Tag Archives: healthcare

rage

The Guy I Didn’t Fuck

I’m traveling right now and I’d warned the bottoms around here I’d be in town and up to breed.

My top contender for my load was fucking adorable. We had been texting back and forth for close to a week (on and off) when it came to the time when the boy needed to put his ass in the air.

With some, when it comes to being with me, they need some assurances. I need assurances too. I’ve had too many catfish — so many, I could open a seafood restaurant. I need convinced a person is real.

He needed convincing I’d not leave him with HIV or an STD.

Supposedly, he was in my hotel when he sent this line:

“I’m sorry I keep asking but it would be bad for a nurse to pop up with HIV.”

I went back to reread that.

Surely, someone going into healthcare — someone who would care for people with all sorts of diseases, disorders and maladies — did not just imply that male nurses were not supposed to become poz.

Having known plenty of poz men (and women) in many, many professions including nursing (and doctoring, for that matter), my hard cock took a turn south as the blood rushed to my finger tips and I furiously began typing to this little fucker.

I was pissed.

Would it be bad for a nurse to pop up diabetic? With high cholesterol? Obese?

This young man needed to get some sense fucked into him but I wasn’t going to do it, especially since I’d assured him I wasn’t giving him anything he’d judged as “bad.” In the end, I thought it better to deny him cock and cum. I just couldn’t support him knowing that his sexy ass somehow justified him getting bred. Sure, I could have bred him, telling him I was filling him up with toxic, puss-filled, virus-laden cum. But it would just play into the damned critics who make my life enough of a challenge I’m in semi-retirement now.

Instead, I sent him on his way without his ass fulfilled with what he really needed. And I told him that he indeed turned into the bottom inspiration that brought me out of retirement to write.

I hope no one gets sick and gets cared for by this little son-of-a-bitch. If you do and he perceives you somehow, Male Nurse McJudgie is not going to give you 100% of the loving care you deserve.

May his ass rot cumless (and condomless) until his dying day.

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The Missing Post: The Death of My Mother

The Missing Post: The Death of My Mother

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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What About the Youth of Today and Their Opinions on Bareback? FUCK EM!

What About the Children?

Every time some political football enters the arena — the national debt, gun control, Medicare, climate change, healthcare or whatever the issue happens to be — and one side runs out of arguments, there’s this moment when the pundit tilts his head to one side, gets this misty-eyed reflection and might even choke up a little. And then he or she says something about how this issue will ruin the lives of our children, the next generation, our children’s children or some crap like that.

It’s bullshit. But it’s a reflexive moment where everyone, whether you’ve got children or not, that our instinctual survival-of-the-species part of the monkey-brain kicks in and we collectively think something needs to be done.

Why do you think we all find babies and even the youngest of other species so adorably cute and cuddly? Puppies and kittens? Baby seals?

This is instinct telling us to take care and protect our young.

Now that I’ve explained it, let’s talk a little about the recent attacks on the Bareback Brotherhood Link Opens in a New Window, my fellow bareback bloggers, bareback hookup sites like BarebackRT.com Link Opens in a New Window, our family of pornographers and, more particularly, me.

The Sudden Focus of World AIDS Day

Over the past few years, I’ve come to expect it around December 1, World AIDS Day. Funny how one day prompts some assholes who ignore a class of people living with HIV and AIDS for a whole year but become indignant when they discover bareback sex and groups like the BBBH. One particular person who bugchased Link Opens in a New Window successfully and documented it received some particularly violent threats this year, including details on how they’d like to kill him.

It’s not technically irony (Alanis  Morissette ruined that for all of us), but the condom Nazis Link Opens in a New Window who want to wrap the world in plastic so no one dies of AIDS wants to kill someone for getting AIDS. Just weird.

Once I’d engage these hypocrites who ignore all the other ways our people are dying Opens a new window from this blog, who don’t give a shit that the Gay culture of steroid-muscled youth is built around smoke-filled bars serving alcohol with gun-toting drug dealers selling crystal meth (or “Tina”), ecstasy (or “Molly”), and cocaine.

Where’s your righteous indignation there?

But I don’t. I ignore the attacks nowadays. I delete the anonymous posts to my site wishing I would die or suggesting ways they would kill me. This very website fends off multiple cyber-attacks every second Opens a new window from this blog.

I refused to acknowledge or even link to the clever posts who have all of 200 followers on Twitter Link Opens in a New Window but figure out how to search for my brothers in cum and suggest others block them.

