Travel Broadens the Mind

They say that travel broadens the mind.

I had just finished the second year of my nursery degree in the States when I got the opportunity of going to London for a year.

I arrived in London and was a tourist for a month before setting down and registering with a nursery agency. I was so naïve. Blonde, a loud American accent, slim — my very being screamed ‘American tourist.’ I had done two years of nursery training in the Sates, but I wasn’t actually a nurse. I was only 20. But I could be what they called a Nursing Assistant. The study I had already done would qualify me for that.

The small hospital I was sent to was quite old-fashioned. Instead of normal scrubs, we had to wear old uniforms: a pale blue dress with buttons up the front, with a white collar, short sleeps, and made from this awful polyester-cotton blend. Complete with a bib. It was like going back in time. The uniform became hot and uncomfortable to wear. I found out that the nurses didn’t wear panties or tights, but only knee-stockings. As long as I didn’t bend over and flash everyone, I would be safe.

I helped out with various shifts, but as time went on, I took on more and more responsibility. Way above pay grade. It would never happen in the States. The patients on my ward were almost all orthopedic. Young men. Sports injuries and some car accidents. All of them were ‘rehabilitative’. That means that someone with an injured leg, for example, would be put in splints or weights and left in bed for weeks. In the States, people like that would have been sent home.

I started doing the night shift. 11.00pm to 7.00am. Fairly soon I became the ‘Senior Nurse in Charge.’ I wasn’t the senior nurse on the ward — I was the only nurse. And I wasn’t even a nurse. I hadn’t even finished my nurse degree! It was crazy. As these men were young and otherwise healthy, they decided that I could be trusted with them. During the night shift, getting them an extra bottle to pee in wouldbe the most challenging of my duties.

It went OK for a couple of days, but I could tell that something was wrong. Comments were left in the day book about the patients being ‘cranky’ or ‘restless.’ The day staff seemed a bit cold towards me when we did the change-over. I couldn’t work out why.

A West Indian nurse acted as my mentor. She asked me if I was doing my H duties at the beginning of the shift. I asked what they were. Her eyes rolled up so far inside her head that I could only see white. I was referred to as ‘one of you young nurses.’

I was told what H duties were and I could hardly believe my ears. This would NEVER happen in the States. So after some instruction, I found myself waking up a patient at 11.30pm to perform ‘H duties.’

The ward was quiet. I pulled the curve around the patient’s bed. The ward lights were out, so I put on the table lamp. I focused the lamp light towards the wall and down towards the floor. Any other direction and my silhouette would have been crystal clear on the other side of the bed curve. Everyone would have seen. There was no rule saying specifically I couldn’t do what I was about to do. But I understand that there was no specific rule saying I could do it. Like taking a headache tablet from the medicine cupboard. Not authorized, we shouldn’t do it, but everyone knows it happens.

I woke ‘the patient.’ I Still remember his name, but I am trying to keep this professional. He was naturally puzzled at first, but smiled A LOT when he knew what I was there for. I helped him to sit up. Both his hands were in splints from a bicycle accident.

I asked him if he knew why I was there. He said that he ‘hoped so.’ I undid the old-fashioned pajama cord around his waist and he thrust his pelvis towardss my face — so that I could pull the pajamas down.

I squeezed out some lubricant – the stuff we normally use for anal or urethral insertions, or internals with women — and I left it on my hand fora few moments to warm up. He was circuited. And already hard. The head was displayed. I put some of the lubricant on the head and moved my hand down. With the other hand, I cupped his tests with my palm.

I moved my hand up and down. Mostly on the body of the penis, over the corona, onto the head. I had done this before, of course, with boyfriends or whatever. But never in a clinical setting. I moved my hand violently. It reminded me of that time when I went to a City Zoo and milked a cow.

I kept milking the cow. Up and down. Up and down. Men as so easy to please.

He was going to ejaculate. Wow, that was fast. I stepped back. I have seen porn where the man ejaculates massively, and I didn’t want to get any body splashes. But somehow it didn’t work. He came closer and closer, and it just sort of stopped. Perhaps he didn’t find me attractive enough? Some guys prefer dark hair to blonde.

He then said the words that I have heard quite a few English men say, butoften just randomly at me, when they are outside of a pub and I am on the other side of the road. The patient said ‘get your tits out.’ Not in the loud, joking way that I have heard before, but as request, as a whisper, of the thing he needed.

My mind was in conflict. This was so unprofessional. I knew that. My mentor hadn’t mentioned doing anything other than masturbating the patients. But I Know men are not just machines, who get off just by milking out the ejaculate. And I couldn’t spend all night on one patient.

I keep the manual manipulation going with my right hand, while my left undid the buttons down the front of my uniform. His eyes lit up when he saw my breast, covered in the material of my bra, moving in a jerky sort of way, with each movement of my hand on his penis making my breast jiggle.

He moaned. I felt his body spasm, pushing the semen outside of his body into an imagineary vagina. The ejaculate made an arc almost a third of the way down the bed. I kepit moving my hand. My hand came to a slow stop, silently counting to ten — a technique learnt from my friends when we were learning to masturbate a guy properly.

I felt a drip of my own wetness. Vaginal transudate, as it is called, built up till there was a trickle down the inside of my left thigh. I should have wound panties after all.

I cleaned up the patient and pulled up his pajamas and tied the cord around his waist. I replaced the bed cover and told the patient to sleep well. I turned out the lamp.

I completed my H duties on the remaining eleven patients.

About twenty-fours later the West Indian nurse was about to finish her shift, and I was about to take over. She had already read the day notes. She had a huge smile, as if I were her only daughter and she was proud of me for growing up. She congratulated me and said that there were no mentions of any of the patients being restless. Her verdict was that I would be a good nurse yet.

Yep. Travel broadens the mind.