The Will to Go On
#12 of Confessions of a Gay Porn Star
"Well, mister Norton..."
I always felt like squirming when someone started addressing me like that.
"Yeah?"
The white-coated wolf peered at me through the strange, multi-colored hologram that slowly rotated above the glowing circular plate imbedded onto his desk. I knew that the weird shape was supposed to be representing my right knee, but I really couldn't tell. It looked like all too many vital parts had been stripped away to show something that the doctor wolf thought to be important.
"...looking at this MRI of your knee, I can see that there are several microscopic tears in the lateral meniscus," the wolf thrust his finger within the floating image and caused curious ripples to appear in it, which made me blink a couple times.
Fucking shit. Should've known, considering how painful that thing had been for the past couple of weeks.
"Okay," I rumbled.
The wolf's eyes shimmered strangely in the light cast by the holographic project as he looked at me for a few moments more, and withdrew his finger from within the image. A couple of taps on a hidden control panel caused the image to disappear, and the overhead lights went on. I squinted a bit at the sudden brightness. Another tap of a button opened the shades and caused the California sun to stream in, which automatically made the lights dim down to a comfortable level to maintain the ambient light. The doctor turned to face his computer screen by rolling around with his chair on wheels. The screen showed a mug-shot like photo of me, rows of text, and a miniature rotating version of the knee image he'd just showed off to me with his nifty new holographic projector. Apparently it was the latest in patient-doctor communication devices.
Whatever. We'd been doing 3D porn for so long that I sure as hell knew one of those devices as soon as I saw one. We practically invented them as a consumer product.
Snort.
"...and you've not found benefit from reducing activity and cold therapy as well as...you were prescribed...Neoalgest..."
"I got some pills from the GP, yeah," I muttered. "They've helped a bit but the knee is still kinda sore and stiff, especially in the mornings, and it gets kinda sore when I move around a lot."
"Yes..." the wolf mumbled, still looking at his computer, not the patient sitting in front of his desk with a pair of crutches propped against my good knee.
What a shitty business.
I'd gotten this painful twinge in my knee while I was in the gym pumping iron a few weeks ago. The next day, when I was filming a scene that involved some hard Rottweiler-pounding, by the time we'd finished doing the doggy portions, which took an hour or so, I could barely stay standing upright for the "hard fuck against the wall" section of the shoot. A visit to the GP had only brought me some pills and a referral to this specialist...who was now giving me his judgment.
"So what does that...tear mean?" I asked.
The doctor's chair made a squeaking noise as he turned around again. He folded his slim arms against the table and looked at me curiously. He couldn't have been older than I was.
"It means that you have a repetitive strain injury in your knee, complicated by the diagnosed bursitis," the wolf replied.
Repetitive strain...shit...that couldn't mean...could it...what the fuck...
"Yeah, I know it's painful," I chuffed, "I just want it to get better."
I already got a couple of shoots lined up for me. It'd been a bit quiet for the past few months, but finally now, Max had gotten me into a couple of anthologies...which was nice. Always good to pay the bills outright and not dip into the emergency slow time fund. That wasn't exactly a retirement fund. Maybe it should've been.
"Well you will be better, once we drain the infectious fluid from the knee, and with a course of antibiotics and some further conservative treatment, such as cold packs, but what this really is a sign that you are slowly reaching the limits of the endurance of your body, mister Norton."
Harrumph. What was that slinky man telling me there? Sure I got sore after working out, but that wasn't new. Of course you were sore. Sore was good. It meant that the workout had worked. It meant that I had done what I could to keep myself in the shape I wanted to be...well...needed to be, to keep working in the capacity I was at the moment. Benny was not a small kitten.
"What does that mean?"
"Your history shows several ligament injuries to your arms and your knees, as well as back problems," the doctor listed out my history from the memory, it seemed, "so far, conservative treatment has been successful in alleviating the complaints, but if you keep stressing your body like this for very much longer, we're looking at some long-term complications."
"What's that?"
"Ligament tears...arthritic degeneration of the joints...muscle scarring...reduced functionality of the limbs...reduced ability to work..."
