False Alarm

I have a friend. Let's call her Marge.

Marge's libido eclipses her need for air. I once asked her the most unusual place she ever had sex. She answered, "You'd be better off asking where I haven't had sex."

That's just Marge's way.

At a point, Marge developed a large, inexplicable bump on her leg. She went to the emergency room. They kept her overnight for testing.

Once settled in her private room, Marge couldn't sleep. As the hours ticked by, she began to entertain the notion that the bump on her leg was a tumor.

Let's take a moment to consider the situation from this angle. We have a sleepless woman who a) has an extraordinarily high sex drive b) is in acute need of distraction, and c) is confined to a bed overnight.

What do you think happened?

You got it.

Marge's fingers went to work. And were doing a superlative job. In fact, she was just. . .

Knock, knock.

Marge's fingers fast arranged themselves elsewhere.

The door cracked open, letting in a narrow beam of light.

"It's the nurse," came a woman's voice. Slowly, she peeked around the corner. "Is everything okay?"

"Yes," Marge answered defensively. "Why?"

"The monitor in the nurses' station showed a rapid increase in your heart rate."

"Oh," Marge muttered. Then, falteringly, "I didn't think I was hooked up."

"They're wireless now," the nurse replied. She paused. "So," she asked, "everything's alright?"

Marge wiped sweat from her brow. "Yes," she said weakly.

"Well," the nurse whispered. "Take it easy in here, okay?"

Marge sighed. There was only one answer she could give.

"Okay. I will."

The nurse withdrew, but left the door open in case Marge had second thoughts.

I've dubbed this story "The Tumor Wank."

A  true friend would never allow such a tale to fade, uncelebrated, into the past. It must be kept fresh with the passage of time, through frequent mentions, jokes and retelling.

I'm so happy to have a blog.


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