After a while we got around to
talking about sex . . .
I mean we are fags after
all. He told me he got hard just listening to me,
even when we weren't talking about anything overtly sexual.
And A Bunch Of It, Too
(from the Swahili)
by R.C. Hampton
I hate shit. I really,
really do hate shit and I've been
spending quite a lot of time thinking about it lately. Not because
I want to, either. With all due respect to that significant percent
of the kinked community who are into copraphagia, bless your hearts,
just go on and have your fun. I still hate shit.
Anybody who has read
anything that I've written for BENT or "Disgaytalk" knows that all
of what I have to say is propagated by my familiarity with spinal
cord injury and its effects. Of course, each spinal cord case manifests
differently, so there are no absolutes, but you can make a few generalizations
about SCI, and one of them is that each of us, to a greater or lesser
degree, has a lack or absence of sensation of, and control over,
our most intimate bodily functions. Put bluntly, even if we are
aware that we have to take a poo, we probably can't hang on long
enough to get to the loo to get the job taken care of in a timely
fashion. Either way we end up shitty.
Me, I got no sensation
at all, and no control either. Bowel or bladder. For a dozen years
I've had a supra-pubic cathetera small hose that comes out
right about dead between my belly button and my pubic bone. As these
kinds of things go, it isn't even particularly unattractive. Bowel
management is a nother whole varmint. Thirteen years ago when I
was going through physical rehab, the party line was this: "Now,
you need to train your body to hold things in for three days . .
. that third night, you cram a bunch of suppositories up your ass,
swill a bunch of laxatives, and cover your bed with hospital chucksor
newspapers over hefty bags if you can't afford the chucksand
shit all over yourself, all night long. And probably wear a diaper
for the next day too, just in case you haven't finished your little
I had some real damned
problems with that whole thing, but I was briefly diverted by the
utter shell-shock of the poor straight men who just took those orders
as Holy Writ. They were going to, probably for the first time in
their adult lives, have to pay attention
to their assholes. Like . . . like . . . queers
or something, and who really knew what guys like them
did? These poor fellas were suddenly aware that they were going
to have to own up to having that little trap door stuck right behind
their prostateswhich they only recognized as a shadow entity
that some Freaky Bitch slid her finger up and tweaked just right
one righteously drunken night that
they only remember in their fevered dreams.
For the first time these
guys were going to have to do more than hunker down for a quick
grunt over the commode, pinch off a loaf, make a haphazard swipe
across that secret place with a little wad of the last of the paper
on the roll, leaving some woman or other to both replace the paper
and clean up the damned toilet, too.
That secret spot I mentioned
brought me back to my own reality. As a gay man I had thankfully
learned early to eroticize my asshole. I was pretty damned good
buddies with the pretty pucker, as a matter of fact. Hose that thing
out a little bit, scrub that bad boy up some, and I knew, as my
straight peers didn't, that a very good time could be had by all.
I had to kinda just roll
with that whole fucked-up shit regime for the time being. My mind
was warped behind a whole other thing. Even as a fully-functional
bi-ped my bed was the center of my home. The most important place
I had to recreate. Not only did I sleep in my bed, and dream those
fevered dreams, I read in my bed. I watched TV there. I just spent
a fucking lot of time lounging there.
And quite often enough I wasn't lounging alone in my bed. The whole
idea of turning my bed into a shit heap was just not on my agenda.
And how do you invite someone who is a stone babe to hang out with
you while you discuss, oh, say the relative merits of Neo-Spartan
Hedonism or just want to jump each other's bones . . . and the only
night you can hook up is when ya gotta
do that damned purge? My mind would spin when I'd try to
think of it.
In physical rehab they
have this little euphemism for the shit regime. They call it the
"Bowel Clinic." While pretty much hustling the party line of 2nd-,
then ultimately 3rd-day shit fests, they hauled all of us who were
assigned to certain nights into the "Bowel Clinic" laid out on gurneys
with a hole cut out for your ass (those of us who couldn't sit up
yet), dosed us with laxatives and jammed suppositories up our butts,
and parked us over some commode-like things that only superficially
resembled toilets. Sometimes just over buckets of water. And there
we would wait. And wait. With all our kindred in shit. It wasn't
no pretty sight, lemme tell ya.
