Sum of the Parts

by Lee G.

Socrates T. Demos, Ph. D., turned the page of the book he was reading and immediately returned his hand to Oscar's stump, snuggling his own scar even closer to the stump and tracing Oscar's scar lightly with the tip of a finger. He sighed a contented "Ahh," as Oscar's stump made contact with Soc's genitals. This was the way they liked to spend their evenings, reading in bed and joined in some combination of hand, stump, scar, and cock. Oscar's residual left limb fit into the emptiness of Soc's right side, without even a pelvis to get in the way.

"Phantom bothering you tonight, Soc?"

"Nothing you can't cure, Oscar. How about yours?"

"I'm going to need a massage in a bit. In the meantime let me just keep myself snuggled up on your cock so that it feels like both back and front of my stump are surrounding your cock, like I'm growing into you."

"It's a deal because then I feel like I've got the warmth of your stump growing out of my butt."

"Some other parts of us are growing, too, I notice."

"Yep. Before we get too distracted, have I told you my new idea for a paper for the American Academic Conference? How's this for a title: 'The Missing Self: Amputation as Metaphor'. I'll start with that bit from the Symposium where Socrates talks about homo-erotic love as a search for the cut off part of one's self."

"Good idea. I'm thinking of an art historical approach, 'Depictions of Deformity: Is Beauty Synonomous with Symmetry?' I'll begin with those fantastic worlds of monsters on medieval manuscripts. Where did you get your idea, Soc?"

"Actually it was in thinking about phantoms. In a certain way, what I experience now is just a more focused version of what I have always felt. Long before my leg came off I ached like I was missing something important. I've always felt that way. Now I have an empty physical space where I focus the sensation and someone, namely you, to help me fill it. I am my own metaphor."

With that line, Soc put down his book and rolled over on Oscar. Oscar's stump lifted to receive and support the yielding, hipless flesh of Soc's right butt. Their lips, their tongues, their hands, their cocks searched for the other. And found.

"Hey, slow down, Soc. We've got maybe 50 years left. Give me a massage first. Remember how you used to get off on my stump without touching anything else?"

"Still could, baby. Wanna see?" Socrates headed down to trace Oscar's scars with his tongue as he lovingly massaged the limb with his hands......

"Ah, that is so good, so good. I could get off on nothing but that, too. But let's try plugging up the hole in you tonight instead."

That was their code for Socrates to roll over on his left side. Oscar lay behind him, supporting his weight on the stump and on his right leg, which rested on Soc's left one, leaving the way clear for Oscar to enter Soc from the rear. They often lay this way for some time. In this position Soc felt most complete. And Oscar felt most loving. But tonight their need for each other drove them to a conclusion. Soc's sphincter began to suck Oscar in further with every panting breath. Oscar's right hand kneaded the flesh of Soc's empty buttock. Soc reached behind to pull Oscar's butt closer and Oscar's cock further in. Oscar's other hand, under his lover, blindly groped and found Soc's waving cock. Oscar's stump throbbed in unison with the blood rushing to his cock. They came together. As one. Soc moaning, Plug me....PLUG me ....PLUG .... ME." And Oscar, "I'm home.. I'm HOME.. I'M ..... HOME........."

"Soc, look what you did. You shot all over the book you knocked out of my hands before we got metaphorical. Naughty boy. Let's see, for your penance you can tell me a bed time story."

"How about the story of how Oscar and Socrates met. That's always a favorite."

"And what happened after they met."

"Of course, that's the juicy party."

"Ummm, good juice." Oscar licked the cum off the finger he had used to wipe his book.

*************

It happened like this.....

Socrates T. Demos, almost Ph.D., took his ache of incompletion to the 57th annual conference of the American Academic Association, meeting in San Francisco. He was trying to play the part of the budding intellectual - Mediterranean good looks toned down with a disguise of wire frame glasses, tweed sport coat with elbow patches, chinos. He looked furtively around as he entered the room for the first session of papers. Could he make it in this crowd of intellectual over-achievers? Not one person he knew in the room. All alone. Why had he come here? He should have stayed in the Midwest, a medium fish in a tiny puddle. Like everything else he had tried, this would turn out to be a disappointment. Without real friends, he had tried books. Still lonely, he had tried grad school. Still feeling like a phony, he was here on the vain hope of landing a job in some second level school. As he sat down in the back row, he noticed the sensation in his right leg which was happening fairly frequently any more - a feeling something like numbness.

