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The Personal Diary of Nick Capra
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The Gift...(Part Four)
As we drove to the hospital, I remember texting a few of my closest friends. I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen to me and I felt like I needed to connect with the people that I loved. There were very few people that I had told about this surgery to begin with. They were the ones I reached out to. My ex, Aaron. My friend, Chris. One of my dearest friends, Howie. And of course, my sponsor. Through my tears I just text them and told them I was going to the hospital and that I loved them. In my heart I was dying. I felt so lost. Like a boundless ship at sea that had completely lost it's navigation. Sailing straight into the eye of the storm.
We arrived at the ER. Dr. Shmootz wasn't there yet. The nurse who was taking all of my information and insurance told me she was going to need to check my vitals. I could literally hear my heart pounding in my ears. My head was hot. The pain in my legs jolted through me like a surge of electricity every time I moved.
First she checked my temperature. 103. Not good. Not dangerous. But, certainly not good. I stretched out my arm as she cuffed it to check my blood pressure. Due to the ensuing calamity that was happening in my brain and the panic that was driving me, I can't tell you that I remember the bottom number of my blood pressure reading when the nurse initially took it. But, I specifically remember the look on her face when she read the top number: 220. She looked extremely nervous. Now I know why...
For those of you not familiar with blood pressure readings...Anything below 140 is cool for my age. 180-200 is Hypertension Stage 1-Stage 2. Anything over 200 is a risk for stroke or heart attack.
My body was clearly reacting to all of the physical pain and the emotional turmoil that I was going through.
I was immediately wheeled into an exam room and the ER nurse ran an IV into my arm and started pumping me with ativan to calm me down. Dr. Shmootz arrived. By then the nurse had already taken a Sharpie pen and had outlined the red streak on my left leg. Dr. Shmootz was anxious. He examined my leg. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my mother pacing back and forth. She was glaring at Dr Shmootz. I just kept praying she didn't say anything abusive to him. As much as I disliked this man, I fully realized that he was completely responsible for my life. My mother realized this as well. I believe that is the only reason why she was keeping quiet.
Dr Shmootz finished examining my leg and told us the obvious... He said that these were the symptoms of an infection. He hinted that he suspected I had picked up the infection at the Physical Therapy office. God, he was such a deutschbag! Whatever was in my leg was probably born during the initial surgery, but I knew this man would die before he ever admitted that. He muttered something to the nurse about getting blood samples immediately to make sure that the infection hadn't spread into my blood. Then he quickly left the exam room. As the nurse was drawing blood from my arm, I asked her if a blood infection was bad. The nurse responded that it could be stopped if found in time. I asked her if it could be fatal. She looked at the ground and then looked up at me and replied, "Yes."
I felt the blood drain from my face. The situation just seemed to be getting more and more grim. I was trembling. Shaking with fear. The ativan was doing nothing to control the pain or panic that I was in. The nurse could see that I was visibly terror stricken. She quickly left the room and came back with a syringe. She flushed my IV, and then filled it with a syringe full of dilaudid. Finally, the pain started to subside.
Dr Shmootz re-entered. My mother was asking Dr Shmootz what was going to happen next. He told us that I would be admitted to the hospital until they figured out what bug I had picked up. Then they would treat it with IV antibiotics. He said he was going to need to perform another surgery soon afterward. He said that he would prefer it done at his office. I quickly replied, "Absolutely not. Whatever surgery that needs to be done, I want done here in the hospital." He tried to reason with me.. He explained how much more expensive surgical procedures were in the hospital. Without so much as even looking up at him I replied, "I have good insurance. We're doing the surgery in the hospital." He simply shook his head. I don't think he was used to not getting the last word.
Dr Shmootz went on to explain that this "small surgical procedure" would entail him opening up the incisions behind my knees again. He said he was going to take out the implants, irrigate them, then put them back in. And he finished by putting his hand reassuringly on my shoulder and saying to me, "Then, you will be just like new."
Just like new?? Are you fucking kidding me?!? It was almost laughable that this man would have such nerve to refer to me as coming out of this "...just like new."
I told him he was absolutely right. He was going to open my incisions back up again. And he was going to remove the implants. And they were staying out!
Dr Shmootz' eyes bugged out of his head. He assured me that he could save the implants and that it would be a terrible mistake to take them out at this point. He said that taking the implants out indefinitely would leave a depression in my calves from the stretched skin. Basically, he implied that my little calves would dip inwards and look worse then they had prior to surgery. I might have been pretty doped up from the dilaudid and ativan, but I was coherent enough to see through his bullshit. Scare tactics was what this man had resorted to. What was really going on inside this lunatic's mind: He desperately wanted to save the implants because that would still make this surgery a success on his part. If the implants came out and stayed out...He had failed.
My well being, future health, and safety were not on his list of priorities. His ego and reputation were all that mattered to him.
He said that I was going to be in the hospital for several days, so I would have time to think about it before I made a decision.
I was admitted to the hospital. I was wheeled upstairs. Every time a nurse, doctor, friend, or loved one came into the room they had to wear special gloves (purple) and special aprons (yellow) because I was considered "infectious". I felt like someone in one of those killer virus movies who gets sequestered from the masses. It was awful. I was poked and prodded constantly. Blood drawn. Pissing into a portable urinal. IV taken out of my arm and put in to a new vein. Tears. Excruciating pain. This had become my life. This was the gift that I had given myself. The gift that I had visualized just a few months prior to be the answer to all of my insecurities. This gift was supposed to make me a whole person again. This gift had come with one hell of a price.
I was being held prisoner in my own flesh. Every shift of my body brought some sort of physical pain.
My boyfriend came with flowers. I cried. I wailed from the pain. More dilaudid. I was pumped with so many IV pain meds that sleep was soon inevitable. And welcomed. The only peace I had from this living nightmare was whilst I lay unconscious.
The following day I was greeted by the head of infectious disease at the hospital. He was an elderly man. Soft spoken. And very kind. He informed me that the lab results showed I had a Strep and Staph in my left leg. My mother asked what that meant. He replied, "They are both bad actors." He did say that he had good news, though. Neither of these bugs had found their way into my blood. So, we were dealing with two bugs that were hanging out in my left leg. Most likely in the actual implant. He explained to me that this was usually the case because the immune system does not attack or work on foreign material in the body. "The infection likes to hide out in the implants", he said. The doctor named off the three different antibiotics that I was going to be treated with through IV. They would be rotated. In between that, more pain meds. Food. Sleep. Silence. Pain. Impending doom. I stared blankly at the TV. I tried to gather my thoughts. But, they had become muddled. I was truly lost. This was the dark night of my soul.
My mother was there for me day and night. Holding my hand. Playing cards with me. Helping me eat. My sponsor was there often as well. Strangely enough, she once dated the doctor who was head of infectious disease at the hospital.
