Lynn Baucom Chapter Eleven - The Day After
I came to in a post op recovery area. I was on a hospital bed surrounded by a white curtain. I was hooked to one of those monitors. The machine beeped every three seconds. My leg was encased in a huge splint of some type with ace bandages on the outside. The very tips of my toes peeked out from the bottom of the splint. The bandages stopped at mid-thigh.
I felt groggy. So I laid there staring at the ceiling. After a minute, a young nurse poked her head through the curtain.
“Welcome back to the real world.” She said with a laugh. Her nametag indicated she was named “Tricia”.
I smiled. My leg felt numb. I tried to say something, but my tongue felt thick. “Hi.” I managed. “What time is it?” My words felt slurred. Tricia didn’t seem to care.
“A little after midnight.” She said pulling open the curtain at the foot of the bed. Ahead of me was a corridor filled with stainless steel carts.
Tricia felt the tips of my toes and examined my splint. “Are you thirsty?” She asked. I nodded.
Tricia departed and returned a minute later with a small cup of water. He helped me get up on my elbows and take a sip. I felt dizzy.
“You’re looking great.” Tricia said lying through her teeth. “Dr. Reading will be back to talk with you in a few minutes.”
I dozed off again. When I woke up, I was in a hospital room. Mom and dad were sitting in chairs next to my bed. Dad hugged me. He was a tall handsome guy. I loved the smell of his aftershave. He played basketball for Duke University before Duke University was a basketball power house. I was glad he was there.
Then I was asleep again.
I began to come out of my drug induced coma around 4:00 AM. That’s when the pain set in. Actually, it came roaring in. My leg was propped on a pillow. I was in a private room. It was dark outside but I was wide awake.
I pushed the call bell, and a nurse materialized a few minutes later. She was nice enough. Her name was Mary. She looked at my toes and read my vitals. She gave me a couple of pills and I drifted off again.
Mom and dad came by around 7:00 AM. Breakfast was served at 7:30. Mary Betterment and her mother arrived at 8:00 bearing flowers. Donna Deyoung at 8:15.
And Chippy, my boyfriend, showed up at 9:00. Everyone else was gone by then.
Chippy was a strapping 6’ 3” man. He is earthy. Works at his family nursery business. But underneath the gruff and manly exterior is a gentle soul. That’s the reason I love him and would marry him in a few years.
In 9th grade, Chippy had broken his leg. It was during a high school football game. Someone rolled up on Chippy’s right leg and he broke his tibia and fibula. The break was a nasty one. The tibia broke through the skin. Dr. Otis was the team Dr. and an orthopedic surgeon. On the 40 yard line, Mary Betterment and a couple of Chippy’s teammates held Chippy down while Dr. Otis set the leg. No pain killers. Nothing. In typical Chippy fashion, he took things like a man. No screaming. No crying. Just suck it up buttercup.
The injury happened on a Friday night. The next night, I was invited to a get together at Kathy Kreshon’s house. Kathy’s dad was an optometrist and the family had money. I think Kathy had designs on Chippy. He was one of the 5 guests she had invited to ‘watch a movie’ in her basement. When dad dropped me off at Kathy’s house, Chippy was there in a pearly white cast that extended from his toes to his thigh.
When questioned about his leg injury and subsequent treatment, Chippy summed up the experience in two words – ‘Shit happens.’
Of course, there was no movie. Instead, we played spin the bottle. We sat on the carpeted basement floor and used an empty wine bottle as our spinner. There were three boys and three girls in the game. Chippy sat next to me and had his casted foot resting next to my leg. I noticed right away how gorgeous Chippy’s toes were. They were long and almost elegant. Very nice for a guy.
The rules of the game are simple. On your turn, spin the bottle and kiss whoever the bottle points to. Since Kathy’s parent were at a party, there was a bong with weed in play in addition to a bottle of cheap vodka.
On my first spin, the bottle pointed to Chippy. We kissed. And that was it. Kathy Kreshon was out of luck. Chippy and I were an item. We spent the rest of the evening making out, were dating publicly in 10th grade, started having sex the following year, and were married in college.
When Chippy arrived at my hospital room, we made small talk for a few minutes.
Chippy - “How are you feeling.” Me - LIKE SHIT Chippy - “Does it hurt much.” Me - ONLY WHEN I BREATH
Chippy - “When can you go home?” Me -I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA
Chippy - “Are they putting you in a cast?” Me - NO SHIT SHERLOCK. DIDN’T YOU BREAK YOUR LEG IN 9th GRADE?
To say I was in a bad mood would be an understatement. And my leg was hurting like crazy.
Chippy’s eyes eventually drifted down to my ace bandage covered toes. A look of disappointment appeared on his face when he realized my toes were covered.
Now, at this point, I should explain Chippy’s interest in the female foot.
When it comes to the female foot, Chippy is not in the least subtle. Chippy has a world class foot fetish.
I had my first inkling when we started dating seriously in 10th grade. We would go to the newly constructed Park Road Shopping Center in Charlotte every Friday night. The shopping center had 2 or 3 inexpensive restaurants. The 27-store center – one of the largest in the southeast in 1972- was anchored by a Woolworth and A&P grocery store. Anytime we passed a pretty woman wearing sandals, Chippy’s eyes were drawn to her feet.
When we started to have sex in 11th grade, our love making sessions would invariably start with Chippy kissing my feet and sucking my toes. I find toe sucking to be extremely personal and erotic. Chippy would typically start with my big toe and then work his way across my foot until all five toes were in his mouth.
This focus on feet evolved into a passion for Chippy painting my toes. Unlike most men whose hands shake when painting female toes, Chippy was actually pretty good at it. We made Saturday night our toe painting night. The location varied. My bedroom. His bedroom. My car. His car. Regardless of location, the sequence of events remained the same. He would remove my old polish, paint my toes, blow them dry. And then we would fuck like minxes.
I learned later that Chippy had painted the toes of dozens of my female classmates. He did not try to hide his love of the female foot. After all, he was the most manly boy in the city of Charlotte. He could grow a beard in 9th grade. Hunted. Fished. And was an all-county football player. If he wanted to fuck around with female toes, no one would argue with him.
There was a knock on my hospital room door.
“Am I interrupting anything?” A tall blond creature with curly hair and to kill for legs entered the room. She was wearing tight, cut off denim shorts, a checkered blouse, and worn leather sandals. She was deeply tanned, had large, firm breasts, and looked athletic.
“I’m Annie. The cast technician. Are you ready to have a cast put on that leg of yours?”