung tops, both within five miles of my home. One top says, “Undetectable.” The other says, “Positive.”

I really want to give it up again and I really want it to be raw, but  their status just scares me.

I almost hope I had never even looked at their status. I don’t know. I wonder if I would have even cared had I not known.

Which leads me to question whether or not I’m ready… A big part of me says, “Fuck it! Let’s do it!” But the other me says, “No.”

Advice?

(Give your own answer! Scroll to the survey below Scroll Down.)

 

AnswerYou need to ease into this world you’re exploring. So much of what you’re been conditioned is that HIV Poz is bad and you’ll die if you get it. No matter how much you logically know that’s not true, you still have this embedded conditioning — and almost Pavlovian response — that creates and illogical fear of bareback sex.

It just isn’t true.

So let’s just break through this with a little more logic.

Men who are undetectable have technically at one point been exposed to HIV. However, their antiviral cocktails have been so effective that it’s resulted in repressing the virus so far down that a blood test cannot detect it.

Basically, these guys are now neg again.

HIV hasn’t disappeared from the body. However, the main route by which the the virus is transmitted lacks it.

Your chances of getting infected by an undetectable man are more than likely less than a man who claims he’s neg. Here’s why:

Neg men aren’t really that religious and consistent about having themselves checked for HIV and other sexually transmitted infections. Neg men really don’t have a doctor hovering over blood tests to check all their levels and call them when a six-month test is missed.

HIV-neg men aren’t even notified or bothered about their next test by most gay doctors. And that’s the sexually active men who’ve bothered to tell their doctors they bareback.

Fuck, mine doesn’t even know I go raw. He lectures me but just assumes I’m using condoms.

You are so much safer with undetectable on a cocktail. There’s no guarantees. But just fuck it and go for it. You’ll be glad you did. Then in about six weeks, set up an appointment and keep it every three to six months.

Eventually, the guilt fades and your fear response will die down and you’ll just remember the fun.

 

Truth When It Should Be a Lie:
He Said, ‘Fuck Off, I Don’t Fuck Poz Bottoms!’

I get on Scruff and meet this fucking hot thirtysomething. We get to chatting and, bonus of all bonuses, he takes cock raw and tells me it’s his policy for the top not to pull out. I assure him that iBLASTinside (and he doesn’t get it — obviously, not a reader).

He can’t wait for me to fuck him bit I’m sort of booked for the afternoon when he says he only gets fucked twice a year.

“Twice a year?” I question. “You surely get fucked a lot more than that. You’re really hot.”

Well, he explains the Poz thing turns men off. And he’s a bit of a stickler on being honest and up front. He refuses to use a condom so he gets told more often to “fuck off” rather than to “get fucked.”

He doesn’t exactly ask a question, but it ends up I give him a bit of advice.

(Give your own answer! Scroll to the survey below Scroll Down.)

Answer(for advice) As it turns out, you’ve recently tested “undetectable.” This means that if the traditional HIV tests were run at this time, the virus could not be found in your blood — you’d appear essentially “negative” to people. 

At one point, you appeared positive, but if you said, “In my most recent tests, I came out ‘negative,’ you technically would not be lying.” This is especially true since you will be acting as the bottom.

I understand you have a conscious and you feel telling these random hook-ups — and that’s what they are — a random hook-up — that you’re negative and you’ve actually tested positive at one point may be considered a lie. But the risk you present to these slutty barebackers is almost non-existent.

Like I say above, it’s more risky for these guys to have sex with men who believe they’re neg but aren’t being tested all that often.

It is their own bias that drives them to say, “No” to you when chances are, several of the supposed “neg” guys aren’t neg at all. You’re safer to fuck than any of them.

Further, let’s look at it in another direction:

Let’s say your grandfather on your mother’s side was black. You look white. But the guy has one of those racist profiles that say, “Not into black guys. Sorry. Just how I am.” Technically, dude, you are a little black. Now he messages you because you look white. You’re attracted to him. You pass as white.

But the truth is, you are part black.

Do you tell him you’re black?

It’s not going to hurt him not to know. In fact, it might be a lot of fun.

What Do You Think?

Now it’s your turn to chime in. I’ve got three questions based on my advice. I want to see what you all think about my responses:

help2      help      help2      help

Who should the neg guy get fucked by?

  • Start with the undetectable guy like Mark Bentson suggested (26%, 59 Votes)
  • Skip both and try to find a neg guy (22%, 50 Votes)
  • Skip them all and stop barebacking all together (18%, 40 Votes)
  • Fuck everything you can find (17%, 39 Votes)
  • Fuck both undetectable and poz guys (9%, 20 Votes)
  • Start with the poz guy and get it over with (8%, 17 Votes)

Total Voters: 225

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help2      help      help2      help

If you're poz but undetectable, is it okay to tell a hookup you're actually neg?

  • Never (64%, 143 Votes)
  • Always (16%, 35 Votes)
  • I don't know (12%, 27 Votes)
  • Sometimes (8%, 20 Votes)

Total Voters: 225

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help2      help      help2      help

If your maternal grandmother was black but you look white and a hook-up says he doesn't like blacks, should you tell that hook-up you're part black?

