Radioactive Sex — A 3-Week Affair


—See an update on this cancer journey at KSBY news:

Bots. Bots. Bots. Some deliver. Some don’t. But you, Rad, delivered.

Good bye, Rad. We shared a fast and furious relationship. It was truly radioactive. It was the kind of intimacy beyond my imagination — which tends to be over-fertile.

Immense trepidation swarmed my factless-based visualization about our laison when I made the choice to let you “into” (literally) my personal space. The dread of another massive device encounter with personal applications (like a linear accelerator) created nightmarish perceptions of you as another steely beast hungry for radioactive fuel. (Cue the geiger counter click.)  

Finally, we stood face to face (as it were), You reminded me of a Star Wars character, the kind I might meet in a faraway bar — not purposefully harmful, just looking for somewhere to blow your wad. Well, aren’t all penetrators following the same mission?

With the help of a skilled doctor and his team of nurses and technicians, our affair went on for three weeks. What amazed me most was how quickly you delivered your goods — in under 5 minutes. I guess you never got over your teenage speed of delivery — even when considering your actual maturity. And frankly, at my age, I appreciated your direct blast, even though you left me hot (OK, lightly roughed up from a slight burn). That’s some radioactive love, Baby.

I’m free of you now, Rad. I sort of apologize for my snarky remarks about your size and delivery method, but one must do what one must do to get past some of life’s reality checks. Besides, the nurse who prepped me for our last date, sent me home with a consolation prize — it’s called a dilator and comes with medical-grade lube. I think I shall name it Doodad.


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