Adam's World
Part II
by Lee G.
Chapter 1
Hi. My name is Gordon and I've been asked to introduce Grant and myself because we are the new residents of Adam's World.
We've just moved into the new phase of the project which utilizes new concepts in housing design. Our unit, and that of our neighbors Martin and Bart, is not designed for wheelchair access; instead it is designed around wheelchairs. There is no furniture, with the exception of tables for eating. There are no rugs. Around all the walls are storage units taking advantage of the limited heights which can be reached from a wheelchair. The living room, then, is a big empty space surrounded by the built-in units. We need the space for maneuvering room for the wheelchairs of all our friends. Most of our friends use chairs anyway - either because they have to or want to.
For the few who don't, there are extra chairs folded up at the entry.
Our bedroom is a bit different, too. There is no wall separating it from the toilet and bath facilities. And there are hand holds everywhere for us to grab and lift ourselves. We have TV and books and all the things we need for leisure time at just an arm's length away, so this bedroom is our private living space, our inner sanctum.
I am fairly sure you have the picture by now that Grant and I are paraplegics. We each have a foreign body suspended below our tits. We can't feel it or control it. It is dead weight. And yet its very deadness demands a huge amount of our attention.
Our morning routine, for example, amounts to several hours worth of attention. We wake up tangled in each other's arms. Since our arms, shoulders and head are all that really function, we use them well, even in our sleep, to keep in touch with each other. We then have to look to see if our legs have tangled, too. Or if something has happened to my catheter and leg bag. Untangled, we roll to the edge of the bed. Grab a handle to haul the body into a chair waiting there. Then to the john. I empty my bag while Grant is transfering to his chair. At the john, I help him insert a catheter. Back to the bed, where after another transfer we help each other with an enema. After that and after we have helped each other with clean up, we wheel to the sinks. Then to the shower where we lift ourselves on to the two stools we have had built so that we can help each other reach impossible places. Then mutual drying. All this mutual attention has another purpose: it is our way of inspecting each other's lifeless parts for sores, infection, or any other kind of problem which might be developing. Then if we need to get dressed to go somewhere, we wheel to the closet for clothes which we help each other into when we have transferred back to bed. And then finally, another transfer to chairs for breakfast and the start of the day.
The one complication we can eliminate is clothes. We quite frankly don't wear any when we are alone at home. We each keep a towel on our chair to throw over us if there is a knock on the door. In addition to convenience, ability to see our bodies is another to way to spot trouble early (for example, with bowel or urination). And it is a statement, at least to ourselves, that this is who we are and that we accept it. A by-product of nakedness is that we can spot an erection on Grant and enjoy it. I have a habit of holding his dick whenever I am near it for just the same reason.
Early on in our relationship, Grant asked me if I was jealous because he did have erections and even emissions sometimes. I was glad to say yes, damn it, I did want a functioning cock so that I could give myself to him. I dreamed, for example, of shooting into his mouth. I dreamed also about shooting up his ass after plowing into his prostate. In my dream that brought him to life. It would be like a magic button I could push so that he could feel it. It would cause his cock to leap in greeting and come with spasm after spasm of his life's juice. Just once is all I want. Just once - not for me, but for him.
After I had poured all this out, Grant said, "You know, even though it is attached to my body, it is not really my cock any more. It doesn't give me any pleasure when it goes off. I think it gives you more than it does me. Even if I stroke it when it's hard, it's like jerking off someone else. The only pleasure I get is to watch you working on it. I think that from now on we should think of it not as 'my cock' but as 'our cock'. It's not on your body. It doesn't feel like it is on mine. It only means something when we are together."
But I wouldn't want you to get the idea that our sex life doesn't amount to much. It is wonderful because we use creatively the biggest sex organ in the world, the male human brain. We talk sexy to each other. We kiss. We cuddle. We nibble. We chew ears. We suck tits. We find the limit of feeling on each our torsos and drive each other wild. We roll around the bed. We check our cock. If it is doing anything we play with it, we suck it, we stroke it. We use porn. We talk about what we would like to do. We talk about whom we'd like to do it to. Our desire gets excruciating. We have to have each other. We have to be one. We are panting. We are near exhaustion. But we have to go on. It may be a mental orgasm, but it isn't imaginary. We take each other in our arms and we pour soul and body into each other's mouth with our tongues. And sometimes we find that "our cock" has sealed our passion with cum. And so we fall asleep exhausted and fulfilled.