I didn't like the sound of that. I was already flinching.
"My work is very physical," I commented.
The wolf managed to keep a straight face admirably - I had been referred to here by the GP who mostly worked as a kind of a "the one to go to guy" for furs in the adult industry, and I had feeling that the wolf knew about that particular doctor's specialty. I knew that my file labeled me as "a performer" , as per the new non-discrimination law that thought that "porn star" could be a bad thing to have in your health records. I doubt anyone had any misconceptions about what kind of a performer I was, though, not even this wolfy dude here.
"Yes...yes...indeed..." the wolf nodded thoughtfully, "but the reality is that your body is simply not coping with all the physical exercise you are taking. Five times a week, you mentioned..."
"Well I have to work out to keep in shape...are you saying me I can't do that anymore?"
"I seriously recommend reduction in the intensity of the activity in order to reduce the chances of serious injury," the doctor said. "You are no longer 20 years old, mister Norton, you must understand that while you are in excellent shape, the body no longer recovers as quickly from exercise at your age. Your intense regime is putting a lot of strain on you."
"I know it does," I replied, "but it's the only way to keep in shape...and...well...the only way to keep working, really..."
The wolf's ear tips flicked a little, as if he was trying to keep them from showing his true feelings about me, the porn lion, sitting there in front of him in my black T and my tight shorts, perfect apparel for the hot weather outside. At least the crutches were a stylish electric blue to go with them.
"Have you considered alternative forms of employment?"
Hasn't everyone?
I began to scratch my neck, through my flowing mane, and tipped my head to the side for better access.
"Well I know I can't keep doing this forever, that's for sure..."
"There are reeducation programs of course, some of them state-funded..."
"I'm not done yet," I grunted with annoyance, "It's not like I'm a wreck of a lion..."
"But your current line of employment is becoming more difficult due to the physical problems you have been experiencing."
"I've been managing," I huffed.
"I could refer you to the city career counseling service, for further help," the doctor said, "and, if it seems prudent, to the psychiatric department..."
I bared my teeth.
"What do I need to do with a shrink, lol?" I tensed, my tail flapping sharply behind me.
"Well...are you sure, Mister Norton, that your...desire for the perfect shape is not only dictated your work, but that it could also be a body image issue?" the wolf proposed in an awfully calm voice. "It is possible that..."
I growled.
"You think I love my guns so much that I can't see that pumping the iron is doing me in huh?" I grunted. "You think I'm one of those steroid-shooting idiots who just want to get bigger and bigger until they just pop? That's not me!"
The wolf took it remarkably calmly, barely flinching when my voice got louder. I was breathing heavily by the time I finished and slumped back in my chair.
"I am simply telling you that you are standing at the crossroads, and you have to start making decisions that have very long-reaching consequences in regards to your health, Mister Norton."
*
I left the hospital with a new prescription for even more painkillers, more advice on cold packs, and a foul mood that didn't get any better when I had to pick my phone and call Max.
"Hehhey, Benny!"
"Sorry, dude, but I've got a bit of problem..."
The polar bear didn't sound happy.
"Yes? The knee again?"
"The doc said I need to give it a rest for a couple of months," I spoke to the phone, "I'm not sure if I can do the shoot next week if I really aren't allowed to work out at the moment."
The polar bear chuckled hollowly.
"Didn't know they classify ass-banging as working out."
I grumbled.
"I'm sorry dude, I just don't know what to do about this..."
"Well, I would hate to cancel the shoot...let alone re-schedule it...getting Topher Browne to appear took me some effort...this is an important shoot, Benny."
_ _
"I know, Max, but the knee really is shot so I guess..."
"...what about doing it passively? What if Benny just lies down on his belly and takes it? It's not how we scripted it but it could work...we could make it look good."
_ _
I flinched at the idea of being a bottom bitch on film again, but I knew I really didn't have much of an option.
"Well if it could be done..."
"Possibly, yes. I'll get back to you. I've got another call coming in now. Catch you later."
_ _
"Okay, boss."
*