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<h1>Post-Surgery Game</h1>
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<p class="nav"><span class="nav-left">Listed under <a href="/heartiste-2015.html">Heartiste: 2015</a>.</span><span class="nav-right"><a href="/theme.html">Theme</a></span></p>
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<p>From the <a href="https://heartiste.org/2015/12/23/post-surgery-game/" target="_blank">original article</a> on December 23, 2015. Author: <a href="https://heartiste.org/" target="_blank">Chateau Heartiste</a>.</p>
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<p>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).</p>
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<p>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.</p>
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<p>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).</p>
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<p>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.</p>
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<p>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.</p>
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<p>“I just had surgery.” That was my line, and I don’t regret it.</p>
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<p>“Oh, ok. That’s not good.”</p>
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<p>“Nope. But I’m so happy it’s over I had to share my joy with someone.”</p>
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<p>She smiles. Phew!, I think, that could’ve gone either way.</p>
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<p>“I hope you feel better.”</p>
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<p>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.</p>
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<p>“I hope so too. Hey, one question...”</p>
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<p>“What?”</p>
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<p>Tingle-coaxing pause.</p>
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<p>“Want to join me for a glass of milk this evening?”</p>
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<p>“Uhh, milk?”</p>
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<p>“I can’t drink. Doctor’s orders.”</p>
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<p>“You’re really milking this thing, aren’t you?”</p>
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<p>“Funny!” I meant it. A sassy girl warms my heart.</p>
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<p>We didn’t have a milk that evening, but I did see her a few days later for a non-dairy libation.</p>
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<p>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.</p>
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<p>(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.)</p>
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