The first paper was called "Toward a Gay Aesthetic: Parody as an Art Form" and was presented by a guy name Oscar Wilding. As he walked up to the microphone, several jaws dropped. No tweeds for Dr. Wilding, but a tight fitting T shirt over a muscular chest (with a green carnation pinned on the chest). Shorts to show off magnificent hairy legs, accented by wool socks and construction boots. Mustache. Crew cut. A parody of masculinity in the new San Francisco style. His paper was a brilliant, detailed, complex, and boring tour through art history beginning with cave painting and ending over an hour later with Andy Warhol's studio. Referring to scholars writing in at least 12 languages, he demonstrated, for example, that the exagerations of cave drawings were related to male secondary sexual characteristics (humps on bison) and could be taken as the beginnings of camp. About 5 minutes into the paper, Socrates wanted to giggle. This parody of a guy was giving a parody of academicians! Or was he? No one else was laughing. Some of Soc's neighbors were nodding in agreement to quotes in esoteric languages. Most of them were just nodding off. Finally Soc's giggles got the best of him and he had to make an exit just before the polite applause. He knocked over his chair as he stumbled out. Damn, he thought. This academic shit sure isn't the answer. You ain't gonna make, Soc, if you can't even behave during a paper session.

Later Socrates T. Demos found himself, blushing, in the elevator alone with Oscar Wilding. "Hey, you're the guy who spoiled the grand anti-climax of my paper, aren't you. That clatter of the chair covered my best quote about Andy Warhol, in Estonian yet! So you thought it was pretty bad, huh?"

"No, no, no I didn't mean that. It's just that, don't get mad, (it was brilliant really it was), it's just that, well, I got the giggles."

"You did? No kidding. That's wonderful. I was afraid no one got the joke. Buddy, you've made my day. There is at least one other live human being at this conference. Say, why don't you come up to my room for a drink! This calls for a celebration. Oscar Wilding, glad to meet you. Isn't my name a hoot? I thought that would give away the joke, particularly with the green carnation. So what's your name?"

"Equally silly, Socrates T. Demos - doomed to a Ph.D. in aesthetics."

"Here's to us, Socrates T. Demos. How about Sox for short, ok?"

"Most people settle for the singular, Soc."

"Singular name for a singular guy."

"Actually just a single guy." Why had Soc said that? He was not in the habit of trotting out his loneliness for all to see.

By the third drink, Soc had shared several things he was not in the habit of telling even family and colleagues. They found themselves standing by Oscar's makeshift bar. Oscar's hand touched Soc's crotch, lightly but insistently. Oscar did not take it away but grasped Soc's hand and guided it to Oscar's own crotch.

"But I'm.. I'm...I'm.. I mean .. not... I don't think... gay."

"We're not talking political statements here, Soc. Your cock is hard. Mine is too. I can help that situation."

"But I don't know, well, how. I never have."

"No problem. I do. I'm a good teacher."

Gently but insistently Soc found himself led to the bed and undressed. He found his cock in Oscar's hand meeting Oscar's cock. He did not have to do anything. He did not have to think. His body took over, soon gushing like a geyser. When he was spent, he had another fit of giggles. He could do nothing but laugh. To shut himself up he took Oscar's face in his hands and kissed him on the mouth.

An hour of nap later, he found himself awakened by Oscar's worship of his body with kisses. "Shh, don't stir. Just lie there and let old Oscar explore some more." Oscar's mouth struck oil, a gusher, when he took Soc's dick in his mouth.

Like a kid learning a new game, Soc asked, "Can I try? Can I, Oscar?"

He was a quick learner. By 10 p.m. he had also learned the game called fucking. As they awoke at dawn the next morning, it was Soc's turn to be "it" in that game. Before they went to breakfast, Oscar made up a little wallet card which read "Socrates T. Demos, philosopher and aesthete, is hereby certified as a trained and qualified Faggot. Signed Oscar Wilding, aesthete and artiste, Teacher."