A good portion of the
patients of the VA SCI Center in St. Louis, Jefferson Barracks were
guys back in because of one kind of complication or other that had
been aggravated or caused by their paralysis. There was this guy
in "clinic" with me who was older, and I knew from gossip that he
had been a para for a long time. Now, some things are nasty . .
. but ya just can't help but look. I mean after all you are surrounded
by the sound and stink of shit. How much worse could it get? So,
I'm lookin' at this guy, who is smoking a cigarette in his latex
gloved hand, and his ass is poked out through the hole in his gurney.
And then there was this . . . thing,
just hanging there. And hanging there. And
As subtly as you can
in a place called a "Bowel Clinic" I motioned a nurse named Lois
over to me. Lois was cool. You could talk to her about anything.
I once heard her explain to a couple of (straight) guys that some
women do like it up the ass, and she herself thought the practice
had some particularly entertaining merits. So I know I can get a
straight-up answer from Lois. I sez, "Lois, check out that guy over
there. What appears to be a very long and nasty turd is hanging
out of his ass, but it isn't going anywhere. What gives?" Lois tells
me that it wasn't a turd I was furtively watching, but the result
of an old practice in the unenlightened days of constant enemas,
called "megabowel." As the name implies, the bowel just inside your
asshole gets stretched out of shape and weight until, unless you
are doing something to stop it, like sitting on it, it will simply
fall out of your rectum and hang there. As if it had any business
doing that. I asked if my guts would
one day be al fresco. She said,
Lois moved on but like
a kid looking at a gory video again and again I was drawn back to
this guy's innards. More horrifying, I noticed that he would dig
around down there with his gloved hand, and then put his cigarette
back into that hand to smoke it. I had to be easily as horrified
as those poor straight boys who were first having to confront their
own asses. Is this the future of my ass? Well, no. Not exactly.
Let's refer back to the kinked community for a moment. Those fellas
who are into "fisting" know just how elastic assholes can be. And,
while I never bottomed in such a situation before my paralysis (nor
since) I can imagine that it would be very . . . intense.
Now, growing up as an
American boy it is just in my genetic coding someplace that I have
a natural right to a warm puppy,
a fast car and a sleek intimate friend of one model or the other,
depending on taste. Oh, and at least as many orgasms a day as I
could possibly want or until my dick bled.
Fast Forward : I am now
outside the hospital setting, and I'm really
beginning to miss those orgasms that I have a God/dess-whatever-given
right to. Not being a straight man, I am well acquatinted with my
ass and know that there are nerves just all over the place. I have
also ditched that damned laxatives-and-purges bullshit. Make it
short and neat. Put on a glove, lube it up and check to see if there
is anything to drag out. Nice, tidy. No fuss, no muss.
Okay, so I can't feel
my asshole. Or my prostate for that matter, or anything for a couple
of feet up in there. But it could
feel me. I bought my first high-end,
well-made vibrator and a bottle of Poppers (no children, not the
things you eat at Amigos). If you offer enough insult to a prostate
gland, even a dead one, it will yield results. The orgasms aren't
as good as you remember themthink of them as sort of a subterranean
sneeze. But it does give one a feeling of accomplishment.
which is the name they gave to the method of bowel control I use
(which is wildly inaccurate since I'm pulling stuff out, not tickling
it), has its own drawbacks. So does sitting with a gut-load of junk
waiting to get let out. In tiny increments over the years things
stretch all out of shape. While my guts don't hang a foot out of
my ass, I can see where that guy was at years ago.
I am not typically troubled
much by, ahem . . ."accidents."
Or rather I am deeply troubled by
them, just not all that often. "Often"
being a key word here. When stuff like that happens it usually does
it for a while. You know, like things get out of whack for
Ruby, my only companion
in bed for years, is not disturbed by rude body noises. She just
looks at my ass, and then to my face as if she means, "You can talk
out that end, too?" If the worst happens and for whatever reason
I find myself all be-shit (and of course the bedclothes, wheelchair,
floor and everything between wherever the discovery was made and
the bathroom, depending upon the exact nature of the problem and
consistency of the results), when I am about to start throwing and
breaking things, screaming wordless rage, Ruby goes, "Hey! I've
been wonderin' what you've been doin' with that stuff. Wait, don't
get rid of that! That'll tell everybody for blocks around that you're
the Big Dog here! What kinda fool are you?", and I kind of ease
back down to a place where I can cuss and grumble, but my emotions
are more sorrow than rage, and while sorrow is not a condition particularly
sought after, it beats the hell out of rage in a world too full
of it already, and rage eats away at your deepest parts, figuratively
as well as literally. Studies have shown that people who hold rage
in for long periods of time are almost certainly going to wind up
with cancer (okay, so we probably all
will one day, but why not hedge our bets?). Ruby keeps me from utter
humiliation. What bi-pedal person could do that?
