The dentists- and I had more than my share- always gave me oxy. I can’t recall a time that they didn’t. Thirty years ago when I was having a scad of dental surgery and repairs, all in the failed effort to save my chompers, I needed serious pain meds.
I have been high once, on weed. Ate everything in sight. Never did it again. I already had a goddamned weight problem. This wasn’t helpful. I ate a lot of Oreos. No. Really. A lot. Some of you can relate. I started on a table leg but it was too chewy.
The other other times I got high were on laughing gas, the only way I could handle the godawful pain that my teeth (and eating disorders) were causing me. Temporary loopiness, followed by serious fucking pain. Opioids helped.
But when I was done with the pain, I was also done with the pills. I had bottles that were many years old before I cleaned them all out. I think that had to be about the time that muckraking journalists started going through trash for…goods, if you will. And you thought it was research. Get the goods on someone. They got the goods all right.
Good God look what I found!! A month’s supply of oxy!!!
Not down the toilet. Fishermen along the Colorado River are right tired of trout swimming up to them and shouting DUDE! GOT ANY DRUGS?
Takes all the fun out of the sport.
I don’t seek highs, unless they are from pets, horse riding, adventure, the fifty-five orgasms I gave myself while watching The Accountant last night (nonnono, I kid you not. It had nothing to do with Ben Affleck. More so I’d not taken my buzzer to Canada with me, and I was making up for a month of lost time. I fell off the couch when I tried to stand up, but at least I was smiling).
That isn’t a typo, by the way. Fifty-five. I was going for a record (the previous was fifteen, but being an overachiever, what the hell).
Trust me. Better than oxy any day.
Any. Fucking. Day.
Donald Sutherland’s skanky Jerry O’Neill character (Space Cowboys) says on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno that “a woman can discover her endless capacity for orgasms.” He has a point. Not his point, that is, but the point of my buzzer. Thanks, I don’t need male assistance.
I long ago accepted electronic help when the complex construction of my own girl parts made it hard even for me to get off using my fingers, and I knew precisely what to do. Besides these days I’ve begun to develop a little arthritis. Just about the time I’m about to scream OH GOD, my fingers quit working.
Hell I can’t get to one, much less to fifty-five.
Not a good plan.
Oxy is a poor substitute. As I’ve aged, and had more challenging surgeries, it’s lost its effectiveness. Just doesn’t work. So when I had rotator cuff surgery (that is just MEAN) my supply- and it was considerable-of three different very potent opioid meds got diminished by one pill apiece. I gave the rest to the police department.
Which is probably why they’ve been so damned cheerful lately. but I digress.
Not all of us become addicts.
Well, we all are in one form or another. I’ve developed a bit of an addition to oxy, but not that kind.
The oxytocin kind, which is the “love drug” which is prevalent in all vertebrates. That kind of oxy, which gives a bit of a boost to and is released during orgasm (not much, but anything is worthwhile), is a pretty complex drug. Most human hormones are, given how little we really know about them.
I have yet to see a story about measuring the levels of oxy in a female body after fifty orgasms.
That might be intriguing. I’d sign up for that study.
I think I’m addicted.