My Life as a Gay Man: Vinny, Part I

My life as A Gay Man: Vinny, Part I

“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 42 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.

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.) With Rainbow Mountain, our former gay refuge, getting more straight with each season and some lousy bookstore miles away, the web was my only hope for finding discrete dick. And bad enough the hook-up sites in Lauderdale were loaded with gameplayers, mindfuckers, cockteasers and pseudo-personas; at least down there I could, if not understand, at least accept the fact that fags, both local and visiting, were as plentiful as cockroaches in a Manhattan walk-up.

But what was the problem here? The web listings (and phone apps once I got my Samsung Galaxy) were leaner than some Hollywood anorexic, yet the guys were still picky. Sure, because of George, I had to rely on the kindness of strangers willing or able to host, but either they were married (like in str8), an hour and half away, didn’t want to go to a motel nearer me which I would pay for, or failed Geography in tenth grade because hot Manhattan boys were hitting me up thinking Milford, PA was a sixth borough of NYC. Or, like down in SoFlo, they had one fucken excuse after another.

And these were the guys who liked me, really liked me.

Craig’s List, which buddies of mine swore by down South, wasn’t any better. I’d post my ad, said what I was, what I wanted, that I couldn’t host (closed relationship, see?), threw up a few provocative pics, and asked respondents to return with a brief descript of themselves and a pic, G-rated fine.

The responses I got were either underwhelming or frankly bizarre.

Unlike web profiles that are alive and well even if the hottie you keep jerking off over was killed in an auto accident six months ago, the shelf life of a Craig’s posting is about 45 minutes. It’s like a slot machine or a druggie sniffing a line of coke. It constantly needs a fix. Translation: new posting. Since Craig’s only allows a new posting every 72 hours, that’s where multiple screen name e-addresses come in handy.

I was back and forth with one guy who I even agreed to meet face- to-face as we dropped off our respective empty soda cans at the local recycling center who, when we were finally negotiating a time and day, e’d me with, “One problem. I don’t have a place.”

Duh? Read my profile? What did you think “can’t host” meant? I wasn’t serving tea and crumpets?

There were the guys who, instead of telling me something about themselves, played twenty questions or asked, “more pics?” Your turn, buddy. How many angles do you want to see my dick from to jerk off on?

Then there were the spammers and downright potential identity thieves. Either their pics and descript were posted on another site which, although free, required my credit card number to enter, or they wanted me to “verify” my age on another site since the last guy they chatted with turned out to be 17. Sure, you should be so lucky. Like I finally replied to one of them who claimed he was 23, “Man, do you really want to bed down with a guy old enough to be your father?”

Or, worse, were the women, yes, the gals, with their busty pics and cheery canned greetings, “I’m new in town, too, let’s see what happens!” who wanted me to sign on to their websites. (Yes, my Craig’s ad was in the man-man personals.) After a half dozen of these, I e-mailed one of these bitches back, “Sure, honey, like it up the ass?”

I must admit, though, I did get a chuckle out of some of these postings. Like the guys who admitted to 48 (no pic of course) who were looking for “in shape guys under 25” to drive to their wherever and blow them.

Sure buddy.

Then one night on bear411 up popped Vinny.

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 hairy chest pic, it wasn’t until I read his post 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.”

After all, I had had Jordan in my life a couple of lifetimes ago. 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 large 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 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, 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-shapened, 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.

Afterwards, we chatted about life. He had been a high school music teacher until a sudden onset spinal infection left him paralyzed in the space of a weekend. Now he tutored students at home and did occasional gigs as a musician. We also talked about partners. Partners who no longer wanted sex (mine) and partners who deserted you in times of adversity (his).  We even talked about getting together again before I went back to Florida, and about him 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. He returned my e-mail with a one page litany of what he wanted “Boss” to do to him next time we connected.

We met actually twice more that summer – he liked the Viagra I gave him, really liked it – and we played truck stop buddies, with the caps and the boots and the tight T’s, Vinny lying on the bed stroking his cock as I stood in front of him, shoving my cock down his throat or my butt in his face. He especially liked it when I held his hands down or tied them behind his back so that he’d have no choice but to play my sub-pup.

And after we had both had our physical release, we just lay there, my now sweaty body gently on top of his and made out.

What I came to love most about Vinny in the few hours we shared, besides his handsome face and masculine demeanor, was his total absence of self-pity. He was a pragmatic guy, like me; if he needed help with something, he’d ask for it, but for the most part, he just dealt with his problem without fanfare. He was always upbeat.

The following summer when I tried to reconnect, he 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?

Whatever.

We had had our Kodak moments together and, after all, loving in the fast lane is better than not loving at all.

Then, two summers ago, after not hearing from him for a couple of years, up suddenly came that message from Vinny: “Got your cuffs ready for next Thursday, Boss?”

Well, we got together at a local motel where, out of my element in homophobic rural America, I passed Vinny off as my handicapped half-brother. This time he brought Bosco, who dutifully carried his bag into the motel room and then promptly found a corner to curl up in.

All while I said “hey man” to his master with a kiss that lasted an eternity.

Yep, the magic was still there.

Vinny – and what happened next.

 

 

 

 

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