Love and Sex Ch. 02

Love and Sex in the Time of the Plague

Chapter 2

Paul learns more about John's visit

Spring 2020

"When you are shut off from the world, every day is exactly the same as the one before. This sameness has a way of wearing down your soul until you become nothing but a breathing, toiling, consuming thing that awakes to the sun and sleeps at the dawning of the dark. The emptiness runs deep, deeper with each slowing day, and you become increasingly invisible and inconsequential."

- "Without You, There Is No Us"

Suki Kim writing about life in North Korea, 2014

#

By far, cowgirl is my favorite position. Lying on your back while a big, beautiful woman rides your cock is as close to heaven as I've ever gotten. It's not because I'm lazy. It's because I can reach all of my partner's erogenous zones while her warm, wet pussy dances on my cock.

Unfortunately, God didn't give me enough hands to caress every part of my wife's gorgeous body when she gave me my anniversary present in the dead of night. I had to choose between her pert breasts jiggling in front of my eyes, her athletic ass bouncing on my thighs, or her cute little clit peeking out of her engorged labia.

I started by pulling a pink nipple into my mouth and sucking it until it was nice and firm. I switched breasts, and my wife picked up her pace slightly as she hummed softly. I loved the combined scents of her lavender bath soap and intense arousal. Sweat streamed down her chest and dropped from her pointy nipples onto my abdomen. Yes, it was hot sex in our tiny, overheated apartment.

That was when I made the mistake of rubbing her clit. She always loved me caressing the pink, sensitive nub, but even with my big black friend sleeping naked beside us, she couldn't suppress a cry of passion. We both froze when John stirred. I remember my heart pounding. I had been terrified he would roll over to watch us fuck, as he had done so many times with the women he had handed down to me when we were roommates in college. This time was different. Cathy wasn't some slut I was using to practice my roommate's homework assignment on advanced sexual techniques. No, this time, it was my wife that I was fucking. I didn't want comments from my black mentor.

My wife and I waited for what seemed an eternity. She slowed her pace. Her hips moved just enough to keep me hard. We were both relieved to hear his breathing slow and become soft, quiet snoring.

I remembered Cathy leaning over me and whispering in my ear. She told me not to worry about giving her an orgasm, because she didn't want to wake my friend. We both knew she couldn't restrain herself when she came. I always loved hearing her passionate cries; however, tonight wasn't the time for a noisy climax. She said all she wanted for an anniversary present was my baby. Cathy was eager to start our family despite the pandemic wracking our city.

She began riding me harder once John fell asleep. The bedsprings joined the chorus of our heavy breathing. The wet sound of her tight pussy slamming down on my cock was enough to wake the dead. Somehow, my friend never stirred again.

Cathy had learned to read my body well. When I got close, she picked up the pace again. Maybe, she thought I was taking too long. I think my modest wife was worried John would awaken and interrupt us again. She reached behind her back and cradled my balls. Massaging my balls was a technique I had taught her to get me off after a long night of intense fucking had left me drained. It had been a long time since I'd had sex, so tonight I climaxed immediately. I bit my hand to keep from shouting. Cathy fell asleep on my chest before my flaccid cock slipped out of her cum filled pussy. I could only hope my tiny anniversary presents had found a fertile egg.

#

After I left my big black friend and my wife peacefully sleeping together in our apartment, I walked a couple of blocks to my bus stop. My usual route to Jamaica Hospital involved a transfer between buses, which often made for an hour-long trip back when things were normal. Now with most of the former passengers staying in isolation and too many drivers reporting sick, the number of buses was drastically reduced. The bus schedules were meaningless. Today, I'd left home two hours before my shift to ensure I would be on time. It wouldn't be acceptable for a new resident to wander in late.

While waiting for the bus, I fondly daydreamed about Cathy's tall, naked, and extremely curvaceous body riding my erection cowgirl style while my best friend slept next to us. My big black friend snoring beside us brought back memories from my college days where John would watch me fuck some horny college girl and give me pointers. Even if he was asleep, having him there added to my excitement.