I mentioned porn. Since our sex life is a matter of visualization, porn is a natural for us. But strange as it may seem, we don't want videos or photos of able-bodied studs. We want our studs with some complication about their bodies, something missing, something deformed, something not working. I think we want crippled studs because it is so complicated for us to get to satisfaction that we are just plain bored by "normal" gay sex. We are, in a word, devotees.
And we have mutually decided to expand our sex life by inviting others into it. Our favorite playmates are Martin and Bart, the next door neighbors. I'll let Martin introduce himself and his lover Bart.
Chapter 2
Bart and I (Martin) are real fans of Gordon and Grant, our next door neighbors in the new units of Adam's World designed for couples in wheelchairs. They are beautiful hunks of flesh, even if they can't feel most of that flesh themselves. They keep themselves attractive and healthy. Not a bit of flab (and that ain't easy for the wheelchair bound, believe us.) They work out in the gym. Get themselves up on parallel bars and braces regularly. And they play basketball and tennis regularly. That's where we met them, actually, when we joined their wheelchair basketball team.
They are models of grace. We are pretty good in our chairs, but they can make theirs turn and stop and twirl with all the grace of a dance. The contrast between that beauty of motion in a chair and the burden of any kind of movement for them outside of it never ceases to amaze us. Even to get to the floor or from the floor back to the chair is a huge problem for them.
Our amazement arises from the fact that for neither Bart nor me is it difficult to move outside the chair. Both of us have such short leg stumps that there is nothing to get in the way. To swing to the floor is as natural as breathing. To do transfers to car seats or toilets or anything else is no problem at all. (Toilet seats are another kind of problem, however: we have to hold ourselves up to keep from falling through.)
I suppose our rather well matched bodies (torsos is probably a better word) were what brought Bart and me together. I know that the first time I saw him (at a wheelchair basketball game), I knew I had to meet him. Would he, could he, just possibly, I hope, I hope, be gay? He was way too pretty to be straight. Finely chiseled features. Eyes sparkling with the excitement of the game. I dreamed about him later that night..... I wheeled up to face him. We slowly undressed ourselves, finally scooting out of our shorts to reveal excited cocks. He hopped his butt over into my chair. Our stumps just barely touched. Our cocks more than met each other. He leaned into me and kissed me. We kissed into each other all our grief at the loss of half of us. We kissed into each other hope and confidence that we could live and love anyway. And as we kissed our cocks down there between our stumps came all over each other and all over our stumps. I woke up to find that I had made my part of the dream come true because my stumps were covered with the proof of my dream.
So I kept going back to basketball games. We soon were talking to each other after the games and then going out for beer later. Finally I got up my courage up to suggest, "Actually the closest bar is a gay bar. Would you mind going there? It is so much more convenient."
It turned out that he was delighted with the idea. He was just in the process of coming out to himself and hadn't had the courage to go to a bar alone. Finally, we had something to talk about other than basketball and the accidents and hospitals we both wanted to forget. From my extremely limited experience, I told him what it was like to be both legless and gay. I told him how I had noticed, even if he hadn't, the stares of all the customers as we had wheeled in together. The looks going from one chair seat with not even a lap in it to the other. I told him about being asked to leave a bar by the manager because he didn't want "my kind" there. I told him of sitting in this very bar, transferring into a chair by a table and having someone else hide the chair out of sight so that I could look normal. Then the awful question about what to do next, after I had attracted someone to sit down opposite me. I tried to keep the chit chat casual. But what would I do if he invited me home? Before we got that far I had to pee. In the worst way. I couldn't hold it any longer. I couldn't ask him for help. I couldn't get anyone else's attention. I was desperate. So I excused myself, swung down to the floor and crawled through to the toilet on the grimy floor. Needless to say my admirer was gone when I got back. I told Bart about placing ads in the fag press. If I did not mention my legless state, I left myself open to either shocked departure or limp-dicked pity on the part of anyone who answered the ad. If I described myself accurately I got devs to answer and I never trusted that they really liked me more than my stumps. "I wish I could spare you all that, Bart," I said as I came to the end of my tale of woe.
"You can," he said, smiling coyly. "Be my boy friend."
I don't think I ever answered in words. But I know he saw joy written on my face. I think he also saw joy written all over my cock. And I leaned over the wheels of our chairs to kiss him. "This is not the most comfortable position for this," I said. "Let's go home."
And when we got to my place we acted out my dream in exact detail. Complete with a marvelous conclusion which came in spasms and knocked both us and the chair over to the floor.
