This tale is longer than Carol Channing's HELLO DOLLY farewell tour, so grab a seat and a cocktail.
Picture this: I’m an eldergay who's recently developed a case of sciatica. Imagine a fiery line of pain that starts in my lower back and extends down to my left calf. Yes, it’s like Satan himself is giving me a deep-tissue massage with a pitchfork. Thankfully, with the help of steroids, muscle relaxers, and enough painkillers to tranquilize an elephant, I’ve managed to hobble through.
My doctor sent me to physical therapy. The goal was to alleviate some pressure on my sciatic nerve and teach me stretches that might prevent future flare-ups. My therapist, a cheery woman who probably moonlights as a drill sergeant, assured me she could help.
During the first session, she asked me to lie flat on my back, raise both knees to my chest, and then hold the back of my legs, pulling them in. This position, she barked should be held for 60 seconds and would work wonders. Sure, I thought, no problem.
BUT then it happened. A vivid memory hit me as I lay there, legs in the air, supporting them like a gym bunny at a Sunday morning yoga class. Suddenly, I was back in bed with a smoking hot guy, with a particularly impressive...you get the picture. As the therapist kept asking, "Does that hurt?" all I could think was, "Oh god, I hope I can take that big thing!" My mind was racing, my body was reacting, and let’s just say my asshole was doing the cha-cha of anticipation.
Now, this poor therapist probably thought I was deranged. I was smiling like the Chesire Cat, lost in my private X-rated reverie. She made me repeat the exercise three times, and each time, my 'muscle memory' was having a field day. I might have even popped a semi. Best. Physical. Therapy. Ever.
So, my fellow gays, have you ever had a muscle memory moment that turned an innocent activity into a trip down Naughty Lane? Please share your stories, and let’s laugh at our ridiculousness together!