When my bus arrived, I saw it was nearly full. I sat in one of the few empty seats. It was next to an elderly Asian woman who kept coughing into her sleeve. Thankfully, I was wearing old scrubs, surgical gloves, and an N95 mask. My hospital-grade personal protective gear put me in the minority. Most of the passengers were wearing homemade masks or colorful scarfs.

All of us were 'essential' workers. I recognized a few familiar faces of health care workers headed to Jamaica Hospital like me. Others were providing food or maintaining utility services for a city of millions, most of whom were isolating themselves in their small apartments. I was one of a few Caucasians on the bus. It took a plague to expose the usually hidden reality that our comfortable lives depended upon the labor of hoards of poor, underpaid, and overworked minorities.

I talked to my Dad and Mom as often as I could. He said it was no different In rural America. My strong Dad cried when he told me he had to plow under crops that typically he shipped to restaurants. He said the nearby meatpacking plant was a hotbed of coronavirus cases. A neighboring farmer told my Dad he had to euthanize young pigs because no one would buy them, and it was too expensive to continue feeding them. My Dad was surprised when I told him supermarket shelves were empty in the city. It seemed the fabric of society was unraveling.

#

I put my unproductive worries aside and opened my phone to review the procedures for connecting a patient to a ventilator. Learning how to hook up a COVID-19 patient drew on everything I'd learned in medical school. Unfortunately, we had never practiced intubation. All I had were my classroom notes and a couple of videos of the process.

At least, we had practiced administering anesthesia to chimpanzees that we had carefully restrained. As a med student, you get the pleasure of finding a vein in an ape's hairy arm and inserting an IV for fluids. You then use the IV to sedate the beast. At that point, you can proceed to administer general anesthesia or perform a spinal block. Applying a spinal block to an angry ape is almost as exciting as med school gets. Placing an anesthesia mask over a mouth full of sharp teeth is an even bigger thrill.

Once you have the animal under, you monitor the animal carefully to ensure they continue breathing, and their heart doesn't stop. Anesthesia is a dance between life and death. In medical school, I never intended to become an anesthesiologist. I was planning on specializing in orthodontics. However, the coronavirus epidemic didn't require doctors with expertise in broken bones.

In hindsight, I wish we had practiced intubation on the nasty chimpanzees. It would have helped my confidence. The goal is to open the windpipe and insert a breathing tube into the trachea. One of the videos I had was an animation showing the proper procedure for aligning the esophagus and positioning the epiglottis. The epiglottis is the flap of cartilage at the root of the tongue. It is depressed during swallowing to cover the opening of the windpipe.

The video repeatedly underscored the importance of identifying the epiglottis and positioning it correctly. The monotonous video noted that inserting the tube into the esophagus and forcing oxygen into the stomach is to be avoided. Successful intubation on the first attempt is critical. Repeated attempts are associated with much higher rates of hypoxemia, aspiration, and cardiac arrest.

In the second video, a doctor demonstrated a real-life intubation procedure. The doctor held a laryngoscope in his left hand to observe the use of a tool to position the epiglottis. With the windpipe open, the doctor can proceed to insert a tube into the trachea. I appreciated the speed with which the doctor performed the procedure once he had the patient sedated. However, what stood out to me was how close the doctor was working to the patient's mouth. Even with the proper personnel protective equipment, the procedure was dangerous if the patient was infectious.

One of my more vulgar classmates pointed out the rather obvious relationship between the procedure for esophageal alignment and deep throating. In the medical student's defense, the subject came up after a couple of pitchers of beer in our favorite haunt. The somewhat drunk young man suggested the women medical students in our class had just received training in the art of deep throating. Of course, his conjecture resulted in a bet.

The next time we met at the bar, he reported that the first two women classmates he approached threatened to report him for sexual harassment. However, the third woman, a cute petite brunette, eagerly accepted his invitation.

