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By Michael Agreve
* * *
Jim and Mac stop at the streetlight. They both pause in their conversation as a man using crutches walks in front of the car. Mac thinks about the man sitting next to him. In only a few minutes he'll be lying next to him in bed, with Jim's built-up boot hiding the deformed left foot. For Mac, the boot and the foot are enough for him to get off on. The man attached to them is just gravy.
* * *
Peter waits in the hotel room. His cock rises as he hears Neil's painfully slow steps reverberating on the tiled floor outside the room. Slowly, the door opens, revealing the impressively handsome man whose tight hip-hugging jeans cover a set of full length braces. Peter's eyes wander up from the metal-clad shoe to the neck brace sticking out from the open shirt. The metal gleams in the overhead reflected light bulb. The braces are a prop, an excuse to act out Neil's fantasies. Peter informs him that he's late for the therapy session. They both know that the session is a fantasy. Neither one cares. They've been through the scene before, each one knowing that for a few hours, both their needs will be met.
* * *
Ed tears into Jason's letter. They've never met, but Ed knows every inch of Jason's body; the legs that stop short of the knee socket, the long, fat dick that hangs temptingly between an almost hairless crotch, the fat nipples that get pumped up for hours on end with rubber suction cups, and the almost painfully handsome face that never fails to elicit unwanted pity. Ed dreams about worshiping Jason's broken body. For him, perfection comes from imperfection; a missing limb, a catheter tube running from the limp cock of a paraplegic, the jerky movements of a spastic, an undersized cock between a body builder's legs, the oversized dick attached to a midget. The smallest hint that there is something different under the protective layers of clothing is enough to spark his overworked imagination.
He hunts out the imperfect in a world where perfection means a ten-inch dick topped with layers of bulging muscle. He searches the ad pages for the one word that defines his sexuality . . . "Disabled." He subscribes to medical journals, hoping for the occasional photo of a half-naked amputee. Unlike most guys in the scene, he has no trouble meeting willing partners. With the deliberateness of a spider he weaves a sexual net around his prospective partners, luring them with his hot looks and willingness to travel long distances to get what he wants. Then, he moves on to the next available source of nourishment. Some call him cold-hearted. Others, denied of sexuality for so long, leave his arms relieved of built-up protective layers. Few have no reaction to his overt sexuality.
* * *
It's a world within a world; disabled men wanting to meet other disabled men, able bodies on the prowl for disabled men to make their fantasies cum true, disabled men wary of those who get off on their handicap, able-bodied men fantasizing themselves disabled as they place their bodies in restrictive wheelchairs for a few hour's play. They even have a newsletter, "Para-Amps," filled with hot descriptions and photo sets for sale.
Some only want a night's action. Others search for soulmates. Many find satisfaction as they explore what is a fetish to some, a way of life to others. But most have one thing in common; the need to keep their drives and desires a secret from others. In a world where perfection is held up as the ideal, you don't run around telling everyone that you want something considerably less.
Tell a man that you're into paraplegics and amputees and watch his dust. Even most disabled guys think it's weird that someone could love the bodies they've been taught to hate. Don't tell them that everyone is disabled in some way or another. That one man's missing arm is another man's pimple. Nothing is relative when the reflection in the mirror stares out at hands that start one inch below the elbow joint. And no one jumps into bed with legs deformed by polio without an unspoken something lingering under the blankets.
Call it kinky if you want to. Most people do. But don't try to explain it. Who knows why a seven-year-old boy stops dead in his tracks to watch another boy limp by, his shoe encased in shiny metal? Or why one man lets his body be wrapped in plastic tape while another chooses to encase himself in the same braces he learned to love at only seven. Is it symbiosis or repressed sexuality expressing itself in seemingly bizarre ways? Is the love of metal arm hooks any different than the love of leather and silver-studded gauntlets? Can anything be equated when it comes to what makes a cock rise? Maybe. Maybe not.
You can lump all your fetishes into one basket. You can say that focusing on the specific takes your mind away from the general. That someone searching out the imperfect has little love for himself. But who says its degrading to go with a midget? Certainly not the midget. And in a world where opposites attract like magnets, why shouldn't an able-bodied man be attracted to someone disabled?