All this talk about
guts and their payload brings us around to the real point of this
story. Sex. As in I might be having it soon, with someone I am very
much impressed by, and I'd like my body to cooperate.
While I'm not hoping
for much . . . I can't feel getting fucked and, thanks to thirteen
years of digging stuff out of my innards slowly stretched by tiny
increments of holding stuff in one place for long periods of time
and periodically causing such trauma to my ever-diminishing prostate
to obtain one of those equally diminished American-Boy- Birthright-Orgasms,
neither would anybody else. But I would like it very much if, during
the time we may spend in bed, I am not subjected to the humiliation
of any . . . (ahem) accidents.
Nope, we didn't meet
in a chat room. I find those places kinda tedious and I always wind
up five minutes into the deal with either a devotee-type (which
badly creeps me out) or some SM guy in Cleveland who insists on
calling me "Sir." Fine. Well, I try to show everybody a good time,
and if these cyber-leeches attach themselves to me I might as well
do the mannerly thing and get them off . . . "NEVER
call me sir, shit-brain! This Soldier works
for a livin'!" and that generally devolves quickly into some cyber-kink
that, I suspect, is not only illegal pretty much everywhere, but
actually felonious in many places. But, do they care about me,
those sniveling pig-bottoms? All I ever get is strings of "omygawd!
yeah, yrade owwooww" (typos intended), then something like, "Uuuuughh!!"
or some similarly generic-orgasm sound, and then they're gone. But
what about Me? I need some closure here. Hell, I just slipped down
the fiber-optics to make some guy toss a wad of spooge, and what
do I get out of it? I'll tell ya, nothin' worth a damn.
So anyhow, I have had
the pleasure for some time of emailing this guy. I was immediately
impressed because he had a really big
. . . vocabulary. Ya'll think I'm joking, but I'm not. I swear I
can't remember when someone seduced me
(and I use the word "seduced" in its highest ethical sense).
Boy, was it ever fun. Really, really
fun. I would dash to my computer every time it made the little "Ping"
sound that meant I had mail.
After a while we started
calling one another. It was like being a teenager again. You remember,
those phone calls that lasted a couple of hours. And you called
four or five times a day. Even if you just got the machine it would
be something like, "Hi . . . I guess you're out . . . sorry I missed
you. I wish I was there so we could be doing whatever it is you're
doing together . . . well, bye. I'll call back later." And we would.
The phone bills were ridiculous. Entirely over the top.
Naturally we had swapped
some pictures. Shots of ourselves. He asked for pictures of the
inside of my condo. I asked for a good shot with his friends. This
guy's pictures were generally enlarged, so the definition was really
bad. I got a couple that were good head shots and showed a wonderful,
laughing facehe had described himself as being the kind if
guy who could have fun at a funeraland this fine and laughing
face was wholly credible. The other shots, though, were of poor
quality and taken just like every single picture taken of me, with
a goofy expression on the ol' face.
I described myself as
getting softer around the middle than I liked, he described himself
as having thinning hair and a little bit of a belly. Nothing tight
was ever worn on his body. A khakis and polo shirt kinda guy. And
ya know, whatever doubts I had about his looks from the mostly poor
quality of the pictures he sent, when we were on the phone it didn't
matter at all. He told me he loved the sound of my voice. He had
to say that a lot because I always have thought I sound like Opie
from the "Andy Griffith Show." I know that I sure did like the sound
of his voice. We told each other
about our days, or in my case stories about my family or the broad
variety of people I hang out with.
After a while we got
around to talking about sex . . . I mean we are
fags after all. He told me he got hard just listening to me, even
when we weren't talking about anything overtly sexual. Early on
in our email correspondence we had addressed the paraplegic thaing.
