The Ecstacy of Poison Ivy

I'm completing week two of my poison ivy attack. I know better. People often told me I had poison ivy growing on the fence, so I steered clear of it. Then my mother-in-law decided she wanted to pull it off the fence and she didn't think it was really poison ivy. We suggested she not bother, but she did anyway. After awhile, I felt bad watching her so boldly pull possible poison ivy off my fence, so I helped her bag it up.

A couple of days later, we both had poison ivy. Mine took a nasty turn, jumping from one forearm to the other, spreading up the hands and armpits, across my neck and a cheek, and over my torso. The sores are fierce. The first doctor took a moderate approach. A six-pack of Prednisone and over the counter Benadryl for sleep. Daily coatings of Benadryl gel and Ivarest. Nothing made the slightest difference. The rash marched relentlessly across my body, giving me a leprous appearance. I went to another doctor and demanded serious medicine. I got a shot and an ointment and some antihistamine samples. It may have stopped spreading now, but I look like a very diseased person.

When the blisters started popping, I acquired an unexpected delight. Now in the shower, the feel of hot water on my scarred skin produces the most pleasurable sensation. It is like a skin orgasm that maintains its vibrant height of ecstatic feeling as long as the water hits it. It is almost unbearably pleasurable. The pleasure is centered at the worst blisters, so I lift my forearms into the pulsating water and become deeply entranced in ecstacy.