As I said earlier, we are both really agile. And particularly agile in bed. There is nothing to get in our way. The half of him facing one way matches the half of me facing the other and there is nothing to keep mouth away from cock or hands away from balls and ass hole. In that position we can easily roll over and put the other on top for a change. To change from that position in order to face each other for kissing and hugging there are delightful scoots of a butt and a cock over the entire body. Legless butts can be cradled in hands. Torsos can be maneuvered easily with the hands in that cradled position. And then there is the sheer joy I experience as I lie under Bart while he squirms his torso on top of me. We also lie on our backs facing in opposite directions, butt to butt and stumps to stumps with our cocks waving in the air. We prop our heads up on pillows so that we can see what is happening as he grabs my cock and I grab his. It's like jacking our selves off but so much better - because we are pleasuring each other and being pleasured by the other and watching our love in the process. Our stumps get so excited that they bat at each other like stubby cocks. We pace each other by the looks we give. Until one of us, usually me, starts to explode, joined immediately by the other.
That's been the story of our lives, at least all the important parts, until recently. Our neighors Gordon and Grant have asked us to share our sex life occasionally with them. With anybody else we would be put off by the voyeurism. But these are guys we admire. These are guys who are honest about their needs. If watching us gives them pleasure - and it obviously does by the moans and giggles that come through their kisses as they watch us - why not?
So we have shown them, over the course of time, pretty much our whole repertoire. And they have come up with some suggestions for us. But what they like best is for each of us to sit on one of their lifeless laps as they lie side by side in bed. We hold ourselves upright with our hands. They use one hand to grab at the upright cock on their lap and one hand to reach out to each other. And then as they kiss with all the passion of their being they both work at bringing off the cock in their hand. Meanwhile Bart and I are also in touch by mouth and tongue.
Its moments like that I don't miss legs at all.
Chapter 3
Someone as short as I am needs only a short introduction. Everyone calls me Spider because I look something like a spider as I lift my body up to walk or run on my arms. You see I am a case of what you will find listed in the medical books as a hemicorporectomy. That means half a body removed.
But in my case that is not terribly accurate. I don't really have half a body left. It's somewhere between a third and a fourth. When I was baby the surgeons stuffed my organs up into the rib cage and sealed me up, cutting off the confusion that dangled at the spine. That gives me at full adult height 1 foot 10 inches. (If I lift up on my arms, I can raise up more.) And that gives me no rectum or genitals. I drain through tubes and bags.
I will also introduce Waynon. Wan for short. Wan stands for wannabe and also reminds those of us in Adam's World that he is the "Anonymous Donor" (Awanomous Donor, I said once after too much to drink) who makes possible many of the projects of Adam's World. He is the benefactor of Disability Rights Committees and Land Mine Projects throughout the world. He is a major investor in businesses run for and by people with disabilities. If you were to hear his last name you would be impressed.
But no one in the world outside our "safe place" here puts Waynon together with his last name. He has finally dropped out of sight of the press and been forgotten. There are no more stories about the "Reclusive Heir to the X Fortune."
Wan has finally found some peace. And I am proud that he has found it with me here in Adam's World. He is able to live out most of his dream. He has dropped out of sight and into a life in a wheelchair. By his own choice he has forbidden himself voluntary movements below the belly button. He has forbidden himself his own touch below the belly button (except for the knees in transfers in and out of the chair). He has become helpless and needy. And I, the less than half-man, am his helper.
Now if this sounds like the weirdest case of co-dependence you have ever heard, you may be right. We acknowledge and recognize what we are doing. But the fact of the matter is that I need to be strong and assertive. (If Napoleon compensated for his shortness by conquering Europe, remember how much shorter I am than Napoleon!) And the fact of the matter is that Wan needs to be needy. Maybe it's because of growing up with no attention from his screwy family. Maybe not.
All I know is that our life together works. I am out in the public doing public relations for all his causes. I will pose for the tabloids, instead of fleeing them, if it will get our message across. And Wan is safe from the world, safe in his wheelchair. Most of his time he spends on a scholarly project of documenting the devotee/wanabee phenomenon. He collects "collections" of pictures. He collects and catalogues the porn which appeals to devotees and wanabees. He corresponds by email with the network of those who share his interests. And he is as happy as a clam. He never leaves home without being in the company of someone from Adam's World, one of us who is a crippled lover or a cripple lover. The someone is usually me, sharing a chair and sitting on his lap to get there and then scampering around on my hands like a monkey to run his errands. But he rarely leaves home - except for a "cripple event". He wouldn't miss the Paralympics, for example.
