SInce I told him about my hand, Vegas is constantly asking me how it is. This is nice because he has an admittedly short memory, and once even asked me out on the same date twice. Which I realize sounds funny, but mostly it’s just confusing.
Anyway, he chats with me while I’m bored in the hospital and I couldn’t really ask for more.
My hand is in a splint for the next two weeks. Then the doc wants me to get more x-rays to see if it’s broken or not. Apparently, fractures are sneaky bastards that can hide from x-ray machines. Sick.
Basically, my hand looks ridiculous. So, if Vegas and I do make it to sexy time this weekend, that whole showering together idea he had is out. Also out is my awesome handjob-leading-to-endless action that I usually impress with on the first bed date. My hand can barely hold a pen, much less make a fist.* Suckage. Pun intended.
*It occured to me that Vegas could very well be gigantic. I have no idea. If he were, say BIG enough, I could indeed make things work. Granted, he’d have to be so enormous that I wouldn’t want him anywhere near my vag, but it does stand to reason that if he’s hung with the girth of a roll of pepperoni or, wait, is salami the big one? then, yes, I could wrap my hand around that. But then I’d probably break my hand for real and my sweet, but slightly jumpy doctor might have a heart attack when I explained why. Also, my hand now hurts from typing so much. So, I’ll end it here. But now I really am curious to see what he’s packing behind his zipper. Haha. Only time will tell.