The Cruelest Irony Yet

For the past four days, I have had the worst headache of my life. It feels like my brain has turned into liquid pain, which someone has decided to compress against the walls of my skull.

I don't get headaches very often, and when I do, I don't take anything for them. A nice nap, maybe a warm shower later and for the most part I am okay. All the headaches I have had up to this point have had at least one thing in common- they went away. This one is not, it just keeps getting worse.

I have a very simple cure for most headaches; sex. Go have some, you'll feel better. In fact, I think I find this to be a cure for almost everything. Rough day? Go make love for a few hours, you'll feel better. Think you might be catching a cold? Cuddle up with your lover for a while and sweat it out. Sore Muscles? Ear-ache? Dark humors of the lower colon?

I have just the thing for that.

A simple cure-all, for everything from claustrophobia to depression. You don't even need to be feeling under the weather; good sex will make a great day just that much better. Trust me. I generally have sex anywhere between three and six times a day, and I feel fantastic.

Except for right now, because as it happens, somewhere on Friday night between four and eight pm, something happened inside of my head to make every orgasm the most absolutely excruciating experience I have ever had. Like someone put a small explosive device in the center of my brain and hardwired the trigger to my sexual response system. They did a fine job of it, because it now goes off whenever I do.

The web is pretty empty on the subject, mentioning that there are some migraines triggered post coitus, and that it's a rare enough phenomenon- what with the chemicals released being nature's heftiest painkillers and all - that one should go see a doctor.

I held off on this a bit; honestly, I find doctors to be redundant. I have read nearly everything they have, textbooks, journals and the like, and now with most new white papers published on the internet, one can easily find, read and discover what is going on for themselves. Medical language poses few problems, and it's easy enough for me to understand causes and diagnoses. If I can't find something, there is probably nothing to be found, and so any doctor I am going to see will either agree with my proposed treatment plan (whether I share it with them or not), or have no idea whatsoever and simply medicate the symptoms. In short, unless I need antibiotics or restricted painkillers, there is very little point in going.

By Sunday, the need for the latter had become apparent; the baseline headache had gotten so bad I could barely think, and sleep hadn't helped in the slightest. So off I went to the hospital, in search of a few answers, one of which was to ensure I wasn't bleeding inside my head or anything.

I found it difficult to express the nature of the problem. It is easy enough to say, yes good sir, I am here because I have a headache, oh and p.s., my skull shatters whenever I cum. It is more challenging to express the difficulty of the problem; that this is a life altering change of events, because I have a lifestyle which is more or less based around expending vast amounts of sexual energy.

The casual response of 'Take it easy, lay off sex for a few weeks, and you should be fine.' is like saying 'Right then. Please stop everything you normally do for fourteen days. Should clear right up.'

Yes, I get that giving up sex for two weeks for you, Herr Doktor, is missing your alt Thursday rubbentug, and that half a blowjob you get from your girlfriend between shifts every other week. For me, that means a huge disruption in virtually every aspect of my waking life, morning, noon and night.

I start every day by setting aside an hour or two in order to make love to the Muse, I then run to work for a few hours, and skip back home whenever possible to see her over a lunch hour, finish up my afternoon caseload, and then back home again to fall into her arms until dinner. After dinner is for talking and snuggling, and a few hours of play until we both fall asleep exhausted. On the occasions where our schedules conflict, I tend to do chores, because they almost always need doing.

I don't watch TV, I don't work on 'The Car', I don't follow sports, and I don't go out drinking with the boys. There is only the Muse, and all the things she inspires in me. Don't get me wrong, we go out, we shop, dance, talk and dine together, she is without question the primary focus of my life. One of very, very few things I am truly passionate about. Not making love to her is like telling me to not breathe for a while- it is something that simply must be done, and there is a pressure, a growing ache inside of me whenever I'm not with her.

I realize this sort of thing is too intense by half (or by twenty) for most people, and those people are probably right, you don't get this intense by living a normal, healthy life in Wherever, Canada. But I didn't, and I'm not, so I am. One of the very special and wonderfully unique qualities of the Muse, is that she is built in the same way I am. And together, we are not so much broken, as we are simply different.

There may be many people wired the way we are, many who would be in only one half of a relationship. I fall so hard for the person I'm with, it's easy to manipulate me. I'll pretty much do anything for that person, if it's within my power to do so. If she didn't care about me in the same way, the possibility for exploitation would be huge. Together, we have lives focused on each other, and lovingly so; in almost any other situation, we would be open for abuse. I'm pretty thankful, each and every day, that this is not the case.

So anyways, the wait at the hospital is fairly short, and I get a CT scan done within an hour two. It comes up clean, and just to verify the results, they decide to do a lumbar puncture. Five, actually. Its small hole they punch into your spine, so they can drain some fluid out. I don't know if he had to do one per sample, or just couldn't find what he was looking for, but he stabbed me a whole lot of times just to tell me the results came back clean.

Today I feel like someone kicked me in the back, which is good, because the sharp pains shooting up my back distract from the still growing, ever throbbing pain in my head. In the end, as expected, the doc had no clue, and gave me some Percoset for the pain. Hooray.

Except of course, like almost all narcotics, they are sensation killers, not just pain killers, and so you can't really have sex on them anyway. They do work well for the pain in my back though, so down the hatch they go.

Todays Moral: If you can't cure something, create a problem you can cure, and then go cure that instead. Then maybe people won't notice what a gigantic waste of life you've been. Then again, maybe they will.