Our life works because I am his helper in private as well as his contact with the public world. I wake up in the mornings, nestled at his shoulder, my arms around his neck and one of his arms bent at the elbow to curl around and under my bare bottom. From that nest I lift up into my "sitting position" - that means resting on my elbows - to look at the naked beauty of his frail but full body extended on the bed. While he is still sleeping I take a good long look at the cock which is standing up from his body. This moment of the morning is the bitter-sweetness of my life in capsule form. I am so happy to be in this bed with this wonderful, generous man. I am so happy to be able to meet some of his needs. This wonderful cock in front of me will be in my hands in a few moments. But many mornings there are also tears. Tears for not really knowing what the fuss over erections is all about. Tears for not having a hole in me to take him inside me. (Couldn't the surgeons have provided something?)
Having faced facts for another day, I wake him with a session of kissing. That I am really good at. And I tell him once again how wonderful he is as I scoot down to take care of his erection. Then I lick him clean and let him drift back to sleep while I go to get things ready for breakfast in the kitchen and for the morning routine in the bath. We transfer him to a chair to go pee. We have not yet started catheterizing him, although that's what he wants. I give him an enema so that at least is out his control. I clean him and help him into the shower seat. I scoot all around and over him to wash him. I dry him. Transfered back into bed I diaper and dress him. All this attention to his body allows me to give it the only exercise it is going to get all day. He would prefer I didn't move it so much, but I feel I must keep him healthy and capable of movement should he change his mind. I will not trap him into this helpless role for my own needs. Then it takes no time at all for my washing up. The sink is plenty big enough for me.
Safe in his chair he is ready to face the day. The real emotional and psychic content of our relationship shows itself fully at the breakfast table. We talk. We talk about any thing and everything. Ideas. Feelings. Past experiences. Plans. Here we are equals. There are no power games. There is honesty even to look at our weird co-dependency and to look at whether or not it is getting out of hand.
That's pretty much our life. Except for our sex life. I enjoy having his cock in my hands. I enjoy it in my mouth. I love the taste of his cum. But I want to give him more. So every once in a while we use a dildo. When I have warmed him up with tongue on his cock and greased fingers up his butt, I give him a real workout with the dildo in one hand while the other works his cock. If I hit the magic button of his prostate, I can sense that it is bringing his body to life and I lean over to take him into my mouth. But I like it better when I have time to get my fingers up his butt again to feel for the magic button myself. That is when I feel most at one with him. That is when I come nearest to vicarious orgasm. His body spasms within my hands. And I feel that in one way I am a good lover: I am totally focused on his needs and his body. I have no need of my own to get in the way, and almost no body.
Yet, if truth be told, there is still considerable frustration for us. Recently we have had an experience which is at least helping us to talk about unfulfilled desire and need. We came across a picture in one of the collections Wan is cataloging of a young man in a wheelchair. He was a case of what the textbooks would call a bi-lateral hip disarticulation. That means he has no legs but a rounded off bottom like the old Bozo dolls that roll on their weighted bottoms. And what was left of him was gorgeous. Muscular (the picture was of him on a basketball court). Dark hair. Big smile. Intelligent eyes. Almost simultaneously we each let out a sigh as we looked at the picture. Then we looked at each other, understanding that for each of us this was the Ideal Man. I don't care about legs, but how I wish I had a butt and a cock. The guy in the picture can give a shit. I can't. He can get hard. I never will. And for Wan, who would give anything to be totally rid of legs, this guy was also the epitome of what he wanted to be and wasn't. A guy more than me and less than Wan.
We have talked a lot about finding a guy like this for a three-way, someone who could add a flesh and blood dick to Wan's pleasure. We talk about it. Wan gets real hot just in the talk. But I am not ready for that. I am not ready for the envy I am afraid I would feel. Yet I dream about the guy in picture. Wan tells me he does, too. That's part of what causes his cock to wake up involuntarily in the morning. But so far the guy in the picture is just a beautiful dream of what we both want to be.