But, my boyfriend was somewhat scarce. This whole nightmare had taken it's toll on him and he hated coming to the hospital to see me. He had watched his father die of heart disease in the hospital, and unbeknownst to me, he was now caught in the delusion that his own personal nightmare was recurring-this time with me. He thought he was going to lose me, too.
Yes, I took it personally. But, what could I do? We argued. But, I really didn't have the will to argue much with him. I was so exhausted and worried what was around every corner for me.
3 days passed. 4, 5, 6 days. I lay there. Waiting. I hated when they would have to change the IV. I was so bruised and battered that every poke of a needle made me wince. On my 7th day in the hospital, a PICC line was strewn inside an artery on the inside of my right arm. It went into the center of my chest. It was a much more effective way to administer the antibiotics as well as any other drug they needed to get into my system. I hated it. It was uncomfortable. It had 2 plugs coming out of it that were taped to the inside of my right arm. One plug was used to draw blood from, the other plug was used to deliver the powerful and very nauseating antibiotics that were being rotated into my system to treat these infections. I felt so vulnerable. I could not walk. I needed assistance to get to the bathroom when I needed to eliminate waste other than urine. My legs were wrapped in stockings that were tight and uncomfortable. I felt like I was starting to go crazy.
I remember looking at myself in the mirror for the first time since I had been admitted to the hospital. It was Day #5. My reflection in the mirror had become the face of a man I never knew. Drawn. Dark circles. Unshaven. And my eyes...like two pools of sadness swirling in pain and desperation.
The nurses came in often to change the antibiotics and administer more pain medication. They were all very kind and gentle with me. My friends came to see me. .
Dr. Shmootz came in every day to check on me. He brought me pictures of patients who had acquired infections in their implants, with whom he had saved. I looked at the pictures and nodded just to see Dr Shmootz get his hopes up. Then, I would say as he was getting ready to leave, "They are still coming out." My mother just glared at him.
The surgery to remove the implants was set for the following afternoon. I had already been in the hospital for 7 days at this point. Dr Shmootz said the procedure would be relatively quick and easy. I had heard that line before!
I was terrified. I felt how weak my body had become from the infections, the stress, the lack of exercise, but most of all from the powerful antibiotics that were constantly being administered into my PICC line-day and night.
I was so weak and unstable. I felt unsure about being put under again. I was afraid I might not wake up. I was fearful that my body would just give out. My organs might simply fail. It was a rare occurrence. But, it certainly happened.
I cried. My sponsor held my hand and told me that I was in God's care and that all would be well. The next day arrived. I was anxious. Yet, I was so exhausted and beaten down by all that had happened. There really was nothing left for me to do. About 45 minutes before I was to be wheeled into surgery, I started having another panic attack. Same symptoms. Throat constricted, shallow breathing, couldn't swallow. I rang for the nurse. My mother rubbed my back as I sat up, trying to catch my breath. Another shot of dilaudid was administered. I was calm again.
I was wheeled on the mobile stretcher down several floors to the operating room. My mother was right there with me. As I lay on the gurney, getting prepped for surgery, Dr Shmootz came in and out of his pocket he unfolded a picture. It was a Before/After shot of a patient he had who had infected calve implants, that he had managed to salvage. He was, even in these final moments prior to surgery, still trying to convince me to keep these fucking implants! I looked at my mother. She snatched the picture out of Dr Shmootz hand and through it in the waste basket. He looked defeated. I was just thankful my mother hadn't physically attacked him. He muttered something about prepping for surgery and left the room. He avoided eye contact with my mother the entire time.
The anesthesiologist came in, injected a syringe full of something powerful into my PICC line and I quickly lost consciousness.
I awoke. I was alive. My legs were still in pain. Especially my left leg. But, the heavy masses of silicone that had been stretching out my skin and weighing my legs down were finally gone. My mother came into the room with a cup of ice chips for me to suck on. Dr Shmootz came in. He told me that he had successfully removed the implants. He also said that he had syringed about 3 CC's of a straw colored liquid from my left leg. My mother said to him briskly, "Don't you think you ought to be notifying the doctor who is head of infectious diseases, so that he can have the fluid tested in the lab??" Dr Shmootz nodded his head, looked at the floor, and quickly left the room.
I asked my mother if I was going home now. She told me they wanted to keep me for several more days and then I would be released. I thanked God.
I was told that I would need to keep the PICC line in my arm for approximately 10 days after I was released from the hospital. This was necessary so I could receive out-patient treatments of the IV antibiotics used to treat the infections I had acquired in my left leg. I was not happy about that at all. The PICC line was so uncomfortable.
But, all in all I felt grateful. I felt blessed. From what I gathered, all that was really left for me to do was finish the 10 day IV antibiotic regimen after I was released form the hospital, remove the PICC line from my arm, heal, and begin Physical Therapy again.
This nightmare was finally starting to look like it was coming to a close. I was fairly certain that I had made it through the darkness and I was finally emerging into the light.
Life can play out like a fairy tale sometimes. There is a Once Upon A Time, some drama, then a Happily Ever After...
Life can also play out just like a Hollywood slasher flick. The star goes through the entire film facing one nightmarish scenario after another. Just when you think they have overcome and killed the demon, there is a devilish twist that sends the character spiraling into another abyss of carnage and terror.
Well, this story was certainly no fairy tale for me...And, just like one of these horror movies, my seemingly bright future and happy ending was about to take another shocking twist that would not only jeopordize my happiness...but this time, my very life as well.
TO BE CONTINUED...
The Gift...(Part Three)
I slowly started regaining consciousness. The smell and sight of the operating room are still so vivid in my mind's eye. The smell of sterilized equipment and the bright florescent lights. So inhibiting. It made me feel like an animal that had been wounded and captured by a hunter. From what I understand, it was best that I did lose consciousness after the painful incisions. Though numb from the local anesthetic that Dr Shmootz had administered, the irrigating process involved much scraping and pressure. Dr Shmootz had opened the incision on my left leg, went inside of it, and squeezed as much of the fluid out of my leg as possible. He then scraped away all of the the potentially infected tissue with a scalpel. He sterilized the inside of my leg with whatever type of antibiotic one uses for that specific procedure, and stitched me back up again.
Fortunately, I was still quite numb from the anesthetic. Unfortunately, any progress that I had made in physical therapy had now been swept away by the scalpel that Dr Shmootz had used to scrape away at the inside of my my leg. I felt so broken. So wounded. All over again. Tears streamed down my face as I attempted to limp, then nearly fell to the floor. I was put in a wheelchair by one of his nurses and rolled outside where my mother had just pulled into the parking lot. I was slowly helped into the car. My mother had a look of utter panic and ferocious anger on her face. Dr Shmootz would barely look her in the eye. He was visibly intimidated by my mother. Much more than he was of me. That is kind of funny, considering my mother is only 5'4" tall. Dr Shmmotz reassured us both that he had taken samples of the fluid and was sending them to a lab to see if it was infectious. He told my mother and I, as he had been telling us for almost 2 weeks now: Compress, elevate, rest....