My worry about intimacy. I'm kinda rusty, and I was real worried
about how well things would work out, what problems we would have.
He assured me that he had already been through about the worst of
it with a couple of other 'plegics and he was okay with it all.
Soon there were plans
for him to come here to visit me. I was really excited that not
only did he want to make the effort to come to visit, but he seemed
genuinely eager. I had to get the house in order! I mean, Ruby makes
this place look like a passel of two-year-olds jacked up on a couple
of double espressos and some seriously frosted flakes have been
on a rampage through everything. I wanted it to look pretty for
my guest. Then, just in case things clicked real well, as I was
pretty well assured they would from our phone calls, I bought a
bunch of high-end bedclothes, just to show that I was willing to
meet him half-way.
Early on in our emailing,
this guy had mentioned how he had been in very close contact with
another guy who had kind of led him on and then treated him in a
very shabby way. I was determined that no matter what happened,
I wouldn't treat this man in a shabby fashion.
While we were talking
on the phone, he asked me some questions that I had to think on
really hard and answer back later. Actually, the first one was when
we were emailing, and he asked if he had any chance at all of a
relationship with me. I had to think about that pretty hard, because
I had just kind of gotten to the point where I was comfortable with
me and Ruby, together and alone. Life being pretty easy (and if
Ruby was unhappy she was going to have to learn to type to let me
know what she was unhappy with). Obviously, from what I've already
written my answer, after due consideration, was yes . . . there
was a chance. Again, on the phone he asked me if I would consider
moving into a house with a yard, supposing we should just fall hard
for each other and this beautiful, long-distance relationship would
play out over time, and we would find ourselves ready to co-habitate.
I had to think a while on that. I'm pretty pleased with my condo,
but in the end I said that I would, for a lover who was true-blue
and all that, move to a house with a yard.
The hardest thing this
wonderful, sexy and seductive man asked me was if I would be willing
to relocate for a partner. Now, that's a really big one, since about
the only reason I live in the middle of the milo belt is because
this is where my mother lives. It's her home, and as long as she
has her wits she will not be coerced into moving away. God/dess-whatever
knows I've tried. With her pacemaker she is effectively immortal
so we're lookin' at a good long stretch of time here to fret over
As chance would have
it, this question was posed right about in the middle of a span
of a few weeks during which my mother's brother, his wife, and her
aunt all took that nice long dirt nap. So . . . I said that under
very strict circumstances I would
relocate, but that would entail a great deal of compromise. I wouldn't
just pack up and move away from what I pretty much consider one
of my responsibilities just so that my mate could have my company
in the morning (when I'm never my best) so that he could keep his
same old job and just have to drive a little farther to work . .
. Like if we figured family into the matter, made some kind of geographical
compromise, not too far off from people and places that were important
to us both, and set up housekeeping in this yet-to-be-determined
place, but yes, under the right set of circumstances I would move
for love, if it showed up.
So, the day of his arrival
is upon me. I really am trying to get away from my decades-old habit
of just T-shirts and jeans. I worked out what I thought was a workable
compromise. My good white Levis that are just a little too short,
compensated by the dark sneaks that I rarely wear because of Ruby's
fetish for untying shoelaces, and a black ribbed T-shirt hybrid,
like a dance-club T. I thought it worked okay.
So here I am. Ruby is
of course waiting with me. Trying to look cool. Trying to catch
my reflection in the glass so that I can get a little pose thaing
goin' on. I'm not even sure I'll recognize this guy from his pictures,
but I figure that me and Ruby are the only two hounds waiting. In
the end my nerves finally caved in and I had to turn away from the
deplaning passengers and pick up some magazine left lying around.
I think I was holding it upside-down.
Someone put their hand
on my shoulder and spoke my name . . . in that voice. I had prepared
myself for a possible Quasimodo, and I was pretty much okay with
that, I thought. Slowly, I turned around and . . .
He was beautiful, just
like the laughing pictures.
© 2001 R.C. Hampton
This is the first of two parts. Read the November
BENT for the conclusion.
former bi-ped, tells us he's been
a hustler, a dancer, a dirt-bag street-creep, an entrepreneur at
least a couple of times, and a soldierand around here we believe
everything he says. He's written for BENT before.We hope he keeps
BENT: A Journal of CripGay