....In the naked glory of our new bodies we wheel our chairs toward each other, taking in the vision of the man opposite with the perfect body ending at the cock. We park our chairs with seats touching. Our hands move down our perfect bodies, finding the stumpless butt. I have gained enough height to qualify as half a man. Wan is in ecstacy to find the hated legs gone. He wants to feel himself, feel the wonderful absence. We fondle the scars. We lift up and support our bodies on our hands. The fingers find the crack of our butt and insert themselves. "So that's what its like," I yell. But our hands can't stay still. They find balls. What a wonderful name for such wonderful playthings. Our hands can't keep away any longer from the cock sticking up and leaking. Shivers of joy run up and down a full spine as I touch myself. It is so good I must share it. I reach for Wan's hand and guide it to me. He responds by guiding my hand to him. Watching each other, we see two perfectly matched torsos stroking each other. Our free hands reach for any and every part of either body. We yell. We scream. And then we explode, burst, come, shoot.
That's the mutual beautiful dream of two wanabees. One needs to be less than he is. One needs to be more. But we are one in the need and the dream.
Chapter 4
Thad is my name. Thad the Thalidomide Kid.
The most obvious thing about me is my right arm. When not in use and covered by a short sleeve shirt, it looks pretty normal down to where you expect an elbow. It does bend there...but backwards. Backwards to reveal an appendage that curls up like the top of question mark. I've never know what to call it. There is no word for it since no one in the history of the world has probably ever had anything quite like it. "Finger" will have to do. I can move it. And I can move the tip end back and forth. I can raise the "arm" and turn the "elbow" (which is actually a wrist) so that the finger curls toward my body. That way I can grasp things like cups and get them to my mouth.
After your curious eyes have figured out how that works, you will next probably notice the hook terminating with another question mark the prosthesis on my left side. My left arm is an abbreviated version of my right, just enough shorter to be of no real use for most tasks. But extended by the prosthesis and ending in the hook, it serves to grasp and manipulate other things, like pieces of paper.
And then if I walk, you will ask yourself what is different about the way I move. The movement is ever so slightly halting and awkward for no apparent reason. I'll tell you the secret. My legs end not in real feet but in appendages not all that different from the way my arms end. They will not support me. So they are encased in articial feet. The halting motion is because there is no ankle to add spring to my walk and I have to be careful how each leg is planted in a stride. I think it's something like what you would experience walking on stilts.
So that's what the world sees. Rarely have I had a relationship with anyone which allowed them to see more to me than that. Rarely have I had a relationship with anyone who got through the initial reaction to "see" a real Thad who has ideas and opinions and faults and fears. And who is desperately lonely.
What does a lonely boy do. He cries himself to sleep at night. Or he tries to play with himself until sleep comes. Thank God for my finger. It's kept me in touch with reality. Reality in the form of my dick. I can reach myself. With my finger thing. If it were as short as my left arm, I would be out of luck. You have no idea how much I appreciate those extra inches. I can touch myself. I can get myself hot. But I can't grasp myself. I have to use the hook to press my dick against my finger or my finger to pull against the hook. Then all the loneliness of the day comes out in tears and wasted semen at night.
That's why I chose to come to Adam's World. For friends. Folks who may look as strange and move as strangely as I do. Folks who like folks like me. Folks who just might let me be Thad and not the Thalidomide Kid.
And I think it's paying off. I have a boy friend. For the first time I can say that. His name is Conrad. We are taking it slow, but I am sure we will soon be more than boy friends,that we will be a committed couple. Since this is new for both of us, since we have come to each other out of such incredible loneliness, we need to take it slowly.
But it's hard to slow down when your hormones are demanding each other. Just thinking about him I have had to stop and "get a grip on myself" with finger and hook, before I can continue.
It is obviously not classical physical beauty which has attracted us to each other. Both our faces are standard-issue-American-male, reasonably handsome. But he has congenital deformities also. Much different than mine. Now that we have each other to talk to about this, we have both decided that the attraction, the interest in congenital deformities lies precisely in their uniqueness. Each is so unexpectedly different. It is not his upper extremities which are so unusual, it is his legs. The longest, the right, when fully extended reaches about as far as a knee should be. It turns to face the other leg, makes a slight arc out from the hip then curves the wrong way at the knee in order to head back toward its mate. The rest of the leg is a foot which begins to curve back up as if it wanted to touch his cock. The left is a more severe version of its mate. This time the foot is so deformed that the sole faces up to heaven. It bends so far back up that it can touch his cock.