After a round of good-humored scoffing, he pulled out his cellphone. He brought up a photo of what he claimed was his erection next to a ruler. Our boisterous friend was sporting a reasonably long and rather fat six-inch cock. The tiny girl was going to it challenging to deep throat his above average cock. The next shot showed the girl lying naked on a bed with her head half hanging off the edge.

Our colleague explained he had his Nikon camera on a tripod and used a remote to take the photos. The following image showed a closeup of the head of his cock in the girl's mouth. He pointed out a distinctive pair of moles near the base of his cock that matched the ones in the previous photo with the ruler.

The next photo in the series showed his cock fully inserted with the girl's nose buried in his pubic hair. She had a smile on her face, and her eyes were staring up at her fellow student. You could see a slight bulge in her throat and drool leaking out of the corner of her mouth. The final photo showed semen mixed with the dripping saliva. Tears were running from her eyes, but her grin was enormous.

After we were married, I taught my new bride the technique as part of her training. Cathy was an eager student and soon became adept at deep throating. She often used oral sex when I was horny, and she had her period.

#

I arrived at the hospital early enough to shave and take a long piss. Once I suited up, it would be difficult to use the bathroom even if I found a couple of minutes free. The first item I put on was my heavy-duty adult diaper. I'm not talking about the ones they advertise on TV that don't show a panty line. These were industrial strength diapers that would be soaked by the end of my long shift.

I put on clean scrubs and went to get my assignment from a harried administrator. She said that I was still scheduled to work on ventilators. I would assist an old anesthesiologist, who had come out of retirement. He would train me until he judged me competent to work on my own. I went to the ICU entrance and donned a Tyvek suit. I would put on a helmet with a personal air supply before entering the patient's room.

Thankfully, one has a team of support personnel when putting a patient on ventilation. I got used to finding a nurse in the room with a tablet assisting the patient with a farewell video chat with loved ones. Often the patient was reassuring family members that they would be better soon even though they were scared to death. I'm sure no one told them that older ventilated COVID-19 patients had less than a twenty-five percent chance of survival. They were too focused on taking their next labored breath.

Before the intubation process starts, a nurse checks the IV lines and ensures the patient is appropriately monitored for blood pressure, blood oxygen level, and heart rate. The first task the doctor performs is sedating the patient and making sure they are stable. Hopefully, this will prevent regurgitation when the doctor inserts a large tube into their trachea. They will remain in a coma-like state the entire time they are on the ventilator. Sedation prevents a confused patient from ripping out the tube or any of the other equipment connecting them to life support.

I found the old anesthesiologist and his nurse assistant in a packed ICU room designed for two patients. Today, it was crammed with four people and a ton of medical devices. Several machines were sounding alarms. There were oxygen lines, wires, and extension cords everywhere. Three of the patients were already on ventilators. I managed to find a spot to stand.

The old doctor barely acknowledged my presence with a nod of his head and a grunt. I had to read Dr. Jacob Gerstenhaber's name off his photo ID. The nurse on the team said he'd been on duty for over twelve hours, and in that time, he'd barely barked a half dozen curt commands to her.

The anesthesiologist was cursing at the technician operating the ventilator. The nurse informed me it was one of six machines that had been delivered that morning from the Federal stockpile. Ventilators are sophisticated computer-controlled devices designed to pump oxygen into a person's damaged lungs and remove carbon dioxide. Like an automobile, they need to be run periodically. For one, there are seals in the pumps that can dry out.

Unfortunately, the contract to the company maintaining equipment in the Federal stockpile had not been renewed at the beginning of the year. The nurse said this was the third one of the new ventilators that had failed. She began responding to the alarms blaring in the crowded room while we waited for the technician to return with another ventilator. I stood in silence while Jacob closed his eyes and sagged against the only available wall.

The technician wheeled in an old ventilator that had just been sterilized and serviced. I watched Jacob deftly perform the intubation. The next step was to set the parameters on the ventilator controls. Every Covid-19 patient seemed to respond differently to the disease, and the settings are critical. If you apply too much pressure to the delicate lung tissues, you can permanently damage them. If you don't get enough oxygen into the blood, organs can fail, including the brain.

