Lover may be too strong a word to use with a guy I played with only a few times, but when we were together, Emotion eclipsed Physicality.
Not because Ironside – his screen name- alias Vinny, a handsome 45 year old fucker, and a dead ringer for Christian Bale, was in a wheelchair, the result not of some accident but a degenerative spinal disease that left his legs useless appendages. For I soon discovered that all the stereotypical fallacies I had harbored about making it with a paralyzed guy were just that.
It was two years ago and I was up at my little getaway in rural Pennsylvania with George, my “don’t want sex anymore” partner, for the summer. (Teaching college writing online means I can work from anywhere.) Vinny, a former high school music teacher, now, since his illness, music tutor and part-time musician, hit me up on one of the bear sites, (“shit, man, love the fur!”) and though he was a good hour and a half away across the border in upstate New York, he was more than willing to meet me at a motel about half-way between him and me for a few hours one afternoon. Maybe distracted by his bearded face and muscular shirtless pic, it wasn’t until I read his profile a second time that I noticed the words “in a wheelchair but still agile and active.” I figured I’d beat him to the punch before he brought it up and e’d him as we finalized our plans: ”I see you’re disabled. NP.”
And it really wasn’t. I had a grandfather who lost his arm up to the elbow in a factory accident who I helped strap on his black leather prosthesis which he only wore on Sunday mornings for church; and I had had a brief affair with a double amputee from Vietnam back in my younger days. But I was still curious how things would work with someone paralyzed, you know, down there. Even a guy who reassured me he took Cialis.
We rendezvoused in the motel parking lot, and from the driver’s side of his mini-van, he looked pretty much like his pics, a wavy, sexy salt and pepper mop of hair and scruffy beard to match. I got the room – wheelchair accessible – and went ahead to open the door when he appeared at the doorway in his chair and with his service dog, a larger black gentle Lab named Bosco, faithfully beside him, carrying his master’s bag in his teeth. I wished my mutts were half as well behaved as Bosco was.
Vinny had mentioned in his message to me about being a little nervous meeting someone for sex and admitted now, as he used his massive arms and shoulders to position his body and withered rail legs onto the bed, that it had been awhile since he had been with a man. So, stripped down to my briefs, I opened the bottle of Merlot he had suggested I bring as he lit up some of his medical marijuana and shared a few drags with me. I have to say the stuff was pretty potent and gave me a prolonged meth-like high without affecting Mr. Peter.
As we lay on the bed, me naked by now except for my sneakers and he, a good half Italian and half Irish boy in his white “Guinea” ( his word not mine) tank top, and black bikini underwear, I didn’t know what to do nor what to expect. Was he wearing a Depends, did he have a catheter up his cock? Should I attempt to grope his crotch?
But instead of continuing to dissect the situation, I just turned to him, enveloped his shoulders with my arms, and kissed him with a kiss that went on for the next ten minutes, as he stroked the hairs on my chest and I held his head ever closer to mine. I know he could feel my stirring cock against his chest, pre-cum drops wetting his T shirt. Then he guided my hand down to his crotch. Yes, his dick was soft though still sensitive to my mouth – “ Takes a while for my plumbing to work, but I don’t feel nervous anymore” – so I switched gears and began tonguing, then softly sucking his big hairy sac – about the only hair he had on his body except for his head – something he found pleasurable.
As he turned to strip off his tank top, then his underwear, his naked butt came into view. His cheeks resembled two rotting melons, bruised and miss-shappened, a reality of literally sitting on your ass too much he later explained. But I quickly refocused on the good, not just what I saw – well built shoulders, strong arms, great chest, handsome manly face – but also what I felt.
Was it the wine and the marijuana? Or just two guys with no agendas feeling good together?
He was a great cocksucker as I stood over and straddled him, working his small yet super sensitive nips with my fingers, and after we had licked and sucked and kissed and smoked for about an hour, all the while Bosco sprawled out peacefully on the adjoining twin bed, Vinny reached down and began stroking his dick which was finally rising to the occasion. A smile crossed his face like a 13 year boy relishing his first erection.
“See what you’re doin’ to me, you hot fucker,“ Vinny murmured as he continued to stroke his cock and motioned me to stick mine back in his mouth. A minute later I was down on his.
So a guy in a wheelchair could not only get a hard-on. He could enjoy it too.
I came like he wanted me to cum, my man juice dripping from his lips, and he climaxed too. I knew he had, not by what didn’t happen – an ejaculation – but by the way he suddenly griped me tightly for those moments as he wildly stroked his dick into some kind of oblivion, then lay back, exhausted. I felt happy, happy I had shot and happy to see my handsome, muscular buddy happy too.
We chatted about partners who no longer want sex (me) and partners who desert you in times of adversity (him), about getting together again before I went back to Florida post-Labor Day, and about him even coming down to Fort Lauderdale. When traveling, Bosco accompanied him on the plane and his wheelchair neatly folded to fit under his seat.
The following day I e-mailed Vinny (a) to let him know I had had a great time, and (b) to make sure he knew I hadn’t been turned off by his affliction as so many guys he told me were.
We met actually twice more that summer – he liked the Viagra I gave him, really liked it – and played truck stop buddies, with the caps and the boots and the tight T’s, Vinny sitting in his chair stroking his cock as I stood in front of him, my legs straddling the twin beds, my cock down his throat. That is, when we weren’t just making out.
But he never did take me up on that offer to come down South (maybe it was just as well – my dogs would drive his dog nuts), and the following summer when I looked for his profile, it was gone. Had he sold his house and moved to the West Coast or NYC where there were more play gigs as he had mentioned once to me between sucks and kisses?
We had had our Kodak moments together and , after all, loving in the fast lane is better than not loving at all.
Tomorrow: a guest blog, “On to the next on on to the next.”