Conrad spent his childhood being argued over by adults. Should they amputate. Some said yes, others no. Should they force him to use the prosthesis they had designed. Some said he would feel more normal that way. Others said, "Leave the poor kid alone." The prosthesis was made with special laced up sleeves for his little leglets. The sleeves were open at the bottom so that the feet stuck out to head back toward his cock. Unfortunately the cock was buried in the apparatus in which he had to sit. When pants were put over all this it looked like he had two hard ons, but in actuality it was impossible to have even one in that thing.
Conrad's loneliness was poured out into his feet. In his boredom he took to playing with his feet, fondling them and flopping them about with his hands. As he reached adolescence he played his cock into the feet which appeared to be waiting for it. He used his hands to get feet and cock together. With success.
I didn't know all this, of course, when I first saw him looking at one of the new apartments in Adam's World. This was to be his first venture at living alone, and he was choosing an apartment designed for wheelchairs. The prostheses had been thrown out ages ago.
As soon as he moved in I went to make a neighborly call. This was part of my new determination to get out of myself and make friends. At the door he looked up from his chair at me, smiled and reached out a hand to take my finger in the most natural way. You have no idea how important that was to me. Most people get all embarassed about meeting me since I have no hand to shake. They are afraid to touch "it". Or they want to but think they shouldn't. Not Conrad. I knew we were going to be friends. He invited me to go to a wheelchair basketball game with him the next night. He was thinking about trying basketball as a part of his determination to start a new life.
On our way to the game, we found lots to talk about. We were almost exactly the same age, 25. We were fascinated by the Adam's World concept and the freedom it offered to kids like us to be who they were. We felt free enough with each other to tell cripple jokes. And by the time the evening was over we felt free enough with each other to shed some tears in recalling painful childhood experiences. When we got back to the apartments at Adam's World, I invited him to supper the next weekend. That night it was not so much loneliness as happiness that I poured out between finger and hook.
I don't know if he thought of that supper as a "date", but in my virginal romantic mind that's what it was. I bought candelabra and Julia Child cookbooks. And worried about dropping things in my clumsy way. Julia Child recipes were beyond my skill with finger and hook. I settled for frozen Lean Cuisine in the microwave. I had a terrible time lighting the candles and burned my finger. And then at dessert I dropped a chocolate sundae in his lap. He was not upset. He laughed and broke the barrier of my self-conscious nervousness.
"It looks like I'll have to get these shorts off," he said when we had recovered a bit. "That ice cream is cold." The nervous host wanting to be helpful said, "Let me help." My finger and hook met his hands at his belt. With a tug from both of us the shorts came off giving me a first look at his feet. Up to now they had been covered with clothes and I had only guessed at their outlines.
The nervousness shifted to Conrad. "If it bothers you to look, you don't have to. You could just go get me a pair of jockey shorts to wear and I'll go home now."
I looked not at his feet but at the pain on his face. "Don't be silly. This is Thad, the Thalidomide Kid, you're talking to. The clumsy handless fool who spilled on you because he was trying to make a good impression and make a friend."
"Ok, friend," he smiled. "But I will still need those jockey shorts." I almost fell in hurrying to get them. Then I knelt down in front of the chair to help get the clammy wet shorts off. With my hook and finger plus his hands it turned into quite a production. My finger kept meeting his feet and legs. They seemed so fragile and soft to my touch. His growing cock added to the confusion down there. When the shorts were off the cock leaped almost by itself into my mouth as my finger reached out to touch it. And Conrad almost leaped out of the chair as he came, partly in my mouth, partly running down my chin, partly on my finger doing its best to guide that leaping rod of flesh.
"I...I'm sorry...it's, you know, the first time anyone else has ever touched me like that...."
"Oh, Conrad, don't be sorry. Look what's happened to me." I stood up to reveal a big stain at my crotch. "I've never touched anyone but myself. I've dreamed about it ever since I was a kid. I was afraid I never would. Can I touch you some more, please?"
I kneeled back down in front of him and explored his feet and his cock, gently, lovingly. I gradually explored upward, getting his shirt off to run my finger over his belly and chest and tits and arms and face. And then I kissed him. My other dream had come true I was kissing a man. He must have had a similar dream because while we kissed his hands were wandering all over me.
When we came up for air, he said "You need clean shorts, too. Let me help you get these off." Two big hands with ten dextrous fingers undressed me. And then he held my cock. "Conrad, Conrad, Conrad, that is so wonderful. Please don't stop. Let's get you out of that chair. Can we go into the bedroom and explore some more?"