Twitter People to Block If You’re One of Those Self-Righteous, Plastic-Loving Pricks

I’ve been kind enough to compile the list myself. On Twitter alone, I’ve got six barebacker lists with confirmed men all over the world who love to fuck raw:
Blue Bullet One Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Two Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Three Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Four Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Five Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Six Link Opens in a New Window

I’ve listed all the Bareback Brotherhood members in four lists:
Blue Bullet One Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Two Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet Three Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet 
Four Link Opens in a New Window

You’ll also want to check out my fellow co-founders of the BBBH to see their lists.
Blue Bullet @ch4suk Link Opens in a New Window
Blue Bullet @gapozathens Link Opens in a New Window

That should cover all the so-called evil (but very enlightened and sexy) people online you need to block.

There’s even barebackers who somehow misinterpret the basics of the Bareback Brotherhood with strange, concocted vendettas out for me.

Hiding Behind ‘the Children’

Like some final bastion of refuge, the truth is arguing that safer sex is the only sex doesn’t work. The fear that came with AIDS/HIV of the 1980s and 1990s simply doesn’t work. HIV/AIDS is now defined by the medical community as a chronic condition Link Opens in a New Window, like “arthritis, asthma, cancer, COPD [and] diabetes.” It’s like living under the constant “orange” threat after 9/11.

The argument goes that we older folks are influencing younger people in their late teens and early twenties to accept bareback sex as normal and natural. Our “influence” is causing these youths to engage in so-called “unsafe” activity.

No, it’s causing them to act natural.

The most unnatural thing is to stick a piece of plastic on your cock in order to have an intimate act.

It’s not influenced by barebackers.

These assholes have the same kind of sense that we’re converting young men into barebackers the same way the homophobic think the Gays are converting youth into homosexuals.

It’s just ludicrous.

Talk to one. He will tell you about the love for the cum in his ass or dumping a load in a bare ass. It’s nothing to do with influence. It’s a natural appeal to do what comes naturally.

I’m Not Changing Anyone’s Mind

I know I’m not. I know I could never have a reasonable conversation with one of these jackoffs. I also know people who’ve been reading my site about stealthing Opens a new window from this blog and bugchasers Opens a new window from this blog and barebacking are misinterpreting the basics.

I can’t change a mind.

But what I do know is I appreciate the attention.

My readers are higher than ever, especially since some female porn slut thinks she’s got the upper hand on me and she can bareback all the guys she wants but men fucking raw is naughty, naughty.

Well, put me on Santa’s naughty list, take the saddle off the reindeer and let’s ride raw.

Fuck the children! I mean the LEGAL children of age, of course. No stocking for me.

 

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I've been on a bit of a dry spell

Dune… Desert Planet… Dry Spell While I’m Working to Find a New Job. Anyone Care to Help?

Coincidental that I’m rereading the Frank Herbert classic Dune and experiencing a dry spell at the same time.

Truth is I could get more ass if I tried but here lately, my focus as been finding another job — not that any of you give a shit about my mundane life. If you want to read about sex, go search some sex term or skip to another entry.

Help Me Find a New Job

For those of you who don’t know, I’m in marketing with a digital emphasis. I can do it all and am at a senior level. I’m just about ready to jump into a vice president role somewhere. If you know of anything out there, please let me know Opens a new window from this blog.

My career includes extraordinary work and let’s just say I know what I’m doing (after all, I am the man who established the #BBBH hashtag on Twitter). This blog is about my sexual escapades and I wouldn’t mind working in the sex industry or along the fringes. That said, I never have and I enjoy working in a more traditional medium. In fact, I’ve worked in computers, electronics, media, healthcare and manufacturing.

If you’ve ever heard the overly trite phrase “thinking outside the box,” I don’t even see a box. My creative ideas take great risks and almost always come with phenomenal rewards. Some of my results were so astounding that the manufacturing company for which I worked had a six-month backlog after a two-week promotion I ran. The company also went from no presence in social media to first place in its marketplace in less than a year.