Had I any strength left in my body, I would have reached through the open window of my mother's car and grabbed him by his neck. I really did despise this man. Not because this surgery had obviously gone awry. But for the sheer fact that he still refused to acknowledge that he had played any part in this disaster. I knew I was to blame for signing up for this mess in the first place, but this man's ego (like so many doctor's) was untouchable.
I was given more pain meds. Almost 45 min later, as the anesthetic began to wear off, I was overcome with a sharp, piercing pain in my left leg. It felt like the blade of his scalpel was still inside of me. Slicing through my tendon and nerves. I cried out in pain. The meds were doing absolutely nothing to thwart this excruciating pain that was enveloping my entire being.
I called my sponsor. She came to visit me at my mother's house. She was an angel to me through this whole nightmare. She never once reminded me how she had advised me against this surgery. She never once patronized me either for this foolish decision. She was just there for me.
My boyfriend came over. He listened to me wail and cry in agony. I could see how horribly he felt. Just as my mother did. There was nothing either of them could do to take the pain away. Nor was there anything they could do to help me walk again. I ate very little. I vomited everywhere. The pain meds just didn't agree with my system.
At 11:30pm that evening I had a horrible anxiety attack. It came quickly like a storm. I was on my mother's couch, watching TV, trying to defocus my mind from the terrible pain in my left leg. All of a sudden I couldn't swallow properly. My heartbeat accelerated. My breathing became very shallow. I bolted up. I literally thought I was having a mild heart attack. I cried out for my mother. She came rushing into the room. She helped me move to a sitting upright position. I was gasping, trying to catch my breath. My chest was tight and it hurt. My poor mother literally had one arm around me and the other hand clutching her cell phone. She wanted to dial 911. I wouldn't allow her to. I swallowed more pain meds along with anxiety medication that Dr Shmootz had also prescribed. I sat there on my mother's couch for 45 minutes. Completely terrified of what might come next. Not knowing if I needed medical help, or not. As the pain meds and the anxiety meds started to take affect, my breathing slowly restored itself to normal and my throat stopped constricting so I could swallow properly again.
I was still in unbearable pain. Sharp pain. Hot pain. Throbbing pain. It all ebbed and flowed like a sea of misery engulfing me. I barely slept-again.
I awoke at 6am. My head was very hot. I didn't have any other cold symptoms, so I ruled out a possible fever. I just lay there in uncomfortable silence. Waiting. For what, I don't know. I was still very warm by the time my mother awoke at 7:30am and came to check on me. She took my temperature. The thermomotor read 102 degrees. I did have a fever. My mother put a cold compress on my forehead and proceeded to change the gauze that was wrapped around my newly wounded left leg and my still healing right leg. As she unwrapped my left leg, we both noticed that it was much more swollen. That was expected due to the "irrigation" that Dr Shmmotz had just performed on me the previous day. But, what didn't look right was the bright red streak that had formed on my left leg, midway down my calve, and headed toward my ankle. My mother called Dr Shmootz immediately. She told him I had a fever. She then explained the red streak to him. He responded, "Are you sure?" My mother screamed into the phone, "What the hell do you mean?! I'm looking at his leg right now!" Dr Shmootz told her to have me come see him immediately. I wasn't surprised. This was always his response. I was still very fuzzy from lack of sleep. All of the pain meds that had polluted my system also blurred my train of thought. I listened incoherently as my mother jotted down information from Dr Shmootz over the phone. I did find it strange that my mother was writing down the address to Dr Shmmotz' office after we had already been there about 15 times in the last several weeks. She hung up the phone. I asked her why she was writing down his address. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes. She told me it was the address to the hospital he had a residency at. She was trying to keep it together. But, I knew. We both knew..Whatever these symptoms were that she had described to him....they were beyond the medical capabilities that he had at his own practice.
I was panic stricken. I text my boyfriend immediately. I knew he was at the gym at this time of the morning and didn't have his phone. My mother helped me up and she walked slowly behind me as I hobbled with my walker to her car. I couldn't even see where I was going. The tears pouring out of my eyes were blinding me.
This was it. I was going to be admitted to the hospital. And though some might be happy, feeling safe that they would be under medical supervision 24/7. I was not. Fear of the unknown whirled around in my head. There was no telling what lay ahead of me in the hospital. There wasn't any promise of a full recovery for me now. Nor was there even a prognosis as to what condition I was currently in.
Was I going to get better? Was I going to get worse? Would I be permanently disabled? Was I going to be able to keep all of my extremities, or end up an amputee?
I had gone into this procedure a beautiful, yet insecure man. Now there was no telling how I was going to be coming out of it.
TO BE CONTINUED...
The Gift....(Part Two)
I lay there in Dr Shmootz' office. I was strapped into the exam chair, head toward the ground with my feet toward the ceiling. I lay there in that position for 24 hrs. A nurse watched over me throughout the night. Despite all of the pain and sleep medication, I didn't sleep for a single minute. I was terrified. The sound of my heart, beating in my ears was deafening. The nurse kept trying to calm me. She helped me urinate into a portable urinal (humiliating) and fed me. I was envisioning that I might be losing my left leg from below the knee...Yes, that might be the most farfetched thing that could happen, given the circumstances. But, that was how I was perceiving things at the moment.
The following morning Dr Shmootz arrived at his office at around 8:30am. He unwrapped my legs and felt for the pulse in my swollen foot. After he was convinced that there was no compartment syndrome, he sent me home. He wanted me back in his office the following morning. I could see by his facial expression that he was still worried. My mother helped me in and out of the car. She had dark circles around her eyes. Obviously, she hadn't slept a single minute either. I was weak from the sleep deprivation. But, more than that... I was terrified.
I would touch my calves every time I changed the gauze. They felt awful. Completely numb. The implants felt like stone. I broke down sobbing. I wanted them out. I told my mother I wanted them out. She told me not to make quick decisions based on all the fears and pain that I was in. She said that the pain would eventually subside and my legs would heal. I dried my eyes and nodded my head. But, I knew in my heart that these foreign lumps inside of me were not going to work.They certainly hadn't fixed me. In fact, they had made me so much worse.
My mother massaged my feet. She changed the linens on my bed. She helped me get up and down every time I wanted to move. She cooked for me. She was literally my round-the-clock nurse. I was so helpless and broken.
My boyfriend came to my mom's house every night. He brought me gummy bears (my favorite candy) and ice cream. He held my hand and kissed my tear streaked face. He was miserable, too.