  • Never (42%, 64 Votes)
  • Always (32%, 48 Votes)
  • I don't know (14%, 21 Votes)
  • Sometimes (12%, 19 Votes)

Total Voters: 152

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help2      help      help2      help

Check back again here for continued results as more people vote.

help2      help      help2      help

Do you have a question you’d like Mark Bentson (aka iBLASTinside) to answer? Send a message to iBLASTinside@gmail.com mailbox_full or hit him up on his contact page Opens new window of a page on this blog.

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Ignore the Fake & Listen to the ‘Real’ Interview with Co-Founder of the Bareback Brotherhood

the-difference-between-fake-and-real
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A webcast and podcast is out claiming to be hosting an interview with the “founder” of the Bareback Brotherhood, a confederation of more than 8,000 men worldwide who believe bareback sex is a legitimate option for them.

Unfortunately, it’s actually a parody. Using a poorly impersonated voice of Smeagol from the “Lord of the Rings” movie trilogy and “The Hobbit,” the hosts of the show imply a variety of erroneous statements both about myself, the Bareback Brotherhood, barebacking in general and the practice of stealthing.

This sensationalistic effort to get their little piddly podcast off to a start might work, especially since they’ve inundated Twitter with the #BBBH hashtag and seem to be legitimately interviewing me or my fellow co-founders, @GaPozAthens Follow on Twitter and @Ch4sUK Follow on Twitter.

Had these assholes bothered to e-mail me (since they based a chunk of their so-called comedy routine on my Top 10 Stealthing Tips Opens new window of a page on this blog), I might have actually spoken to them. I have done interviews before with podcasts, namely Distorted View Daily Open-New-Window-External, which you can still listen to my controversial conversation.

But they were afraid of having a real conversation where I might ask them the hard-edged questions I ask of every condom Nazi who seems to disapprove — especially the one former “HIV educator.”

Oh, the tales I could tell you of fucking men who work in HIV education. If I were to go on BarebackRT.com Open-New-Window-External and simply highlight all the HIV educators, my friends at BBRT would lose so much money from loss of membership.

Ignore the current claims of an interview of a “founder of the BBBH.” There’s only Co-Founders. And the only one with an interview right now can be found with Distorted View Daily Open-New-Window-External.

 

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The Missing Post: The Death of My Mother

My-Mothers-Hands
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This entry isn’t sexy at all. You might want to skip it entirely.

I scolded someone today about missing a post regarding the death of my Mother and, when I went back to find it, realized it wasn’t there myself. I apologize to that reader since several places throughout my blog, I do refer to my Mother’s death but the recount of it seems to be missing.

I had debated writing about it when it happened in January of 2010. In fact, the gap of my posts seem almost invisible now looking back, covered up by Q&A posts that seemed popular at the time. Truth is, I probably did post something but along the way to this platform or in some cleaning frenzy, I deleted it as too overly sentimental or not sexy enough.

Yet that incident has significant bearing on two things in my reportour of posts these days: My extraordinary dislike of smoking Opens new window of a page on this blog and my intense disdain of catfish Open-New-Window-External.

By the way, the photo included here is actually a real photo I told of me holding my Mother’s hand one long and painful night and texted it to the catfish.

flower_white          flower_white          flower_white          flower_white

A Second Hospital Visit

My job at the time had me travel throughout December through March. I’d returned home in January after another string of visits and my uncle, who’d just left, suggested I go immediately to see my Mother, as she wasn’t feeling well.

About six years earlier, I’d moved back to Georgia from Washington, D.C., to help care for my elderly parents. My father had passed in 2005, all of us by his side. But he was at home in hospice care. I’d been his primary caretaker during his final two weeks, administering the painkilling medicine that eased his discomfort and helped him ultimately make the transition as easily as possible.

To be honest, his passing was almost one of a miracle, as we’d talked about a month before about his wishes at his funeral. As he breathed his last breath, all of the family around him, hugging him, crying and saying good-bye, the television began playing the one song he’d asked to be played at his funeral.

Compared the the gentle but stoic nature of my Father was the truly steel magnolia Machiavellian matriarch that was my Mother. I loved her dearly. But at 78 years old, she would ignore every doctor’s advice (and my orders) and do as she wished.

From almost 42 years of smoking, her chronic obstructed pulmonary disorder made the most simple tasks brutal. Yet she would insist on housework, fixing dinner, driving herself places, and more, her little portable oxygen tank in tow. And I’d drive her all over the family gatherings, with her often upset when I deviated from the old routes to take quicker, new highways.

I’d been travelling all over the country — three cities this last nine-day tour — and I wanted to sleep and rest because the next week I would be off for two more cities. But instead, I dragged my fat ass over to see Mom.

She’d been sleeping on the sofa across from the hospital bed I’d had in her home for the last six months but she refused to use because there wasn’t a lamp close enough to it.