* * *
Just ask Jason. Ask him why he shouldn't let some guy suck on the rounded ends of his leg stumps. Or why he shouldn't send nude photos of himself through the mail. For years he sat in his wheelchair, his right hand supplying the closest thing he would ever come to a love life. Then, one day, somebody looked at him. Somebody looked at him real strange. And as he lay in bed with that someone, his shortened legs being carressed and worshiped, he started to realize that he was someone sought after. Maybe just for freak appeal. But with your load resting on someone's lips, you ask questions later. You enjoy the attention and think that maybe this guy will go beyond the abstract and see the brain behind the body.
Or speak to Peter. His ad worked. One night he got a call, and the other end of the line was a nondisabled man, fantasizing about the therapist who had first taught him to keep his massive prick under a jock. Fantasy become reality as Peter reached into his own well-stuffed pouch and began stroking his cock in rhythm to Neil's hefty breathing.
"You know, we've been working together for years now. I've seen you outgrowing one set of braces after another. And I've watched you sprout hairs on that crotch of yours. I've seen your dick get hard every time I tightened the straps on those braces. And I waited until you were old enough to understand that there was more to it than some kid finding out for the first time that his cock squirts more than piss. So I think it's time that I showed you something besides how to walk or stand without toppling over."
Then they met and acted it out, therapist and patient meeting years after they had first tasted each other's cock. Neil, still bound tightly in leather and metal. Peter, still hungry for the sight of thin wasted legs supported like a wind-blown building. Lips touched cold steel and shoe leather, then angled up to catch the dripping gobs of precum. Arms developed from years of lifting patients out of wheelchairs circled around a metal framework, then locked the legs so that the bare butt stood exposed. Hard cock slipped into an ass stretched out by repeated enemas, some therapeutic, some done just for fun. Whispered pleadings filled the charged air. "Fuck my crippled body. Just like you used to do when I came to visit you at the hospital. I'm helpless with those braces locked in place. You could do anything you wanted and there'd be no way in hell I could stop you." No one asking who's on top, who's on bottom? Fantasy cripple getting off on being fucked by his make-believe therapist. Therapist riding high on the power given to him. At the same time worshiping the image of the cripple. Finally cumming as dangling nut sacs bounce against leather strapping. Shooting spurt after spurt of hot jism on the metal strapping. Licking each drop off the black leather orthopedic shoe.
And Jim, resting his back on the stack of brightly colored pillows, his body stripped down except for the black boots that grip his ankles. Not even the thinnest layer covering the curved back that pushes the chest area out at a disproportionate angle. Or the sunken abdomen that lead the imagination down to the thin, uncut dick resting to one side. He didn't ask to be disabled. He didn't dream it up out of some unfathomable need to be less than he could be or to learn the slap-sting of rejection as he displayed his cross to bear. But with lips running across the shiny shoe, he could only guess at the convolutions twisting his partner's brain.
Which little dent explains away the need to plant a deformed foot in mouth or stand back, cock in hand, to survey the imbalance in each leg's length? Or the choking that fills a cripple's throat as each exposed deformity is surveyed, analyzed and licked clean of its hard-earned sweat. Why for years he sought out other disabled men, only to find that what they reflected was too close to be comfortable, too much a mirror image of a self gone haywire. So you get what you can get. And you let a man like Mac satisfy his needs. And you hope that before the night is over he'll get up past your crotch.
* * *
What is it about a harelip that drives a man to distraction? Or a pair of legs that stopped growing long before puberty made simple dreaming a wet illusion? You wanna talk weird? I'll tell you what's weird. There's a guy down the block from Ed who got both his arms and legs blown off in Nam. Now, every time Ed sees him he thinks about how great it would be to carry his uniformed torso around. His nipples pressed against Ed's stretched-out mounds. The man's cock dangling down to where his legs used to be. Or maybe he got his dick blown off too. That's even weirder, but not as weird as a pair of lips wanting to work themselves under the stump of his missing dork. How's that for safe sex?