Every morning I was taken to see Dr Shmootz so he could exam my legs. The incisions were stitched tightly together behind each knee. My legs were both swollen, but the left still much worse than the right. Dr Shmootz was not able to give me any reasonable explanation as to why that was.
At my mom's, I was just trying to manage the chore of trying to move from one place to the next. I had a walker. It was really difficult to use, though. Both of my legs were weak and swollen. I couldn't even stand in the shower. I had to sit in a plastic chair and try to wash myself as best as I could. The pain was unspeakable. Worse, was the way my body was metabolizing the pain meds. I was initially given Vicodin, which made me vomit every time I took them. Next, Percoset, which for some reason was giving me horrible panic attacks.
Days went by. I was not adjusting to the implants physically or psychologically. They really freaked me out. They felt so hard and foreign in my body. I felt like a monster. I had gone into this surgery as an overly insecure man. I came out so much worse. Physically crippled. Frail. Broken. I felt monstrous.
A week passed. Still no change. Left leg still far more swollen then the right one. I even saw Dr Shmootz on Sundays when his practice was closed. He would have me come to his office. He would show up in his biking shorts and perfect tan and check on me. He would mutter something about an improvement. My mother would ask him in a cold, angry tone, "What improvement??" He told her that I was wiggling my feet much better. She rolled her eyes at him and asked him when I would be able to walk again. He had no answer for her. All he could do was order me back into his office the following morning.
**Note to anyone who has never had cosmetic surgery: Being seen by the surgeon every day after surgery is NOT normal protocol. Normal protocol is for the surgeon to examine you the day after surgery for post op. Then you get cleared because the surgery went successfully and they see you in another week.
What happened to the promise that I would be walking with a slight limp just a few days after surgery?!? Dr Shmootz knew that something wasn't right. He tried to reassure me and my mother that he was just watching this closely to make sure nothing was wrong. But, there was something wrong. It just hadn't manifested with physical symptoms quite yet.
I was sent to physical therapy. There, I was massaged, worked out lightly, and pushed to try to walk with the assistance of a cane. It wasn't really working. I still needed a walker. This was so humiliating. I am a 6'2", 210lb man whom, prior to surgery, worked out 5-6 days a week!
Misery ran deep inside of me like a vast ocean encompassing my world. Depression was an understatement. Sometimes I was borderline hysterical. Trapped inside this crippled body. Every night I would break down crying in my boyfriend's arms. I just wanted the fucking implants out! But, everyone kept telling me to give them a chance. The people in my inner circle just kept telling me to wait until I wasn't feeling so emotional before I made a decision. But, I had already made a firm decision in my mind. These fuckers were coming out of my legs! And thankfully, the Universe was quickly working to guide me.
Our thoughts manifest energy that is received somewhere out there in the Universe. If I think about something long enough, faithfully enough, it usually always seems to perpetuate situations that arise to support my thoughts.
Almost 2 weeks after the surgery, I was still not walking on my own. Dr Shmootz ordered me to see the physical therapist 3 days a week. On the 11th day after my surgery I was laying on my stomach at the physical therapy office, cringing in pain. The therapist was massaging my still very swollen left leg, when a clear liquid started to stream out of the incision. The stitches were still holding the wounds together tightly, so my first thought was that a stitch must have popped. My therapist told me this wasn't the case. He told me I needed to call Dr Shmootz immediately. I phoned Shmootz. I told him what had just happened. He ordered me to come directly to his office from physical therapy. I had no idea what was going on.
I arrived at Dr Shmootz' office and he squeezed my swollen left leg. I cried out in pain again. More liquid seeped from the incision. He quickly left the exam room for about 10 minutes, then came back in and calmly told me that he was prepping the operating room because he needed to open the incision and irrigate my leg. I was again panic striken and terrified. Something was horribly wrong. Worse. I was alone. My mother had left me at Dr Shmootz office and was now stuck in traffic coming back to get me. My boyfriend was at work. I had told very few friends about this surgery. They were all sworn to secrecy. Of course at that moment, they were all at work as well. What could I do? I text my boyfriend. I called my mother, explaining in trembling words what was about to happen. She was again hysterical. Then, I maneuvered myself into the operating room.
Dr Shmootz was already in scrubs and had 2 nurses there to assist him. I was told to lay on my stomach. Dr Shmootz explained to me that he was going to be giving me a local anesthetic. 4 injections into the actual incision. Even though most of the area was already numb from the extensive nerve damage, he told me that these injections were going to be painful.
I had been living with excruciating pain and discomfort for almost 2 weeks now. I doubted this was going to be much worse than anything else I had experienced. Boy, was I wrong!
I gripped the sides of the operating table and prepared myself for the worst. Any pain that I had prepared myself for was nowhere near what I experienced. The syringe entered the already raw tissue like a razor blade tearing through my flesh. I howled in pain. Dr Shmootz, like so many cosmetic surgeon's, didn't exactly excel with his bedside manner. He bent down and said to me, "I told you this was going to be painful."
I hated him! I hated him for doing whatever he had done to make this surgery go awry. But, most of all I hated me for ever putting myself in such an insane situation to begin with. The 2nd syringe plunged into my tissue. I was sobbing. I NEVER cry in front of strangers. This was unavoidable. I was drowning in the pain. The 3rd syringe entered my tissue and I cried out again. My head was getting hot and I was shaking violently from the surging pain. One of the nurses took my hand and was trying to console me. It wasn't helping. Finally, the last syringe entered my wound and I literally started to become dizzy. The voice of the nurse who was trying to console me just melted into the background. I lost consciousness. Yes, I passed out. Maybe from the pain. Maybe from the stress of the situation. And maybe from the knowledge that this surgery had become a true medical nightmare. And this nightmare had become my reality. There was now no denying that there was something medically wrong with my left leg and I was in serious trouble....
TO BE CONTINUED....
The Gift... (Part One)
Funny the way that the Universe works. I went into the Porn Industry almost 10 years ago. I did a ton of work for the best studios and directors. I've been featured on the covers of DVD's and magazines. I've filmed in Paris. I've been nominated and even won awards. Yet none of these accomplishments filled me the way I hoped that they would.
Nick Capra was a character created, and marketed on two things: My physical attributes and my ability to fuck. The second part is pretty natural. We all fuck. The first one...well...that's where it becomes complicated. I had some really fun adventures in the Porn Industry. Don't get me wrong. I don't regret any of it. I made a ton of money as a video star and much more money as an International Escort. But, as the years went by, as I started to age, this image began to spin vast insecurities inside of me.
Let's face it. We all age. Some of us do it gracefully. Some of us...not so much. So now, as I face my mortality...I find myself becoming completely obsessed with the notion that I am going to become that "aging Porn Star" in someone's eyes. God forbid some 25 year old who spent his teen years jerking off to my videos should see me and have a mortified expression on his face. I'm just not the type of guy who could just shrug that off. To this day, the thought of having that experience and seeing myself through a fan's eyes, as an aging man makes me shudder.
