“Ok, I’m going to stick it in now. It might hurt a little. Ready?”
I nodded submissively.
I didn’t care; I was already on the verge of tears.
He stuck it in.
I hardly noticed due to the harsh jags of pain already slashing into my abdomen.
As the coating of morphine began to temper the excruciating pain—transporting me into delirium—all I could make out was this dazzling white light.
Have I died and gone to heaven, I wondered?
No. It was the paramedic who’d rushed to rescue me from my blubbering, embryotic state in the parking lot at work.
Located between a bristly salt-and pepper mop and a friendly, gleaming smile, a pair of the most dreamy cornflower eyes stared attentively into mine as the doors to the ambulance slammed shut and we sped off in a frenzied rush. The only thing to distract me from their azure allure (now that the horrific pain was disappearing) were fingers as thick as breakfast sausages fumbling under my T-shirt and attempting to unzip my jeans. Just beyond the hands, I was able to make out some sort of a jumpsuit and boots. Big boots. Then a wave of nausea. The morphine. Between heaves, oddly, an old rule came to memory: Never throw up on your date.
Too late. His boots became blotched with my breakfast.
“It’ll be OK,” he said.
“They clean up easy.” Even his voice was dreamy, deep and soothing—like a cough drop.
“I’m going to give you another five milligrams of morphine. You might be awhile in the emergency room.”
I offered back a woozy, retarded nod.
As he fumbled around to stick the EKG monitor-discs on to my abs and chest, all I kept thinking was: suck in your stomach. I may have been in severe, albeit drug-induced pain, but I was oddly getting a little turned on.
Ten bumpy and siren-infused minutes later, I was thrust into the harsh reality of the ER and my paramedic prince was gone as quickly as he came. After a gaggle of nurses jabbed and probed, I was left alone for what felt like hours. As I languidly waited on my gurney for the prescribed CAT scan,
“PP”returned to see how I was doing. This time he had on an all-navy uniform—complete with (vomit free) black boots.
His expression said sweet. His outfit said hot. My EKG machine bleeped faster.
“How ya’ doin’ buddy?” he asked as he brought his sausagey digits to rest on my calf.
I scanned the breakfast links for a wedding ring. Nothing. Maybe he’s gay, I wondered.
Like a tween-age girl, all I could muster up was, “Fine.”
“Well I’m sure you’ll be OK!”
And he was gone. Again.
While I lay waiting—the IV dripping through my veins—things began to drip through my thoughts as well.
What is it about a man in a uniform, I wondered.
Like all the women I’d listened to for years, did I have the same fantasy? Did I want to be rescued too?
Maybe itwas the two fire engines, the sirens and the strobe lights that fueled my princely scenario? Maybe it was the drugs or the huge, capable hands? Maybe itwas the gleaming smile or the gentle chivalry of his actions? Fact was, in severe doubled over, white-knuckled pain, I got two shots of the truth:I still cared that my abs looked cut and my underwear was cute and that no other man in my life had ever taken charge like that.
And although appropriate to the situation, I got to be scared and cry while someone administered drugs, held my hand, made light of the regurgitated breakfast I’d left on his boots—all the while smiling and gazing attentively into my glazed-over pupils.
Truth be told, when forced to really think about it, I did in fact have a “Private Prince” scenario embedded alongside my libido! Only it hadn’t played out like I’d dreamed it would. Instead of a white horse or sports car, my prince arrived in a white van with flashing lights.And he brought his own bed to literally sweep me off my feet in my state of distress!
My suffering eventually passed. It was a kidney stone. And along with It went my dreamy delusions of a life with my paramedic prince. But I just couldn’t “pass” the idea of the “knight in shining armor.”Was I just like all those little girls and blubbering brides who pined away, longing for a protector? Was I a Cinderfella?
Throughout the years, because of my various jobs, I’ve listened to little girls wish for Prince Charming and brides-to-be spew dreamy references about their “special day.” In front of a three-way mirror, while I scrutinized their frothy-white confections, they would all morph into princesses—posing and lamenting about the men who would protect and care for them happily ever after.
For all intents and purposes, men are men. And we gay men (in the United States) are raised no differently than our heterosexual peers. But as we become (gay) adults—seeking our own identities—we encounter the bars and the bathhouses, the porn and the parties, the fix-up date and the Internet date—all to find our perfect partner. And through all of that, we may learn how to handle ourselves when faced with a Prince Albert. But what about a Prince Charming?
Other than strength and stoicism, American men, gay and straight have been encouraged, and in most cases trained, to conceal our feelings. We are taught that “real men” don’t cry or show any signs of weakness. And we generally strive to live up to the image of the strong, self-reliant man. But when you pair two men together, don’t the walls have to come down? Or, in this case, be climbed up?
Which begs the question: Is there such a thing as a Cinderfella? And, if so, can he still be considered “manly” if he dreams of a princely protector?
Throughout my life, while attempting to live as a “strong man,” often I have covertly dreamt of my prince. So covertly, I had to really think about it. And oddly, my dream prince wasn’tmuch different looking than my paramedic prince. But my dream prince plays the piano and loves all of the same books Naturally he has the “perfect” job: the one where he makes tons of cash, but still has time to dote on my every need. He is a right/left brain creative. We live in a glass-and-beam house that hangs dangerously over the cliffs of the Pacific Ocean. He supports my every thought and his adoration is unabashed and returned. And every morning when he leaves for work, he wakes me up with a gentle kiss at the nape of my neck. Naturally we live happily ever after. The End.
Not yet anyway.
So for now, I shall continue to monitor this Prince Charming paradox and hope that some day my prince will cum. And when he does, I hope he cries because the sex is incredible! Then we fall asleep (in spoon formation)—me feeling like Cinderfella, perched on the most perfect throne—while the mice and the birds clean the house and make my clothes.
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