With that card in his pocket Soc marched into the academic lion's den to give his first paper on "The Shaker Quilt: Beauty's Need for Imperfection." He talked about the contrast needed to make beauty visible. Of shadow's need for light and light's need for shadow. He talked about the deep roots of that contrast in our stories, in "Beauty and the Beast", for example.

It was quite a success, and he wanted to celebrate at dinner with Oscar. Actually, what he really wanted to do was to propose to Oscar.

"Look I think I know where you want this conversation to go, Soc. My old man, otherwise not very smart, once told me never to buy a house or a car from the first salesman I met. This is all new for you, Soc. I'm glad I could be your teacher. I like you a lot. But you've got a dissertation to polish. I've got a job to do. You've got to find one. Maybe we can meet from time to time. I'll call you. I promise. But the best thing for you to do is check out the other salesmen before you make a life time investment."

And so that was the way they left it as they parted at the airport. Soc's leg was numb again, and his heart was aching, too. Not from emptiness. But fullness. He was sure he was in love. For the first time, he had found what he had been missing. What other people talked about - love. Why hadn't he found it before? Because he was too stupid to acknowledge that he should look for it in men, not women. Not that he hadn't looked at men before. But that was different. That was about the crippled men he saw from time to time who produced an erection. That was his great secret, filed in his shame under "Perversion". To keep that file locked he had refused to admit to himself that it was crippled MEN who did this to him. As he got on the plane he told himself, "Soc, you are gay. And you are in love with a man, with two big hairy legs." It would be all right somehow. He would wait for Oscar. He had to. It was Oscar his cock was aching for.

***********************

But Oscar didn't call him. Or write. Soc's letters came back marked "No forwarding address". Phone calls connected Soc only to that maddening recording "....has been disconnected." After a month of sitting by the phone and meeting the postman at the mail box every day, Soc called Oscar's university. A secretary said, "I'm sorry but Dr. Wilding is on leave.... No, I don't know when he will return.... I'm sorry, sir, but I am not allowed to give out personal information."

There was nothing Soc could do. Nothing at all. He tried contacting local gay groups and making friends. It was better than sitting at home alone, but it didn't help the heart ache. He tried sex. It was temporary relief at best. And, frankly, he found he couldn't get it up without some fantasy. He didn't fantasize about Oscar. He couldn't force Oscar onto his mental viewing screen because Oscar was now filed away under "Lost First Love". What did flash on his screen were visions of crippled guys. Loss of Oscar and rummaging around in his mental files had opened his "Perversion" file again and spilled out all its contents. He began to go out to public places for the sole purpose of looking for guys with handicaps. He scanned magazines and newspaper for pictures. He would, as unobtrusively as he could, follow a guy with a limp for blocks. He had had episodes of behavior like this before - but never this severe or this long lasting.

Without giving his full attention to it at all, he sent off his dissertation (of which his "Shaker Quilt" paper was one chapter) and even landed a job. He moved to the new town in time for the local Gay Pride picnic.

Not knowing a soul (would he ever really belong somewhere?) he had plenty of time to look around. He noticed two guys in wheel chairs. They behaved with the intimacy and affection of a couple. One was legless with stumps so short they did not peek beyond his short pants. He had curly brown hair and bulging biceps. The other was blond, just as legless. And missing a left arm. A scar crossed almost the entire shoulder framed by the arm hole of a yellow tank top. His one arm reached out frequently to touch his buddy in the wheel chair next to him.

Soc could not take his eyes off them. Led by his stiffened cock, he edged closer to them in the crowd. They noticed that he was looking at them. To cover his embarassment, he smiled his best smile at them. They smiled back. The one armed guy nudged his buddy with an elbow as they did so and then leaned over to say something to him. Were they talking about Soc?

A little later when he (he hoped it appeared to be quite casually) stood near them, they said, "Hi". He responded. After a few comments about the weather, the two armed guy said, "You're new around here, aren't you. We're a pretty small and closed gay community here, and we haven't seen you before."

So Soc found himself talking about his new job and new apartment. They lived quite close to his building. They would be neighbors.