This obsession of the mind. This preoccupation with staying young and beautiful forever begins with such subtle qualities. Then, suddenly it is set rolling forward into dysmorphic proportions.
For me, it began with a little botox. That was easy and kind of fun. I even filmed it and shared it laughingly with the public. (You can Youtube "Nick Capra botox") Then, I decided I should follow it with a little juviderm for the laugh lines. "Everyone does that..", I told myself. Then the more advanced fillers followed. Yes, I was poked and prodded. Yes, I looked like a chipmunk for several days after the procedure. Yes, I was bruised up and looked a little bit like a monster for a week or so. But, it was all worth it to me. I was retaining my beauty! So, you think that after injecting and filling my face to this extent would have been enough?! Well, not so with me. I have come to realize that I am simply not like other people. Once I experience a procedure that produces a sense of ease and comfort within me...I am not satisfied. I do not say to myself, "This is great. Now I am content." I WANT MORE!!
I started focusing on my body. I began obsessing over areas of my body that I wanted to improve, but just couldn't seem to by proper diet and aggressive training at the gym. The one area of my body that I could never get the desired result from, no matter how much training I did-my calves. It's not a matter of how much or little I work my calves, or which exercises I did or failed to do. It's simple physiology, really. My father had little calves. My grandfather as well. I tried to defy this genealogical nightmare by hiring a trainer-several different trainers, actually. My quads, my ass, and my hamstrings all got bigger. My calves got a tiny, little puff. And that was all that was coming to me!
It made me feel insecure. To the point where I refused to where shorts in public.(Mind you I live in Southern California-the land of shorts and flip flops) It really sucked during the Summer when I was out and all the other guys were in shorts and I was stuck in jeans. Hiding my little, skrawny legs.
So, instead of learning to embrace myself for exactly who I am.. Instead of celebrating and honoring the beauty within me..Instead of seeing that as a whole package, I am a pretty attractive man... I completely drove myself into the delusion that I would not be okay until I had the calves I so desperately wanted for myself.
Last April, I started researching plastic surgeons. I found a very well known surgeon in Southern California who had an excellent reputation and had been practicing for over 20 years. (I will refer to him as my mother so lovingly nicknamed him-Dr Shmootz) I did a consultation with Dr Shmootz. He measured my calves. He assured me he could make them proportionate to my upper legs and the rest of my body. He gave me all the answers I wanted to hear. Dr Shmootz told me the surgery would take a few hours, the incisions behind my knees would be barely noticeable, and I would be up and walking around with my new calves within a few days. He went on to say that I would be completely mobile and even able to work out my legs again within a few weeks. Dr Shmootz failed to warn me of anything that could possibly go wrong and/or not work out in my favor. When I asked him about risks or complications, he literally waved off the very notion. He told me it was less complicated or painful then breast augmentation, which thousands of women do every day. I was sold! It was on and poppin'. I couldn't wait for my new claves!!
My boyfriend begged me not to do it. He told me that having something foreign put inside my body for the rest of my life was really throwing things out of balance and I might suffer repercussions that I was, at that time, completely blind to seeing. I turned a deaf ear to his pleas. His ominous warnings could not steer me from my new calves. My new life. I literally thought these implants were going to set me free. I explained to him that my happiness and security were literally contingent on my getting this surgery done. Writing this now, I see the insanity that I had been possessed with. But, we usually see the truth after the fact...or at least that seems to be the case for me.
On May 3rd, 2011, I signed paperwork and wrote out a check for $8,000. By May 11th I was in for my pre-op. I was so excited that this was going to be happening! My boyfriend worked full time, so I was going to recover at my mom's house. She lives less than 10 miles from my boyfriend, so it was the best case scenario for me to recover in.
May 18th, I woke up early, scrubbed myself down with the surgical cleanser I was given, then drove to Dr Shmootz' office for my new calves. I was excited and nervous. But, I really knew this was going to be the answer to all of my problems.
As I lay on the operating table, right before the anesthesiologist was about to administer the drugs into my arm, I began to wonder if this was the right decision. I started thinking about what had happened to Kanye West's mother during a routine liposuction procedure. But, at that point it didn't matter. I was gonna go through with this. I really didn't feel like there was much of a choice. I just prayed that all would turn out well. Things started getting hazy as the drip entered my blood stream. Then, everything went dark...
I awoke. I felt pain. Agonizing pain in my left leg. Nausea. I vomited everywhere. Everything was very blurry. The nurse cleaned me off and told me that the surgery had gone well. I was having a hard time making out what she was saying because I was so consumed with the searing pain in my left leg. My mother was there. After what must have been a few hours, I was put in a wheelchair and taken to my mother's car. The anesthesia was wearing off and the pain in my left leg was escalating. The nurse told me that my post-op appointment with Dr Shmootz would be the following afternoon at 2pm. I was trying to be cool but tears were sliding down my face. I was literally in agony. My mother asked the nurse if this kind of pain was normal after surgery. The nurse reassured her with a puppet-like, "Yes. Of course."
6hrs later...I was in my mother's house. My left leg was noticeably more swollen then the right leg and I was still in agony. All the percoset in the world wasn't managing this type of pain. My boyfriend was by my side..He had brought me flowers and was trying to comfort me. It wasn't helping. I was consumed with pain as well as a mounting fear. Intuitively I knew something wasn't right in my left leg. I called Dr. Shmootz at around 9pm and told him about the pain and the swelling in my left leg. He told me to come in to his office first thing in the morning instead of waiting until my 2pm post-op appointment. I barely slept that night. The pain was constantly waking me. I had to use the bathroom. Getting out of bed, using the walker to get to the toilet, and even lowering myself down to the seat and back up again was hell. Early the next morning, the pain was not getting any more manageable, nor was the swelling in my left leg going down. At this point I could barely use the walker I was given to get to my mother's car. I touched my calves gingerly. The implants felt like rocks. Not at all like I had imagined. Yes, they were bigger, but they just felt awful to the touch. Part of my leg was screaming in pain and the other part was completely numb. (Another factor Dr Shmootz left out was that cutting through all the nerves to get the implants inside of me would cause severe nerve damage, leaving the area numb for 6-12 months)
We arrived at Dr Shmootz' office and he unwrapped my legs. I saw fear in his eyes. My mother was pacing the exam room like a lioness about to attack something that is about to hurt her cub. Dr Shmootz immediately called in his partner at the practice. His partner examined my legs and pulled Dr Shmootz aside and they spoke in hushed voices. They tilted me into a diagonal position, head towards the floor, to get the blood to flow away from my legs. I was put on a large dose of prednisone, an oral steroid that is used as a powerful anti-inflammatory. Hours passed. Dr Shmootz kept checking in. My mother was still pacing. She pulled him aside and demanded to know what the hell was going on. He explained to her that he was fearful that my left leg was going into compartment syndrome. Basically, acute swelling that cuts off the blood flow to part of the body which results in the death of the tissue surrounding it. Not good.