No words of love were spoken that night. No promises except to be friends and see what happened. We would go slow. But you can see how hard that is going to be for us. How can I go slow when my cock wants to live in that space between his cock and his feet? When it is there it is always in contact with flesh, where his feet almost literally embrace it. How can we go slow when just sitting near each other, his hand reaches for my cock and I am grasped, finally grasped, by a man's hand? How can we go slow if then he guides my finger to play with his cock or his feet? How can we go slow if he whispers in my ear, "It's only you, Thad. Only you that I will allow to touch my feet. Now make my foot jack me off while I take care of you." And I do, grabbing the foot with my hook and fondling the other foot and his balls with my finger. How can we go slow when in the process of doing that one night, my finger got up his ass. After the initial shock to both of us. He squirmed with pleasure. "It's just like a cock must feel up there. Twitch the end again, oh, oh, there is the place." And he shot all over me. Unknowingly we had explored our way into the secret of the prostate. Who knows what we will find tonight.
Chapter 5
Although Adam's World is primarily for disabled guys, handicapped guys, I qualify only technically. Fortunately it also accepts devotees. There I know that I, Sam, truly qualify.
It is true that I have only one foot. I was born that way and also missing a right fibula. But given modern prosthetics that really amounts to no handicap. There seems to be nothing I can't do with the proper attachment on that leg. It is really no big deal. With no more effort than it takes you to put on a shoe, I can get ready to do anything.
Whatever disabililty I suffer from is more psychological than physical. My folks reacted to my birth with determination to "make me well adjusted." (Translate: "normal".) That meant the best of medical care and prostheses. And frequent visits into the city to orthopedic waiting rooms. That meant correcting me if I showed the slightest limp. That meant practically forcing me into golf and tennis lessons and other athletic endeavors. That meant never wearing short pants (even for tennis). And never letting anyone see me without a prosthesis, except for the doctors and limb makers.
As a boy I actually liked the touch of the people who examined my leg so gently yet firmly. I also liked the waiting rooms. They were filled with kids with much more interesting problems than mine. I actually felt guilty that I wasn't more crippled. I always faked a limp when I walked through those rooms. "Sam," my mother would command, "Watch how you're walking." My first love was a double leg amputee whom I saw often as he was just beginning puberty. His mother let him wear short pants to reveal the interesting apparatus which allowed him to walk, although he couldn't control a knee on one side and had to swing that leg locked stiffly into place. He would wear tennis shoes and no socks over the prostheses. He seemed to be always happy and not in the least embarassed. I had my first experience of a hard on watching him walk. There was another kid who had a leg braced in the most amazing way. The brace held it out to the side so that the foot aiming down couldn't reach the ground. There was an extension on the brace which allowed him to rest it on the ground and put weight on it. Watching the foot in a leather hightop shoe, hanging helplessly in the midst of metal, had the same affect on me as the double amp. It was a pleasant warm growing sensation in my pants. And it was a secret. It was something my folks did not know about. But I knew they wouldn't approve.
A little later I learned something else of which they didn't approve. I was lying on the living room couch and unconsciously a hand found its way to my crotch. My father came in the room and yelled at me, "Don't play with that gun or it'll go off and hurt you." So I didn't masturbate. You may not believe this, but I didn't masturbate until I was over 30 years old. I thought myself into a hard on. I found myself hard when I saw an interesting boy. I had wet dreams and woke with vague feelings of shame and of vague memories of doing things with those boys. But I didn't play with the gun.
I soon learned who all the cripples were in our small town. There was a guy in his twenties with spina bifida. His shoes were so outlandishly big for such short legs. Actually they were strangely shaped boots and they laced all the way down to the toes. Their high tops reached far up toward his knees and caught his pants legs often to reveal lots of brown leather. The sides were framed by the metal of braces. He took the same bus I took often. To get in, he had to crawl up the steps of the bus. I wanted to help but didn't know how. "Don't stare," I heard my mother's voice in my head. But I always made sure I limped when I saw him. It was my secret sign of recognition and greeting to him. My other favorite bus companion was an older boy with an arm amputation just below the elbow. He carried his books home using that stump to hold them against his hip. He was elected King of the Senior Prom and his picture was in the paper. He was king of my dreams all through puberty. And then there was a guy who lived on the wrong side of the tracks. He was missing both arms and one leg. He hung out on a corner balancing his butt on a kind of shelf on a wooden crutch. He moved the crutch with his below elbow stump since the other arm stump was only a few inches long. He wasn't very attractive, but he found his way into my dreams with the Prom King's face. And I looked for excuses to go to the other side of the tracks.
