I had a stroke. How severe it was, would depend on your point of view. My speech is slurred, my body is weak and my balance and coordination are way off and I now need a cane to walk. Couple that with the fact that I'd torn my rotator cuff few months prior to the stroke. Needless to say, I was not in great shape. On the bright side, there was no pain, and as strokes go I got off easy. No doubt some rehab work was required before I could take on the challenges of walking alone in the New York. Rehab was going to help me get back the strength I lost and the confidence I needed to not feel like every step I took was going to end in a fall that could side line my healthy prognosis for good.
George Wills Health Care Facility, was located on the upper west side of New York City, Manhattan. It was a turn of the century building judging from its appearance which boasted old style art deco craftsmanship. It was barely concealed by the scaffolding that supported the netting spread across the front. Inside it mirrored a hall of justice. The Asian driver hired by the hospital had been involved in a war with his GPS. He parked the wrong way on a one way street while he ran inside to check the address. I had yet to make a judgement as to where I was. I was too wrapped up in the excitement of it all. I had heard all kinds of tales about rehab facilities so naturally I was curious to see what it was all about.
Reasonably certain he had found the right address, my driver and I walked across the expansive marble lobby to a bank of elevators. I began to already form an opinion, and it wasn't a good one.
I'll admit that on first sight I had an intuitive feeling of being transported back in time to when 42nd Street was ruled by pimps and mobsters and this would have been their headquarters. The art deco made it classy, yet poor upkeep over the years kept it seedy at the same time. My driver, who spoke little English, managed to get me to the right floor. I was greeted by the nurse in charge, who, after a bit of paperwork, led me down the hall to what I guessed was to be my shared room for the duration of my stay. The furniture was circa early seventies and the beds were functional and comfortable. However, on first inspection the patients appeared old and frail, battling the normal challenges of age, while others seemed to be in the grip of some form of dementia. It was hard to tell who was there for rehab from those who had made this facility their final resting place. I'm sure they all had a story to tell behind those blank faces of hopelessness and some despair. I fantasized about what their stories might be, like the man in Room 101.
Yeah, I sure miss going out side when I could quietly eat my lunch overlooking the kiddies' playground. The local playground was my hunting ground. There were several day care centers in my neighborhood and the nurses and nannies would come around daily, bringing their children here to play. I made it a point to introduce myself to them, becoming familiar with their routines. I learned which child belonged to whom. I worked tirelessly on earning their trust. Some women even came on to me, encouraging me to take hold of their precious charges while they ran to the store or something equally mundane, just to be free for a few minutes. I was glad to be of service "Yes, ma'am give your child to me." Some say I'm a monster. I'm really a lamb, I just want to touch them, taste them, rub their precious blemish free bodies against mine. "Come here little one, touch me right here and I'll give you a surprise", I would say in my most calming manner. "Don't run and for god's sake don't tell any one!" The monster in me would say. " ... come pull down your panties and let me touch you there..." They rarely resisted me and I loved the taste of their sex on my fingers.
I would then rush home and salivate over the origin of those smells, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks, until I needed more. Perhaps a tender young boy, yes, they were always good with me doing what I was doing to them. As the years flew by I became a fixture there in the park, and many of the boys were familiar with me now. Boys were different. The boys soon spread the word that I was good for a blow job or so. Girls would go right to a trusting yet often skeptical (thank goodness) parent and rat me out. I talked my way out of many a tight squeeze. I eventually started to invite the some of the children over my house as I became more brash and less cautious.
My hunger was voracious. Damn this body and how time breaks us down. Suddenly I just got old and tired of collecting souvenirs. The move to The George Wills Rehab Center, was the decision of what remained of my family. My loving sister started making all my decisions and I ended up here. After she discovered my 'souvenir' drawer of children's used underwear she had me sign everything over to her and then it was off to the races. I couldn't even feel my cock anymore. Divine intervention. I fell into a deep funk and it was downhill from there. Sis didn't try to help me she just stuck me in here. Now I'm in here and no one gives a damn! Thank goodness no one talked.
Jesus, I thought to myself that old guy had so many tubes connected to him I'd have bet a staff of nurses had to walk him to the john. I decided right then and there that I wasn't going to go out like that, I was definitely going to do better, I would do all the exercises required. I would eat, sleep and do right by my body before it all caught up to me - more than it already had. I didn't know the lifestyle of the old man lying in that bed, but I'd have bet he was up to no good.
The floor attendant showed me to my room. I wasn't to be alone; I sized up my roommate almost instantly. A handsome black man who at first glance seemed rather sullen, wrapped up in his own world. But he had dimples, and I love a man with dimples. He also had what a certain group of people would call 'good hair.' It was of medium length and curly. I hoped he was 'family,' meaning I hoped that he was gay. He didn't give off that gay vibe but my gaydar is often way off. I dropped my bag on the bed by the window. I didn't really want the window bed, but I had no choice in the matter. The place looked horrible on first inspection. I wanted to bail right then and there.
I threw my stuff on the bed, and went exploring. I wanted to get familiar with my surroundings. Each 'inmate' looked worse than the one before him. And there were woman who were either partially or wholly disabled peeking around doors, their often toothless grins sizing me up for god knows what. The recreation room was where some of the patients gathered to socialize, to play cards, or to watch television. According to the bulletin boards, there were arts and crafts. I was sure that I would not be socializing. I thought of a scene from an old movie where the heroine was assigned to a rehab center like myself and one day she decided to sing during social hour. There among the patients she discovered an old acting colleague who could barely speak. He attempted to sing along with her but struggled painfully. It was a poignant moment in the film where the character clenched her fist, turning her head so her friend would not see the well of tears that was building up in her. Right then she just knew she would survive this.
I had no trouble finding my way back to my room. My roommate stayed behind the curtain that separated us, keeping him barely hidden from view. I'll admit to a certain curiosity about him, his sexuality, and let's be honest, the size of his cock, and the weight of his balls.
"It sure isn't what I expected," I said aside to no one in particular, not looking at my roommate directly. "I wanted to turn and run when I first got here," he said. I was delighted at the response I got from behind the curtain.