I was terrified. My mother was furious with the surgeon. Nurses kept coming in and out of the exam room. I lay there, tilted in this diagonal position, like some sort of prisoner that was being tortured by the enemy for information. There was complete chaos going on around me and I was powerless to do anything about it. Every hour that passed felt like a week. Infinity stretched limitlessly. I was acutely aware of every single nerve that was screaming in pain inside of me.
This routine surgery that was supposed to enhance my beauty and make me feel secure with my body had turned into a true plastic surgery nightmare.
TO BE CONTINUED....
My Fleshjack Blooper
So, every now and again while I am shooting a scene I run into technical challenges. Maybe there is a little mess with the bottom or a condom gets stuck in a model's ass. I've always considered solo scenes to be the easiest to shoot because the chances of a problem arising whilst shooting is cut in half. Now, I never thought I would have a technical problem with a toy-but leave it to me!
I can remember many a scene where the bottom I was shooting with had a hard time taking my dick, but in this case, it seems like the toy was jumping ship!
Check it out!
Poets, Priests of Nothing, Legends....
I have recently begun sorting through the hundreds of pictures I have had loaded on my C Drive. These pictures have kind of just been sitting in folders on my computer for the last 6 years or so. Because most of these pictures were taken from digital cameras, I've decided to create an account on SnapFish.com. I've sent in all the digital pics and I am having them converted to 4x6 prints. My goal is to take these prints and create photo albums. This way all of the MANY events, appearances, photo shoots, love affairs, relationships, friendships, adventures, nightmares, and magic can be archived and set into sequence-telling the story of my life-from start to finish.
Going through these pictures inspired many feelings in me. Remembering some of the most wonderful and dark periods of my life. Seeing pictures of me celebrating the last 3+ years of my sobriety was the most fun. Seeing pictures of me in the dark, drugged years of my life was tough. It was almost like little demons were casting spectral images onto my computer screen to haunt and terrify me all over again.
Of course the pictures that inspired the most intense feelings in me were the pictures of the many men who have come and gone in my life. So many intense, short lived flings! So many hot one night stands! And lastly, the relationships with the men that altered the course of my life forever.
There were a few men that inspired me to great heights. The deep love I experienced with them remains unrivaled by anything else I have ever known. The way that each of these men loved me was unique. And the love that they inspired in me was quite profound. In many ways, these were the men who wrote my poetry. Each of them inspiring me to grow in a different facet of my life. There have only been three men in my life that I truly loved. These men truly were my Poets. When I see pictures of them and I, reflecting moments from the past and present, I am reminded of just how blessed my life has been. These men still play vital parts in my life today. I don't stop loving them, because true love is infinite.
Then there were the men who inspired something a little darker. Lets face it. Relationships between lovers involves a very specific chemistry. And sometimes the chemistry can be explosive-not in a good way, either. I have brought out the worst in some men and there have been men that certainly have brought out the worst in me. That doesn't mean I have regret. These experiences were necessary for me to become the man I am today. Although, at the time I was carrying on with these men, my life seemed futile, dangerous, toxic and quite unhealthy. I fondly refer to these men in my life as the Priests of Nothing. They governed, they seemed to rule me for brief moments in my life, but the love just wasn't there. It never was. And just like that-they were gone.
I feel very blessed to still hold each of these men in my mind's eye. For better or worse-each of them helped shape and mold the human being I am today. Inevitably, these men brought me to my truth. They brought me to my fire.
And now as I compose these photo albums, illustrating the story of my life...these men become legends.
"And when they ask him about the men in his life...he says, 'As difficult as it has been - They were poets, and yet they were Priests of Nothing...but they were Legends'"
Goodbye, Daddy
I remember when I was a young boy, my father would come up the driveway and I would go rushing out the door to greet him. He would sweep me up in his arms and kiss and hold me. He always called me his little Monkey. My father was my hero. He represented such strength and power to me when I was a boy. He was a very big man. 6ft 4in tall. Stocky build. Deep voice. And, he had a personality that matched his stature. When he walked into a room people took notice. He wasn't the most attractive of men, but always the most endearing. He knew how to make people smile.
At soccer games, my dad was my biggest cheerleader. I remember the time that the referee made him leave the game because he was screaming and cheering so loud. My father's love made me feel so strong and drove me to be the best at whatever I attempted. I remember how excited I would be to show him my report cards, just because I knew he was going to smile with pride. I guess every son wants to know that he is the apple of his father's eye.
Then the storm came...My father had demons that I just couldn't ever comprehend. Those demons rose up and challenged the love of my family. They shattered the the bond that had once held me so close to him. My father became cold and distant. As he and my mother's relationship fell apart, I fell apart. My perfect life became a dreary existence. I remember towards the end of my parent's relationship, I would climb the tree in our front yard.I remember wishing that I could keep climbing high up to the sky and never come back down.
I never really understood why all of a sudden my father seemed to fall so so far out of my reach. It felt like I was trying to hold water and every time I would grasp at him he would quickly slip through my fingers. Often times I wondered what I had done wrong. I was convinced that I had done something to make my father not love me anymore. I thought if I could maybe run faster or try to love him harder he would see I was worthy again of his love. That illusion drove so much of my destructive behavior from my teen years all the way into my adult life. I hated myself for losing my father's love. For losing the man who I had come to know as my hero. My heart cried out for my Dad, but it just never seemed to be heard.
Time passed. Memories kept me a prisoner of the past. I fell so far down with drugs and destruction, I never thought I would come to know a peaceful existence again. My father reached out to me once in 2007, just a few months before I got sober. By then my spirit had become nothing more than a shadow. It reflected pain and misery. Sadness and despair. I pushed him away. Just as I tried to push everyone away that was trying to show me their love.
I believe that my father also suffered from guilt and self-loathing for losing his family. For losing his own grasp on reality so many years ago. I believe that he felt by leaving me alone, he could forget his own pain. I don't blame him for that anymore.
I got sober on Dec.17, 2007. I've reached out to my dad a handful of times in the almost three years that I have been clean. I never got any response. I've had to make my peace with that.
Last Sunday my mother told me that my dad was dying. She got word form my cousin in NY that my father had bone cancer and he had suffered from an acute renal failure. My boyfriend encouraged me to see him again, as frightened and scared as I was. I booked a flight to NY to see my dad the following week.
I was told that he was being transferred to hospice and that I would have the opportunity to see him again. The day before I left for NY, my father passed away.
I don't know what to say...I guess I always believed that we would be reunited again. But, I suppose every child wants that with their estranged parent. I held my father close to my heart and believed we would be together again some day. But, now he is gone.