The chit-chat was pleasant. The guy with two arms was named Randy. The other was Trent. They were in their 30's and had already lived together 10 years. Soc tried to avoid any mention of their obviously missing parts or wheelchairs or anything else he thought might be embarassing to them. But his eyes kept returning to the wheelchair seats where their bodies stopped. And to the shoulder with its scar. Their bodies looked so fragile, so vulnerable as they ended. And yet the rest of them was solid, sculptured muscle. They obviously worked out a lot.

"Never met anybody like us before, right Soc? It's ok to use the words stump and wheelchair and cripple with us. We're so obviously who we are that we'd prefer you not try for political correctness." Trent's frankness caught Soc off guard.

"Now for the first test of friendship, Soc. Can you help us get to the port-a-potties? I don't think Trent can wheel himself over this bumpy ground. And we'll both need someone to carry us in. They don't make those outhouses for wheelchairs." ...

Randy covered Soc's embarassment over the intimacy of the maneuver with a stream of talk. "Now don't be afraid. You won't drop me, big boy. That's right - one hand around my chest and one under my butt. I'll get this door open for us. You'll find Trent's a little trickier to carry, I think. No, don't bother to go back out while I pee. I'd just have to call for you when I'm done. And that's more embarassing for me."

There was nothing for Soc to do but stand there in the port-a-potty. There was nothing to look at but a cock surrounded by leg stumps. Soc just hoped he could still walk with an erection like he now had.

Carrying Trent, he was even more conscious of the contrast between the solidness of the body and, on the other hand, its lightness - and its lopsidedness.

He also had to help Trent get his pants down since Trent had to hold himself up on the seat with his only hand to keep himself from falling in. So Soc found himself kneeling in front of Trent, pulling down pants from the stumps and revealing Trent's cock. It seemed enormous at such close range. Almost as long as the stumps. Soc couldn't help himself. He let out a moan.

Trent was quite aware of what was going on. "Not now, Soc. We'll take care of your problem later."

After the potty stop, Trent had a whispered conversation with Randy, who then looked up at Soc and said, "So you really are a dev, aren't you? I thought so when I first noticed you noticing us."

"A what?" Soc's innocence was not feigned. He really didn't know what Randy meant.

"A devotee. A guy who gets turned on by cripples."

"You mean there are others and there is a name for it?"

"I thought you were an educated guy, Soc. Guess you don't know everything. Yes, there are others. We knew one once. Dave was his name. Anyway, Trent says that we have created a problem for you and that, since you helped us, we ought to help you. Want to come to our place? This picnic is winding down."

Randy drove their van back home. Trent went in Soc's car so that he could point out the right house. This meant more physical contact as Soc lifted Trent into the front seat and then folded up the chair to stow. This meant that Soc had to drive fully conscious of what he saw out of the corner of his eye: a strong handsome body propped in the seat beside him with nothing in front of the folded up shorts and nothing attached to the shoulder beside him, either. To distract himself, he asked Trent to tell him about this devotee named Dave.

It turned out that Dave had actually brought them together. Their amputations had occured in adolescence. And they had both thought that life was essentially over, certainly sex life. Dave had taught them differently, then introduced them to each other, then become their best friend when they had fallen in love. They felt a bit guilty about Dave. Their love for each other had left Dave out sometimes. Perhaps that was why he had taken to going to big cities and looking for lame hustlers. Anyway he had died of AIDS just a few months ago. And they missed him very, very much. Maybe they were kind of making it up to Dave in inviting Soc into their lives.

Randy and Trent's place was new and totally designed around wheel chairs. Soc felt awkward about standing and walking around in this house. It was so obviously a place for wheelchairs. Actually there didn't seem to be any other kind of chair in the house. It was a place where walking was out of place. "Dave always sat himself in a wheelchair the minute he came in. Do you want to do that, too? It'll put us all at the same level."

They had a drink together and more conversation about Dave and how they knew that many amps were put off by the idea of devotees, but that they took it as a compliment. After all if they found each other sexy, why wouldn't other people? Besides that, being admired as amputees had helped them in their own adjustment as teenagers. Soc found this conversation so comforting that he felt like crying, with relief. He had friends. He had friends who knew his secret. He was not alone. And there were even others like him.

