Kingdom of the Sick 10

KINGDOM OF THE SICK 10

After falling ill last year and experiencing everything that
came afterward—a month in the hospital, the removal of my spleen, many rounds of chemotherapy—I
felt that my sex life was over. There I was, middle-aged and riddled with lymphoma, hardly the best
calling card for dating. My feelings of sexlessness were compounded by the disappearance of my
hair, which seemed to be another signifier of a lost potency. I felt gelded.

 

I tried everything I could—engaging in halfhearted flirtations, fantasizing timidly,
watching porn—but nothing worked. My desires had vanished. I attempted to see this as a blessing,
a relief from the curse of a persistent, distracting randiness, but something was wrong. A crucial
part of my life was missing.

 

Eventually, as my recovery progressed, I started going out more. Indeed, as if to distract myself,
I attended more parties and visited more clubs than ever before. Though I met quite a few attractive
men, I couldn’t make even the slightest effort at getting to know them in a more intimate way. A lack
of compulsion on my part—not to mention a sense that there were no erotic possibilities left
for me—held my actions in check.

 

I’m not sure how or exactly when, but something shifted subtly. I’d notice, for instance, a shapely
thigh or tight butt on some kid, and allow myself to imagine erotic adventures. One evening, several
weeks before I was due to return to the hospital for my first stem-cell transplant, something more
concrete occurred. I was celebrating my birthday with a group of friends at a new club that holds
an amateur striptease competition in which the winner receives $300.

 

One of my companions was a comely young Russian named Sasha, whose charms were patently plain
even to a person with my ravaged libido. "Should I try?" he asked me when the contest was announced.
"Why not?" I answered, instantly titillated.

 

Sasha performed one of the most brilliantly slutty strips I’ve ever seen, spreading his ass
cheeks lustfully as he humped the wall. To no one’s surprise, he was the winner. But then, so was I:
That night, at long last, my latent lusts came to the fore.

 

They came to full fruition a few days later during Fashion Week, at an after-party at the Maritime
Hotel. My conquest (another Russian, this one named Yuri) spotted me across the runway during the
show, then subsequently grabbed me at the party. How could I resist? He was extraordinarily nice,
wonderfully handsome—sweet and luscious.

 

When I recall that night, everything seems infinitely glamorous, perfect—the consummate
counterbalance to my second stay in the hospital, a preparatory antidote to the long-dreaded stem-cell
procedure that I am about to endure. o