Daddy...I still hear your voice. I still remember the smell of your cologne. I still love you now, just as I did before. These images wont ever fade or leave me. They are the things that help me to keep you alive in my heart. I hope that you are happy now and flying free with the angels.
I love you, daddy. And that will never change....
At soccer games, my dad was my biggest cheerleader. I remember the time that the referee made him leave the game because he was screaming and cheering so loud. My father's love made me feel so strong and drove me to be the best at whatever I attempted. I remember how excited I would be to show him my report cards, just because I knew he was going to smile with pride. I guess every son wants to know that he is the apple of his father's eye.
Then the storm came...My father had demons that I just couldn't ever comprehend. Those demons rose up and challenged the love of my family. They shattered the the bond that had once held me so close to him. My father became cold and distant. As he and my mother's relationship fell apart, I fell apart. My perfect life became a dreary existence. I remember towards the end of my parent's relationship, I would climb the tree in our front yard.I remember wishing that I could keep climbing high up to the sky and never come back down.
I never really understood why all of a sudden my father seemed to fall so so far out of my reach. It felt like I was trying to hold water and every time I would grasp at him he would quickly slip through my fingers. Often times I wondered what I had done wrong. I was convinced that I had done something to make my father not love me anymore. I thought if I could maybe run faster or try to love him harder he would see I was worthy again of his love. That illusion drove so much of my destructive behavior from my teen years all the way into my adult life. I hated myself for losing my father's love. For losing the man who I had come to know as my hero. My heart cried out for my Dad, but it just never seemed to be heard.
Time passed. Memories kept me a prisoner of the past. I fell so far down with drugs and destruction, I never thought I would come to know a peaceful existence again. My father reached out to me once in 2007, just a few months before I got sober. By then my spirit had become nothing more than a shadow. It reflected pain and misery. Sadness and despair. I pushed him away. Just as I tried to push everyone away that was trying to show me their love.
I believe that my father also suffered from guilt and self-loathing for losing his family. For losing his own grasp on reality so many years ago. I believe that he felt by leaving me alone, he could forget his own pain. I don't blame him for that anymore.
I got sober on Dec.17, 2007. I've reached out to my dad a handful of times in the almost three years that I have been clean. I never got any response. I've had to make my peace with that.
Last Sunday my mother told me that my dad was dying. She got word form my cousin in NY that my father had bone cancer and he had suffered from an acute renal failure. My boyfriend encouraged me to see him again, as frightened and scared as I was. I booked a flight to NY to see my dad the following week.
I was told that he was being transferred to hospice and that I would have the opportunity to see him again. The day before I left for NY, my father passed away.
I don't know what to say...I guess I always believed that we would be reunited again. But, I suppose every child wants that with their estranged parent. I held my father close to my heart and believed we would be together again some day. But, now he is gone.
Daddy...I still hear your voice. I still remember the smell of your cologne. I still love you now, just as I did before. These images wont ever fade or leave me. They are the things that help me to keep you alive in my heart. I hope that you are happy now and flying free with the angels.
I love you, daddy. And that will never change....
Robbie Ireland Solo
Hey guys!
I recently shot super-sexy, Robbie Ireland for my website, www.NickCapra.com I was looking for a blond this time. I totally wanted to shoot a guy who had that really cute, boy-next-door quality. Robbie fit the bill perfectly! Golden blond hair. Pretty cherub face. Beautiful ass! It was very stimulating for me to watch this boy show off for the camera. I even made him jerk off in his baseball cap to complete the image I was looking to capture for you guys. He had a great time and spanked his hot meat until he shot a nice load all over his stomach.
It was a terrific scene and I couldn't have been happier with the out-cum! =)
It's always a bit challenging for me to film a scene with a hot boy jerking off and not want to jump on him! But, its all about discipline these days!
The Robbie Ireland solo scene will be updated to my site, www.NickCapra.com May 6th.
In the meantime, be sure to check out the 25 full XXX scenes that already up-and running on my site!
I recently shot super-sexy, Robbie Ireland for my website, www.NickCapra.com I was looking for a blond this time. I totally wanted to shoot a guy who had that really cute, boy-next-door quality. Robbie fit the bill perfectly! Golden blond hair. Pretty cherub face. Beautiful ass! It was very stimulating for me to watch this boy show off for the camera. I even made him jerk off in his baseball cap to complete the image I was looking to capture for you guys. He had a great time and spanked his hot meat until he shot a nice load all over his stomach.
It was a terrific scene and I couldn't have been happier with the out-cum! =)
It's always a bit challenging for me to film a scene with a hot boy jerking off and not want to jump on him! But, its all about discipline these days!
The Robbie Ireland solo scene will be updated to my site, www.NickCapra.com May 6th.
In the meantime, be sure to check out the 25 full XXX scenes that already up-and running on my site!
The Final Scene
Hey guys! I recently announced that I will no longer be performing on camera with other models. Though, it's still hard for me to believe that I've come to this conclusion by my own accord - this is where my path has taken me. So, who was my last official scene partner??
It was Italian super-stud, Vinnie D'Angelo. (Though, a random model that was painting the room at the time was watching us and ended up jerking off on my chest, the scene was primarily Vinnie and myself. >;->
This particular scene was in no way planned to be my final duo performance I actually had no idea whilst filming with Vinnie that I would come to the decision to no longer perform with other models.
So yes, it was chance. Or maybe it was fate that made my last scene a big ol' bottoming extravaganza! I have spent the majority of my career filming as a top and about 95% of my personal life in that same facet. Bottoming has never come easily for me. And I love stickin' my dick in a hot hole. But, this scene actually turned out pretty hot! Vinnie was great. He is big and hairy and that's how I naturally prefer a man if he is gonna fuck me.
The scene was shot for www.cocksuremen.com
Also, make sure to catch me and some seriously hot Porn Stars and amateurs engaging in some hot XXX SEX on my website: www.nickcapra.com There is a free promo preview on the site as well as an Introductory first month special: $9.99
Check it out!!
Here are some promo pics that I promised to post..
ENJOY!!
It was Italian super-stud, Vinnie D'Angelo. (Though, a random model that was painting the room at the time was watching us and ended up jerking off on my chest, the scene was primarily Vinnie and myself. >;->
This particular scene was in no way planned to be my final duo performance I actually had no idea whilst filming with Vinnie that I would come to the decision to no longer perform with other models.
So yes, it was chance. Or maybe it was fate that made my last scene a big ol' bottoming extravaganza! I have spent the majority of my career filming as a top and about 95% of my personal life in that same facet. Bottoming has never come easily for me. And I love stickin' my dick in a hot hole. But, this scene actually turned out pretty hot! Vinnie was great. He is big and hairy and that's how I naturally prefer a man if he is gonna fuck me.