"Trent, I think we have this dev relaxed now, except for one part of him. Wheel right this way to the bedroom, Soc."

They encouraged him to help them undress. Then they had him lie down on the bed, and they undressed him by scooting their butts up and down and around his body. Randy scampered lightly over Soc. Trent inched his way up and down. Then they sat on the edge of the bed so that Soc could kneel in front of them, working on them with mouth and hands until they were as hot as he was. Randy tumbled on top of Trent. Trent grabbed his and Randy's cock in his hand. Randy used his arms to work their bodies against each other. Their stumps thrashed in the air. Soc stood, intending to enter Randy's moving butt, but didn't make it. Instead his cock got caught between their bodies, between their stumps, between their balls. As they fucked themselves against each other, heaving their bellies and hips, they pulled him between their bodies. They all came together, mixing the cum of three together.

"Wow, we never managed that before, even with Dave."

************************

So by the time of the 58th annual conference of the American Academic Association, Soc had found friends and a name for himself other than "pervert". Some of the ache was gone. But not all. As a matter of fact, the physical sensation in his right leg had become almost constant, sometimes downright painful. He knew that he often limped a bit, too. He felt silly about that. Was it some kind of wish fulfillment? Or was there something really wrong with his leg? And he had not forgotten Oscar. He found himself searching the room at the opening cocktail party on the off chance that Oscar might show up.

Could that be him? A guy in full leather, boots and chains, standing in the middle of the room yelling at someone through the buzz of cocktail conversation. It was Oscar.

When he saw Soc, Oscar beckoned him over. "So, faggot, you came back for more, huh? Meet me in room 1420 in ten minutes." Oscar then walked off. There was something different about him. Something beyond the leather drag. Something more than the attitude. He even walked differently. Could it be? Surely not. Yet maybe. It was too late to check out. Oscar had disappeared in the crowd.

The door to room 1420 swung open as he knocked. "Close it, faggot, and come over here," ordered Oscar, who was sitting in a chair in the corner stroking the cock which he had taken out of the leather pants. "Suck me off."

Too shocked by this new Oscar to object, Soc knelt down between the black leather pant legs and followed the order. His right hand wandered over Oscar's left leg. There was something other flesh under the leather. Something unyielding. Soc reached down to the boot and then up under the pant's leg. Yep, a prosthesis. That realization synchronized with Oscar's climax and his own climax. He had come in his pants without touching himself.

"Ok, you got what you want. You gave me what I needed. You better go now, Soc, before I yell you at you, too." There was a slight, but only slight, thaw in the coldness of his tone.

"Hold it, Oscar. It's your leg that makes you like this, isn't it. Is that why you never called me? I hope that's it. I've been afraid you had just written me off as a fool."

"You know, then, huh? I thought maybe I could fool you in that crowd down stairs. Shit. You're the first person I know I've dared to have sex with since.. well, since it happened. But I'm sick of hustlers and car sex. I thought I'd give it a try with you. But I guess it won't work."

"But, Oscar, I came anyway. In both senses of the word. What's the problem. Come over here in bed and hold me. God, I've ached for you to hold me - all year. Please. Please."

"All right, I'll try to keep the leg where you can't see it or touch it."

"Why? You think it'll bother me? If you only knew..."

"What?"

"Never mind, just hold me for awhile. And then let me take the leg off for you and show you that it doesn't bother me."

"You mean look at my stump? No way. I can't stand to look at it myself."

They dozed off. Soc awakened first and gently started to remove the boots and leather pants.

When Oscar was fully awake he said, "You're serious, aren't you? You want to see it. Ok, faggot, prove it to me. Prove to me you are not repulsed. I'll believe it when I see it."

Soc continued to undress Oscar, taking his time fondling and nuzzling the good leg, the hairy chest, and the cock. Then he deliberately released the suction socket and freed Oscar's mid thigh stump from its confinement. He massaged and licked the sweat off of it. He examined the scar. He kissed it. Then he knelt over it and touched his cock to it. He caressed it with his cock, up the inside of the thigh, down and around the scar. And then he began to thrust his cock against it, right at the scar.

"Geez, kid, you're fucking it. You're sick. But it's wild. Feels good. Geez, my God, you're .... you're ...SHIT... You're coming on it!!!"