Just ask Ed. He knows. So does Jerry. Only he doesn't say so. There
are some secrets an amputee doesn't tell. Like the look in a straight guy's
eyes as he's fitting you for a prosthesis and he notices that your dick
is bigger than the stumps of your legs. Or what it takes to get him to
learn firsthand just how good an amputee's cock can taste. Or what goes
on in an amputee ward when the lights are out and the only way you can
muffle a scream is to stuff a dick in your mouth.
* * *
Disabled. Abled. Two worlds separated by a prefix . . . connected by lust. Bridged by separate needs and desires. All the aspects of differentness coming into play. Missed messages. Unanswered questions . . . What do you do with a prosthetic leg once it's off? Can a colostomy bag be an object of desire? Will a paraplegic come apart if hugged too tight? Does a leather hood hide a disfigured face or enhance it? Is it better to let a fantasy remain a fantasy or risk reality, rejection and putting artificial limbs back on the morning after?
* * *
All meaningless. All moot . . . if you've got the need. You don't analyze it. You don't pull out and examine wings if you've got the need to fly. You feel out others, waiting for their responses to your needs, waiting for the green light to go ahead with fantasy or pursue the man who fits the bill.
It's been years since Ed first asked why he pursues the disabled or the able bodied in disguise . . . not since he first saw a double-arm amp wearing full leather and displaying shiny arm hooks that seemed too much the perfect extension of the look. Not since Jerry moved the focus from below his knees to the two magnificent mounds of flesh that grew with repeated piercings. And not since Neil first encased his spindly legs in metal gridwork, no one suspecting that for him, the pleasure of passing went beyond any sex anyone could offer.
Stopping at the red light, to watch a man limp by, wondering why the leg moves the way it does, you don't ask why you feel the fascination. You stop. You stare. You move your hand from steering wheel to crotch and wait for eye to meet eye. Or you drive away and save the image for right before you fall asleep.
In the world of the kinky there are always subdivisions. Worlds within worlds. A metal stud becomes an icon. A uniform conjurs up Valhalla. Ropes become instruments of art. And on the underbelly of the beast there thrives a whole community with a different set of artifacts to worship. Deformity turns into a grand aesthetic high. Wheelchairs seat the gods. And the gods, reluctantly, very reluctantly, allow the worship to continue. If you travel on that underbelly you won't find easy answers. Going from need to satisfaction runs an obstacle course. For some, the seeking out intensifies the pleasure. For others, frustration keeps the fantasy the only outlet.
And what fantasies . . . Two ex-Army buddies meeting, long after the war memorials laid guilt to rest. One man carrying mental scars, the other sporting leg stumps and a long scar down his belly. Remember the night we huddled together in the trenches, your naked body glued to mine for warmth? Remember the smoke-filled dreams as I lowered my face onto that special place between your legs? Feel it now. Feel my lips trembling on your dork. Rest those shortened legs on my shoulders while I caress your butthole open. See it open . . . incredibly rounded ass cheeks resting on bandied legs and a body stopping short of most men's crotches . . . a convenient disability - easy to stand and suck and never worry about knee fatigue.
Would anybody understand? A dwarf's passion for a man whose legs can barely hold his weight . . . doing it behind closed doors so nobody will have to be offended . . . nipples being pulled by hands beginning at the elbow . . . a small cock resting on a body that is somehow not quite right . . . the action on the nipples secondary to the sight of that body in the eyes of the beholder . . . heat rising between the clublike fingers and the aching teats . . . cum spreading at the two small feet, waiting to be sucked dry by way of reward? A puckered asshole, waiting to take the rounded end of an arm stump, hoping it will come out clean? Two men on the phone, swapping stories, praying that the other will give a name, an address, a description that makes the search worthwhile . . . And others, standing mute and clicking tongues in disbelief?
Ah, but if you could see them through my eyes . . . if you knew them like I do . . . or do you? Are they you? Or a part of you? The part that never escaped outside the leather hood? Well, it's okay to let it out. There are others out there . . . waiting.
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"Other Bodies" is reprinted with permission of the author from Drummer #93 (1986).
This page is part of the disabilities issue of True Tales, which includes articles, stories, photography, and links related to leather and disabilities.
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