"Listeners: Are you suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome? Are you enjoying carpal tunnel syndrome? Are you surprised by carpal tunnel syndrome? Are you enraged by carpal tunnel syndrome? Do you feel a throbbing sadness that you almost cannot stand from carpal tunnel syndrome? Do you feel a bounty of love and appreciation for your fellow human beings traveling through this confusing and finite lifetime with you from carpal tunnel syndrome? Do you get sexually aroused by carpal tunnel syndrome? That would be weird.
Not to be judgmental! But...it would be weird.
This has been Community Health Tips!"
Cecil doesn't know what he's talking about, you decide. You turn away from the radio to pout at the diagram of the transverse section of the wrist you downloaded off Wikipedia and had printed out as a stopgap before the Sheriff's Secret Police declared all general encyclopedias a thought-crime. You weren't sure if wikis counted and you'd really rather not be hauled in for re-education, you had thought at the time. Better safe than sorry, you had concluded, staring down at your scrying bowl.
What you're doing seems very dirty and makes all your extremities tingle pleasingly but in a nerve-wracking way. (And you don't even get any numbness out of the deal, humiliation is not your cup of tea. Tansy is, of course. And it even keeps the mice away.) You finally psych yourself up enough to get into the car to go to Kinko's to pick up the sweet x-large poster you had made of the diagram. Their new service that allows one to email in a postscript file, and have it printed without actually going in to explain in person makes it so much easier to face the employees now that you're going to bring home the poster.
You had paid extra to wait in a metaphysical line in your bloodstone circle, since you couldn't figure out how the hell to work the rest of the form on the website, and taking a shortcut and sacrificing an owl or two was easier than paying for a new laptop and having to call your order in. You were about to kill yours; you were honestly that frustrated. But it looked so sad, staring up with big round cute eyes, that you'd stopped mid-sledgehammer swing. It's been such a wonderful pet, such a loyal and loving pet; you decided to let it live.
But the print shop doesn't deliver unless you request so many units and you only wanted the one poster, not to wallpaper your place (You're horny, not a freakin' degenerate.) so you were forced to go to strip mall by the Arby's to pick it up.
"Doctor," the art student working the counter greets you, "How are you doing today?" She smiles brightly at you, and you try not to grimace and smile instead. When her smile turns concerned, you realize you didn't succeed at this basic level of body language. "Are you doing ok?"
"Uh, yeah," you croak and wipe your bangs out of your face. "Sorry, I've had a long day, and I didn't want to drive across town just to pick up a print."
"Yeah, sorry," she says. "The anything and everything delivery was just a limited time offer to entice people to come here instead of Office Depot. It worked too well; we had to stop it for now."
You nod and avoid making eye contact. Instead, you focus on the pretty beads in her braids. You just want out of there.
"Are you busy? I heard the varsity defensive lineman pulled zes Achilles tendon earlier," she continues.
You shrug. "Mx. Marsh wasn't really that injured; it was more shock than anything else. I sent zir home already, and zie'll be back on the field soon as long as zie stays off zes feet long enough to let it heal completely," you tell her in a tired singsong.
She smiles at you ruefully, "I can see you've had a long day explaining that to Auntie Roslyn." The faint whirring sound from the back of the store cuts off, and she turns away and walks off, calling back to you, "That'll be your poster!"
Sweat beads out along your forehead, and you try to play it cool. She doesn't even notice you or what she is rolling into a cardboard tube. The waiting, the fear of discovery is unbearable agony and not in a sexy way. She tapes the receipt to the side and finally hands it to you. You wipe your sweaty palms off on your pants and try not to give yourself away. You wave bye and practically run out the door.
The short drive feels long and tortuous. You hope that time isn't going to warp in this location, that would be the icing on the cake. When you make it home, you almost rip the door off the hinges trying to get inside. Just holding the cardboard tube with the poster in it is doing it for you.
You pop the top of the holder and shake the poster out onto the floor and hurriedly secure the corners with random hardbacks from the nearest bookshelf. Your right wrist is already a little numb from typing a lot that day and pressing in with your thumb to compress the median nerve makes you shiver in pleasure. You even like the way your fingers tighten on the back of your hand.
Levering your thumb in harder sends a line of burning sweet throbbing agony up your arm. Your right elbow and shoulder feel weak and useless. You back off when the throbbing fades off into numbness and collarbone tenderness. You don't need to come too soon, you decide and turn away from the professionally printed poster.
You flop back on the floor and bring your hand to rest under your collar. The mild ache and the warmth of your hand contrasted with the cool of your chest in comparison sends a shiver down your spine. You shake your hand out and run your right thumb against the other fingers of that hand, feeling the callouses. You enjoy the tension in your muscles. You crack your knuckles. The pain from your palm radiates down into your wrist deliciously.
--and then your stomach gurgles. Ugh, it's late, you're hungry, you'll have to make this quick.
You grab a cushion off the nearest chair and place it between your thighs, rolling over onto your front and bearing down against the pillow. You grab your stress ball off the lowest shelf and grip it as hard as you can in your right hand and roll your wrist. Finally, you take your left hand and use all your body weight to press as hard as you can down onto that not yet fused joint and let the burning flare into sharpness and peak, the pleasure/pain sweeping you away into an out of body experience.
You're still twitching with orgasm when you come back to yourself and your weak right arm, smushed under you. You flip over onto your back and fling the cushion into the hallway. You didn't make it anywhere close to the washer.
Stupid Cecil and his kink shaming, you think while you pant, letting your heartbeat slow back down. No one mentions anything about his thing for hair despite him plastering it all over everyone's eardrums practically every day. At least he was kind enough not to call you out by name, unlike poor Steve Carlsberg.
Is it honestly acceptable to keep drawing attention to his, uh, eccentricities? You suppose a small town radio host isn't exactly going to be the most PC of people, but still. Steve Carlsberg must have done something unfathomable at some point for Cecil to allow himself that kind of animosity on air.
You wonder if the Sheriff's Secret Police have figured out what exactly you've been getting off on, now that Cecil has brought it up. But investigative reporters are good at picking out details, and Cecil does have some of the strongest bloodstones in the county, so they might assume that he knows something about someone not in Night Vale but farther away? (That seems highly unlikely, but you'll take it.)
Cecil is incredibly curious (or bored) if he's been scrying for other people's sex lives and turn-ons. Maybe they will think he's speaking figuratively, you sigh, trying again to reassure yourself. You notice that you're sticky and decide to get up. You can't get your mandated weekly slice of pizza smelling like this. You flip the radio to an all music station and turn the volume up and go to take a shower.