My only other escape from all the normalcy forced upon me by my parents was reading and day dreaming. I discovered that the library had lots of books in the "inspirational cripple" category. I devoured them. My parents thought this was all right since it might help my "adjustment". They also let me fill my bulletin board with pictures of "cripple heros" clipped from magazines to surround the centerpiece of the Prom King. Little did my folks know that the adjustment I was making was to being a devotee.
But I didn't know that word when I was growing up. The possibility of accepting that I was such a thing simply did not occur. I also didn't know the word "gay" and barely knew "homosexuality". That wasn't a possibility for me either. My parents had told me in no uncertain terms that I would go to college, get married, get a job, have children, be successful and well adjusted.
So I did. Fortunately my wife was understanding about the unconsummated honeymoon. "Nerves," we both said. I was able to do it, finally, by picturing the Prom King under me. There were times even that didn't work. I went to a shrink. After lots of wasted hours and money avoiding the subject of what turned me on, I finally got up the nerve to hint at it. The shrink changed the subject! "But tell me more about your mother," he said. I quit the shrink.
With more and more publicity about gay rights, my wife and I were finally able to talk about at least that subject. It turns out that she is interested in women. After the kids were raised we got a very friendly divorce.
That leaves me now a strong and healthy 45 year old guy finally ready to live the life that really fits me. I moved to this city. In checking out prosthesists I came across Adam's World. This is for me I thought. The Mecca, the Shangra La of cripples and devotees. Surely I would qualify. Unfortunately all the units were taken. "We just rented the last one to a new quad," said Arthur, who is one of the founders and uses to two hooks and a full leg brace. (I notice these things.)
Disappointed, I glanced at the community bulletin board on the way out of Adam's World. A notice caught my eye:
Wanted. Strong guy needed as live-in helper for quad. Amputee preferred.
I called immediately and made an appointment to meet Quentin.
"Yes, it's funny how names sometimes work. Quentin the Queer Quad is what the guys around here are calling me already," he said after we had introduced ourselves. We seemed to hit it off immediately. I know he hit it off with me. He is not really handsome, but he has the biggest smile and the brightest, most lively eyes I have ever seen. No legs, but rounded smooth flesh appeared out of the leg holes of the bikini trunks he was wearing. His arms, of about equal length, are perhaps 7-8 inches long and end in smoothly rounded tips (like my leg). I tried to hide my hard on. I needed to make a good impression. This was to be professional. I needed a job and an entrance into Mecca.
As we talked about how I would have no trouble carrying him or doing anything else he needed, about my availability, and about my comfort level in giving personal care to someone with his needs, he suddenly caught me totally off guard. "There is something else I need help with, you know. I will want you to jerk me off almost every day. Is that ok with you?"
It was so ok with me that I came in my pants right there in his living room. I didn't have to play with the gun. It went off on its own, more than half cocked.
"I guess so," he laughed as he noticed my embarassment and my stain. "Well, let's give you a try out," and he lifted his arm stumps up to invite me to kneel in front of his chair. There I found the true Mecca I had been looking for - a man's bottom with nothing blocking the way to cock and balls and ass. All those rounded hills of flesh to explore. Plus the little hills where the legs were not. It was a good thing I had already come. Even though I was hot all over again, I was able to be patient and inventive. I think I gave him one of the top ten blow jobs in the history of the world.
I must have passed the interview. I am now a resident of Adam's World. I share a bed with and help Quentin in even more ways than our agreement stipulated. And my closet is now full, not of secrets, but of attachments the Adam's World limb shop has created for my leg. Somewhere in the back of the closet is my old cosmetic limb with a shoe on it. I will save it for my kids' weddings. I am playing tennis again and so have one prosthesis with an elegantly simple curve of metal to give some spring to my running. But I now I prefer for most tasks an old fashioned peg leg. I like the way it fits around my own leg that already looks like a peg. I like its honesty. Quentin says he likes it because the thud on the floor announces my presence and gets him hot when he hears me coming. It's true I usually find him waiting for me with the only part of him which can stand, doing so and "salivating like Pavlov's dog." For relaxing around the house I have had a little cup made and covered with leather. It laces over the shaft of my leg. Its rigid sides take weight off the tip and add those extra inches I need to meet the ground. It is comfortable and Quentin thinks it's sexy. Obviously I think all of Quentin is sexy - all 34 inches of him. Plus, of course, 7 inches of cock.