Other highlights of my work…

  • Strong branding development and strategy throughout my career.
  • (Obviously) terrific writing, communication and adept at presentations (PowerPoint, Keynote, etc.).
  • Built multiple mobile applications for smart phones with fun and practical applications to further the brand.
  • Integrated the use of QR codes in retail point-of-presence materials and print advertisements.
  • Built and launched more than 500 websites — from tiny sites to blogs to personalized, database-driven, mammoth sites; always made sure those websites work with mobile browsers on tablets and phones; many websites are content management system-based and I’ve trained personnel how to best use the website.
  • Developed international websites with multiple languages using automatic detection of geographic location for best possible visitor experience.
  • Provided guidance through the basic discovery and design process including information architecture and search engine optimization (SEO) for websites.
  • Created strategies, especially for online growth. One consumer website grew from 1.1 million to 2 million visitors in one year using a combination of SEO, search engine marketing (SEM), microsites and social media.
  • Trained thousands of retailers in online marketing techniques to further their relationship with current consumer trends, bringing more consumers onto websites and into stores, significantly improving sales.
  • Developed and executed massive campaigns with multi-tiered aspects utilizing several third-party companies and hundreds of personnel successfully.
  • Ran public relations efforts including national satellite media tours.
  • Cast television personalities as spokespeople for brands successfully, maintaining multiple years in developing television commercials and online presence.
  • Developed YouTube channel for brand that now draws more than 300 viewers every day only two years after establishment.
  • Created unique social media approach taking a company from non-existent to first place in its marketplace category in about six months.
  • Flawless execution of events and convention, maintaining branding and delivering excitement.
  • Creative SEM and online advertising including conquesting and other strategies to best deliver new potential customers.
  • Developed web and social media syndication systems for major brands to help allow multilevel messaging from corporate to local.
  • Integrated all digital marketing aspects with traditional advertising for maximum boost to any campaign and seamless unification.
Okay, maybe that’s plenty to highlight my work. I’ve done a lot in my career and I’ve got a lot more I can do.

Sexual Harassment Positions Welcomed

You want to be my boss and get my cock and cum on occasion? I don’t mind. I’m glad to provide.

We can be colleagues and I’ll even fuck you.

I’m someone who doesn’t let sex get in the way of work. In fact, it would be great to have an on-site fuck or someone I travel with on occasion and we can fuck around together or just be each other’s wing-man.

I’m also willing to move practically anywhere in the U.S., Canada or the U.K. for a job. I’ll consider other parts of the world like Australia but not sure about non-English speaking or intolerant parts of the planet like the Middle East (for some reason, a lot of marketing jobs seem to be opening up there). Still, if it’s the right opportunity and the right fit, I’ll take it.

Now, Why I’m Looking for a New Job

Venting Here, So You May Want to Skip This Part

You might recall I was out of work for just three days short of a year when I finally got this job. A position with much promise and a fuckload of travel including visits to the San Francisco Bay area. That part I loved.

However, promises made to me were not promises kept.

Here comes some venting… something I really can’t put anywhere else.

My direct supervisor is not well liked among colleagues, although the C-level seems to approve. All of those colleagues — to whom I had responsibilities — made my work a living hell since they dislike my supervisor. One of my staff members appears to have had an inappropriate relationship with my supervisor and therefore refused to report to me.

Despite gallant efforts on my own part, I could never seem to get the management group to align with any concept on the most basic level. This meant that I couldn’t get all the managers to agree to a single branding message.

I made superb headway with the company website in a short period, increasing qualified visitors and decreasing a lot of the folks who came by mistake. The company purchases a lot of Google pay-per-click ads and I’d made significant headway in improving those results, making sure the clicks resulted in legitimate, potential customers rather than wasting between $2.50 to $14 per click. Before I arrived, some months more than 90 percent of the monthly online ad budget was wasted on bogus clicks. In two months, I’d gotten it down to less than 53 percent and it was dropping further.

Despite this empirical evidence, all the managers began freaking out when less people were clicking through — even though each click turned out to be a more qualified person. In other words, they’d rather see 1,000 clicks where less than 10 percent would be a potential customer instead of 600 clicks where 47 percent might make a sales inquiry.

Between that and the pure hatred between my supervisor and pretty much everyone else, and I had no chance to survive.

I haven’t lost my job, but I see the handwriting. It’s funny how everyone outside the situation can see my competence and respect my skills and experience. Seems to me anyone who has two decades under his or her belt brings something to the table. Everyone within my circle of influence doesn’t give a shit.

Therefore, yet another refresh on my resume and pinging all the recruiters again. Keeping my finger crossed this won’t be another 12-month ordeal since the handwriting is pretty damn plain and I likely won’t last that long.

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