More petite and frail, her hands and arms dotted with bruising from whenever she’d bump up against anything, she insisted “something was wrong.”

I struck a bargain with her: We’d go to the hospital but when she came home, she’d have to learn to do what I said. After all, I reminded her how she bossed around her Mother (my Grandmother) for 10 years before her passing. I told her she needed me let me get a little bossing in.

Now that I look back, she agreed too quickly.

It was the second time I took her to the hospital but the first time she would be admitted.

Nothing Out of the Ordinary

Mother had bronchitis. When I moved home, I went to the doctors with both of my parents and spent time with their primary care and any specialist, learning as much as I could about their chronic conditions. I also learned what to expect when the time would come.

For Mother, it would be a series of lung infections that would get steadily worse over time until essentially, she could not get enough oxygen and would suffocate.

“The process is beginning,” I told myself.

When I moved home, Mother’s lung capacity was at 23 percent of normal. Even though she’d quit smoking about five years before I came back to Georgia, her lungs would never heal. That’s one of the myths about smokers. If you quit, your lungs don’t get better. Actually, they continue to deteriorate — just at a much slower pace.

Each year, Mother would lose between 1 and 2 percent of capacity. She currently hovered around 17 percent.

She began making a rebound quickly with the antibiotics and everything seemed fine. But one afternoon, she told me something was wrong.

“What is it, Mom?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

My Mother’s eyes contained sheer terror in them. I noticed the her oxygen saturation in her blood on the monitor suddenly dropping. I hit the nurse call button.

In the next 30 minutes, we were in the Intensive Care Unit. The doctors wanted to intubate my Mother — that is, put a tube into her lungs to breathe for her. And in her fear, my Mother consented. But I overruled her, pulling out my power of attorney. One of the healthcare directives she’s insisted upon in it was to never be intubated and the doctors agreed, saying if we did, she’d likely never be able to be taken off since her lungs would never be strong enough.

She was put onto a machine that strapped an oxygen mask onto her face so tight, it made bruises all over her face. It would force her to breath.

She cried through the night, hating that machine. I was there the whole time, holding her hand. She asked constantly for it to be taken off. But I asked her to bear with me just a little longer to see if it would help.

But in 24 hours, her condition didn’t improve.

My only companion other than some family and friends who would stop by was a words at the other end of texting. The person was comforting in so many ways. And I was at my most vulnerable, here, next to my dying Mother, feeling the most alone in the world.

The reassurance of his care and love for me seemingly helped. But later, I would discover it was all a lie. He didn’t exist. And I’ll be honest — what that person did, the betrayal just reaches so deep into places where I’m still scarred and hurting that I can’t even begin to explain or even discuss it. It’s actually easier to talk about my Mother.

Relief at Last

With no improvement and really no hope, I spoke to all the doctors the next day to assure that switching to palliative care would be the right choice. I wasn’t prepared for this decision so early. I’d expected to take Mother home and have a few more hospital visits before this event. But that wasn’t to be.

I then spoke to my sister and my aunt to make sure they agreed. Turns out I was the late one to the decision, but I had to be there. It was time for me to talk to Mother.

We turned that horrible machine off and took it away. My Mother was so relieved it wasn’t working on her now and she could breathe at whatever pace she wanted. I went and sat down, alone, next to her, put my hand in hers, feeling the warmth and the knotted knuckles from the arthritis. Her poor body was just so battered and bruised, but through it all I could see that beautiful woman who cared for me through all my years, kissed my boo-boos. She guided me kindly and occasionally spanked me. I pulled her hand to my lips and kissed it, feeling that rough skin that still contained a softness. I brushed back her gray hair from her bruised forehead and looked into the dimming brown eyes.

“Mother,” I said in a quiet tone, managing to keep it together.

“Yes,” she said.

“We had a choice and I want to know what you think,” I said. “I know you hate that machine but it’s your only hope of getting any better.”

I paused, as I could see the recognition come across her face.

“We can put you back on it and try to make you ask comfortable as possible,” I continued. “Or we can leave you off of it and you can go see Daddy.”

A single tear streamed down my left cheek.

She didn’t answer immediately. But she did finally speak.

“I think I’d rather go see Daddy. I really miss him.”

My Mother and Father were married 53 years before he passed away. Of course she missed him.

I hugged her.

The Rebound

Over the next few hours, Mom seemed to feel better than ever, visited with so many people. It’s one of those miraculous gifts we get before we die and we get to say goodbye. I have a precious video of her time with my nephew that just would tear anyone apart to watch.

She laughed so much. I was so glad to see that. I hadn’t seen her with that much joy in so long.

It was then I began to realize just how sick she’d been.

And if on schedule, as the final people left and the last prayers were uttered, she slipped into a silent, fitful sleep. With all the paperwork signed, I had the nurses begin to add morphine and other calming drugs to make her sleep more restful.

Just after midnight, she stopped breathing in this world. But she got a lung-full of air somewhere else.

I screamed, not in pain, but at the top of my lungs, “She can finally breathe!”

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