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Post-Surgery Game

Post-Surgery Game (PSG) is of a kind with Drunk Game, but riskier as well as potentially more rewarding (if for no other reason than that outpatient quasi-sober sex is generally more erotic than 2AM fully-drunk sex).

Without revealing too many identifying details of the where, how, and why, I had a surgery which required general anesthesia. It was for a non-life threatening issue, and the problem was handily resolved. The Heartistian angle here is what happened in that magical moment between unconsciousness and bland lucidity.

As I confidently strode, or rather, gracelessly loped, out of the bonewhite-walled abattoir, my psyche swirled with the elation of renewed life. I felt good, better than usual, and largely this was a mood lifted by the lingering effects of the anesthesia. My footing was still a little unsure and my brain foggy as I stepped outside under glaring sunlight (released without a promise that a citizen soldier would retrieve me; apparently the doc thought I was able-bodied enough to journey unassisted).

The drugs had another side effect besides general loopiness; they asymmetrically sapped me of my strength, creating the impression of a frankenstein in better control of some extremities than of others.

Naturally, in this condition I just had to talk to a random cutie. It is required. So I did. I grinned, lopsidedly. She cocked her head like a puzzled dog. “Hi.” “Hi?” She may have been scared by my odd sway, thinking I was under the influence of bath salts.

“I just had surgery.” That was my line, and I don’t regret it.

“Oh, ok. That’s not good.”

“Nope. But I’m so happy it’s over I had to share my joy with someone.”

She smiles. Phew!, I think, that could’ve gone either way.

“I hope you feel better.”

The polite indifference of a gentle blowoff? Nah, if I thought every noncommittal thing a girl said to me was a blowoff, I’d be a beta with a bad case of incel.

“I hope so too. Hey, one question…”

“What?”

Tingle-coaxing pause.

“Want to join me for a glass of milk this evening?”

“Uhh, milk?”

“I can’t drink. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re really milking this thing, aren’t you?”

“Funny!” I meant it. A sassy girl warms my heart.

We didn’t have a milk that evening, but I did see her a few days later for a non-dairy libation.

The “teachable moment” of this vagnette is the power of male confidence over female coyness. Even if that confidence is evoked by a post-surgery high. Whatever it takes. Boldness, whether free-form or induced by an anesthesia-hazed ZFG, can overcome a loping gait and twitchy muscle control. Post-Surgery Game is better than Drunk Game because your incapacitation is not quite so obvious, and you’re in better command of your wits.

(Later, the girl admitted she noticed I was “walking funny” and she thought about getting a hold of her pepper spray in her handbag. But she said she relaxed when I mentioned the milk thing. She also said that line was “stupid funny” but that’s the kind of deprecating stuff girls always say after-the-fact when they’re free to rationalize their sexual curiosity.)

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