Then there’s sex. Since I had to wear a catheter much of the month I was hospitalized, my doctors cautioned me that for the next several weeks, I should not “have sex.” Most patients would nod and leave it at that (whether they would follow doctors’ orders or not is another story). But I, being the sex maven that I am, insisted on clarification. “Do not,” they specified, “put anything in your vagina.” This is unfortunate, because I love to put things in my vagina, one of the few parts of my body that actually feels fine these days. But these doctors saved my life, so I’m not about to disobey them at this juncture.

Well, at least, I can still give blowjobs.

Not that I’m much of a Deep Throat artiste (for true fellatio artistry, check out our beloved Annie Body’s first appearance on the show or Leila doing Big D in Squirt Salon or Lydia doing J backstage). But while Miss Pussy is on enforced rest, I have been enjoying using my mouth and hands to give my H some excellent orgasms. I combine oral sex with aural sex, telling him the stories he loves to hear, usually involving me having sex with various people, real and imagined. I love doing this for my H. Lord and Lady knows, he’s been working so hard these days, running the company as well as being my nurse; giving him a nice hand-and-blowjob is the least I can do. Of course, it’s a good thing H is so sexy. I would hate to be so grateful to someone I wasn’t wildly attracted to. But with the attraction and the chemistry, it’s very enjoyable for me too. I really feel his pleasure. Or maybe it’s just a pleasure to feel him.

The Fine Art of Fellatio

Last night, for instance, I found it so delicious to touch, kiss and suck his freshly showered body (now slimmed down to a very sexy build since he quit drinking). Touching him even seems to kill my pains for a little while. I’ve always known that sex is a natural painkiller. But I thought it was mainly about having orgasms and receiving pleasure. Turns out that giving pleasure is also almost as good as a Vicodin (hear that, Rush?). Erotic touch releases painkilling chemicals (oxytocin instead of OxyContin), whether you’re the toucher or the touchee.

Another natural painkiller: Talking about my illness to people who can help me understand it better. This has its good and its bad sides. It can easily devolve into simple complaining, which will soon irritate everyone, including me. But it can be very enlightening, opening up new windows in my soul and lightening the load of pain.

Yesterday, I talked with Ari, whom I’ve known since high school. Ari came to see me in the hospital during my first week there, when I was pretty much at my worst: unconscious, heart, kidneys and other vitals unable to function on their own, body blown up with edema to sumo-wrestler proportions, my temperature bouncing from high fever to shivering cold. “They said you had less than a 50% chance of surviving,” Ari recalled. “From what I could see, I’d have put it at 20%. Of course, I knew you’d pull through, but only because it’s you. Anyone else, I wouldn’t have bet on…It was funny though — your eyebrows and hair looked great [this was because I had just done a show two nights before, and a good thing too, as no one does your eyebrows or hair in ICU]. Otherwise, you were in really terrible shape.”

Maybe it would make some people feel sicker, but hearing about how bad I was makes me feel better now, more grateful to be alive and less vexed by my current pains and weaknesses. If I’ve come this far up the mountain, I can certainly go the distance to the top.

And a few nice blowjobs along the way make the trek so much more fun.