The scene was shot for www.cocksuremen.com
Also, make sure to catch me and some seriously hot Porn Stars and amateurs engaging in some hot XXX SEX on my website: www.nickcapra.com There is a free promo preview on the site as well as an Introductory first month special: $9.99
Check it out!!
Here are some promo pics that I promised to post..
ENJOY!!
Curtain Call
I can't believe how quickly the past three months have flown by! It's so strange because this is the first time in my sobriety that I haven't been traveling for work. Now that I have retired as an escort, my focus has turned to finding an adequate personal training curriculum to enroll in. We've been shooting for the website, but from a slightly different perspective. We've been shooting solo scenes of some really hot models with me still in the picture. Though there is no physical interaction with myself and the other models, you still get me in various states of undress, shooting and directing the models.
So, what has spurred this sudden change of direction with my website?
I have made the decision that I will no longer be performing on camera with other models.
I have shot 60+ XXX Videos over the course of eight years. I have also shot over fifteen scenes for my website, www.nickcapra.com where you can also see me performing with some of the world's most famous Porn Studs as well at some smokin' hot new faces. I now feel that the time has come for me to explore life without having sex on camera. I don't regret the past, nor do I wish to shut the door on it. Hell, I have shot some amazing scenes that have really translated into some beautiful imagery! I have literally been expressing and exploring my sexuality on camera and sharing it with the world for almost a decade!
I loved it! It was a huge part of my life and I am so very proud of all of the accomplishments I have made in my career.
But something has been missing. There is a piece of me that outweighs the 'Nick Capra persona'. This piece of me wants to explore and understand my sexuality on a much more intimate level. I believe that sex is one of the most powerful spiritual tools known to man. And just like any other spiritual tool, it can be used in many different facets. I want my sex-life to take on a a more sacred and personal meaning. I really want to explore sex with just one person. I want to see it grow and become more powerful.
Of course, there is still a part of me that cannot even believe I am uttering these words to you!
Maybe it's me just growing older. Maybe it's just me growing up. I don't have any answers as to why I have been feeling this way for the last three months. All I know is that this is where my path has brought me. This is my truth.
Don't go getting all misty eyed on me now! I will still be shooting solo scenes of myself here and there for my website, www.nickcapra.com And, I will definitely continue to bring you the hottest stars and amatuers engaging in that nasty, hot Capra-style sex that has become my trademark. www.nickcapra.com is my baby...It's my own flesh and blood and it will continue to grow and thrive. But, my days of performing with other hot models have drawn to a close.
I guess this is my curtain call..
I will be posting pics on the blog sometime this week of my last official duo scene. It was shot in January of this year.
(Any idea who it was with??)
This has been such an incredible ride! Remember the skinny Italian kid in"Finish Me Off", by Channel One Releasing? (My very first video) Thanks to Chi Chi for giving me my first break and my name is Porn. Thanks to all of the Studios both past and present that have cast me in their films. Rascal, Mustang, Hot House, Titan, Catalina, All Worlds, Jet Set, Studio 2000, Red Devil Entertainment, Lucas Entertainment..The list goes on and on!
Very special thanks to Jett Blakk, one of my heroes in this Industry. He has been directing me in his movies since 2002. Jett cast me as the star in his first on-location film in Paris, France. ("French Kiss",by Red Devil Entertainment)
Hell, he got me to bottom for the first time on camera as well! Most importantly, Jett was there for me when I was falling apart in those very dark years when drugs almost took my life. There are many associates to be made in this Industry, but very few friends. Jett has consistently been there for me as a friend, business partner ,and mentor for the last eight years.
And most importantly, to all the fans that have sent me so much love and support throughout the years. You guys have truly changed my life. Thank you from the bottom of my dirty little heart!!
Much love,
Nick
"If you go out to the woods today, you'll find he's no longer there."
So, what has spurred this sudden change of direction with my website?
I have made the decision that I will no longer be performing on camera with other models.
I have shot 60+ XXX Videos over the course of eight years. I have also shot over fifteen scenes for my website, www.nickcapra.com where you can also see me performing with some of the world's most famous Porn Studs as well at some smokin' hot new faces. I now feel that the time has come for me to explore life without having sex on camera. I don't regret the past, nor do I wish to shut the door on it. Hell, I have shot some amazing scenes that have really translated into some beautiful imagery! I have literally been expressing and exploring my sexuality on camera and sharing it with the world for almost a decade!
I loved it! It was a huge part of my life and I am so very proud of all of the accomplishments I have made in my career.
But something has been missing. There is a piece of me that outweighs the 'Nick Capra persona'. This piece of me wants to explore and understand my sexuality on a much more intimate level. I believe that sex is one of the most powerful spiritual tools known to man. And just like any other spiritual tool, it can be used in many different facets. I want my sex-life to take on a a more sacred and personal meaning. I really want to explore sex with just one person. I want to see it grow and become more powerful.
Of course, there is still a part of me that cannot even believe I am uttering these words to you!
Maybe it's me just growing older. Maybe it's just me growing up. I don't have any answers as to why I have been feeling this way for the last three months. All I know is that this is where my path has brought me. This is my truth.
Don't go getting all misty eyed on me now! I will still be shooting solo scenes of myself here and there for my website, www.nickcapra.com And, I will definitely continue to bring you the hottest stars and amatuers engaging in that nasty, hot Capra-style sex that has become my trademark. www.nickcapra.com is my baby...It's my own flesh and blood and it will continue to grow and thrive. But, my days of performing with other hot models have drawn to a close.
I guess this is my curtain call..
I will be posting pics on the blog sometime this week of my last official duo scene. It was shot in January of this year.
(Any idea who it was with??)
This has been such an incredible ride! Remember the skinny Italian kid in"Finish Me Off", by Channel One Releasing? (My very first video) Thanks to Chi Chi for giving me my first break and my name is Porn. Thanks to all of the Studios both past and present that have cast me in their films. Rascal, Mustang, Hot House, Titan, Catalina, All Worlds, Jet Set, Studio 2000, Red Devil Entertainment, Lucas Entertainment..The list goes on and on!
Very special thanks to Jett Blakk, one of my heroes in this Industry. He has been directing me in his movies since 2002. Jett cast me as the star in his first on-location film in Paris, France. ("French Kiss",by Red Devil Entertainment)
Hell, he got me to bottom for the first time on camera as well! Most importantly, Jett was there for me when I was falling apart in those very dark years when drugs almost took my life. There are many associates to be made in this Industry, but very few friends. Jett has consistently been there for me as a friend, business partner ,and mentor for the last eight years.
And most importantly, to all the fans that have sent me so much love and support throughout the years. You guys have truly changed my life. Thank you from the bottom of my dirty little heart!!
Much love,
Nick
"If you go out to the woods today, you'll find he's no longer there."