When he could, Soc dived for Oscar's cock and brought him off again.

This episode did not have quite the effect that Soc had hoped. Oscar did not interpret what had happened as a sign that Soc could love him. Instead he took as a sign that Soc was really screwed up. "What kind of a queer monster did I create when I broke you in last year? This is going to take some thinking through. I guess I know where I can always get a lay. But I'm not sure I want to get laid by a sicko."

So there were no more sexual encounters between them during that conference. Oscar gave his paper on "ACT UP Street Theater: Anger as the Motivation of Art". Soc gave his on "The Wounds of Love: Vulnerability in the Romantic Hero." On the last day, Soc pleaded with Oscar at least to exchange telephone numbers and maybe a phone call when they were lonely. Oscar agreed. "Maybe I was too hard on you, Soc. But you've got to admit it. This is pretty damned confusing. I hate the damn stump. And you get off on it. Hey, you're limping, man. Am I contagious or something? You aren't making fun of me, are you? I can walk better than that. What's wrong with you, anyway?"

"Nothing, Oscar. Just a pain."

***********************

It was more than nothing. Socrates T. Demos collapsed on that trip and was rushed from the airport to the hospital. To remove the tumor, the surgeons had to take the right half of the pelvis.

When he had come to, Socrates found Trent and Randy at his bedside. "Welcome to the club, Soc. It's gonna be all right."

Soc gave them the telephone number and asked them to call Oscar. "Just tell him the facts: cancer, amputation, and that I want him to come and hold me."

Oscar arrived as quickly as he could and was, to say the least, surprised by the welcome committee at the airport of the two guys in wheel chairs. He could stay with them during his visit, they said. They would provide transportation to the hospital for him.

Oscar did his best to be cheery for Soc. "Did you see how well I walked in here, Soc. You'll be up and walking before you know it, too. We'll walk into the next conference together and nobody'll ever guess. Just you wait and see."

"Afraid not, Oscar." He lifted up the sheet. "See, no stump. no hip. I won't walk. Maybe hobble on a kind of scaffold, kind of a crutch on a corset. But not walk - except on crutches."

"Oh, baby....I don't know what to say," blubbered Oscar.

"Don't say a thing. Just hold me."

When they left the hospital, Soc said to Trent and Randy. "Take care of him. If you know what I mean."

They understood and did so, but not that night because Oscar was too obviously upset. He found it hard to talk to these two amps about his disappointment in how extreme Soc's limb loss was. Ever since he had heard about Soc, he had had a fantasy about the two of them walking through life together and passing as non-amps. It would be a kind of delicious and exciting secret. But now the fantasy had dissolved, and he had to talk to someone. These guys were the only ones at hand.

"Oscar, I think we can help," said Trent. "Before you leave this town, we're going to show you that being an amp has its advantages, at least in bed. When we get through with you, you'll wish you had a few more limbs off your own body so you could do some of the things we do."

Their therapy worked. Oscar was a frequent visitor all during Soc's recovery. When Soc came home from the hospital and swung himself through the door of his apartment for the first time, Oscar was waiting for him - on crutches. "Oscar, you realize I've never seen you on crutches before?"

"I've been crutch testing this place. Notice I've moved some furniture to make it easier for us."

"Us?"

"Yeah, us. Did you know there's a job open in this two-bit university? Had an interview today. Wowed the shit out of 'em."

"You saying you want to live with a sicko?"

"No more sicko than I am. Those friends of yours have turned me on to amps big time. Let's go to bed before we fall off these sticks."

"Not quite yet, big boy. Lean over that table. I want to try a scene that has gotten me through many a long hour in that hospital. Drop your one legged pant for me."

Soc dropped his crutches and his pant. He hopped up behind Oscar. He lifted Oscar's stump to rest on the table and began to rub his cock in Oscar's crack and under his balls. "Grab that bottle of lotion for me," he whispered in Oscar's ear, "and grab my butt so I don't fall."

As he entered Oscar, he whispered with each push: "Yeah... you're ....holding me ... up .... You .... make ..... up .... what's.... missing... TOGETHER ... WE'RE ..... AHHH... ONE .... FUCK... ING ... WHOLE!!!!

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