One of the peculiarities of this disease is that the lungs generally have no difficulty expelling carbon dioxide. Without a build-up of carbon dioxide, the person is unaware that they aren't getting sufficient oxygen until they suddenly crash. It was common for a patient to walk into the ER after a night of difficult breathing only to be wheeled into the ICU a couple of hours later and be put on ventilation.

I watched Dr. Gerstenhaber adjust the ventilator controls and saw the patient's blood oxygen level slowly climb from sixty percent up into the high eighties. Once Jacob was satisfied, we went to get our next assignment. This time, the old doctor watched while I put the second patient under sedation. I expected him to perform the intubation. Instead, he directed me to proceed with a bit of encouragement.

"Don't fuck it up, kid."

I was slower than the old doctor and frequently paused to consider my next move. Somehow, I managed to get it done with Jacob commenting at every step in the procedure. He watched me do one more patient before he said I was on my own. I did nine more ventilation procedures that day. It was an easy day.

The next day was the same except that the number of critically ill coronavirus cases had increased significantly. The nurse said I did seventeen procedures in sixteen hours. Between intubations, I made the rounds and adjusted ventilator settings as the patients' conditions changed from hour to hour.

Despite what the politicians said, there was a scarcity of ventilators. Luckily, I didn't have to choose who got one and who did not. The hospital had a medical ethicist to perform triage. They made the decision based upon the patient's age, health score, and a few other factors. The goal was to maximize the total number of years of life saved over all the candidates. An older patient or one with poor health before becoming infected was less likely to survive or live a long life even if they did recover. Even with carefully selected patients, less than a quarter of those who went on a ventilator survived.

Governor Cuomo promised we would hit a peak soon, but every day the number of admissions increased exponentially. Unfortunately, health care workers were not immune. As the caseload doubled every three or four days, the number of available health care workers shrank. Everyone just worked harder. It was a hell of a way to begin my career as a doctor.

Several days later, when I arrived at the hospital, I was told that the next shift of ICU nurses was huddled in the break room. They were exhausted from weeks of steadily increasing caseloads while the number of nurses kept dropping because of infections and burnout. The nurses were refusing to work unless the hospital hired more staff. The previous shift had agreed to stay on and cover for them until they resolved their shared issues. After a harried bureaucrat told the nurses the hospital had tried desperately to hire more staff but failed to attract more than a handful, several of the striking nurses quit.

In normal times, one nurse took care of four patients in the ICU. For this shift, the ratio had increased to eight or nine patients per nurse. The hallways were crowded with beds. Alarms were always beeping and screeching. I'd heard it was even worse in the ER, which was backed up with Covid-19 patients waiting for a room in the ICU. The maintenance crew was converting one wing of the hospital after another into makeshift Covid-19 wards, but they couldn't keep up.

I could not believe the chaos could get any worse, but I feared it would. The hospital administrator who gave me my assignments said the optimistic pandemic models projected that New York City would hit a peak in new hospital admissions within a week. A couple of weeks later, the number requiring ventilation would begin to drop. Maybe in a month, coronavirus deaths would start to fall in the city. I couldn't believe the numbers could keep going up so rapidly.

For some reason, we didn't understand, about ten to twenty percent of coronavirus patients who seemed to be improving at home would crash in the second week of infection. These were the ones who were admitted to the hospital. A small fraction went on to require a ventilator. We saw a lot of deaths in the hospital, but the experts claimed the death rate was between one and two percent. In a city of ten million souls, that translated into a thousand deaths a day near the peak.

Meanwhile, the nurse assigned to my three-person intubation team had been on duty for sixteen hours and looked like she could barely stay on her feet. She told me there were no technicians available to assist us with the operation of the sophisticated ventilators. All of them were helping another doctor, infected, or off duty. It was up to the two of us.

I had a nervous young woman administrator give me my assignment. She told me her predecessor had been quarantined with a high fever. She glared at me from six feet away like I had leprosy. After she gave me my assignments, she wished me a Happy Easter. I stared at her with a blank expression.