by Mike Shumate


Lazily surfing the Internet about a month ago I happened on a Website called Guys Night Out, which described a monthly orgy for gay and bisexual men held at a hotel suite near where I live. An e-mail from the host let me know I was eligible and promised more details within the week.

I was excited about going, but apprehensive, too, because I've been a C-7 quadriplegic since an automobile accident on July 4 1983. Before my injury, I was a long-haul trucker , but in 1994 I graduated from college with BAs in political science, American history, and a minor in world geography. I'm fifty-one years old and these days I work in insurance claims. My first priority after getting home from work is shedding my clothes—I'm a "smoothie" (body-shaved) nudist with tattoos and piercings. A power chair and my own van take care of mobility.

Unlike most quads, I don't have a bag of piss hanging from my leg. Instead, I rigged up a way to loop my external latex catheter hose into a large urine bag that fits into the backpack hanging from the arms of my chair. Not only does this free me from the burden of draining pee, it means I don't have to concern myself with fluid intake.

The days dragged by as I wondered how I would be accepted in a roomful of naked guys doing each other without inhibition. I am 5' tall, weigh 110 pounds, have brown hair and eyes and wear wire-rim glassesnot a bad package, but still a crip. In my thirties I tried the bar scene. What I remember is drinking too much beer and feeling ugly sitting there in my wheelchair. If I looked the way I feltmy spirit broken, robbed of my sexual rite-of-passageI must have been a pathetic sight. Except for the curious, few guys acknowledged my presence. Being told by my doctor about permanent paralysis was the low point of my life; the decade of my thirties was like rolling out of the womb all over again. I had to learn things over again, socially- from a bent position.

A couple of years ago, I discovered what turned out to be an environment far better than bars for relaxation and sex, a newly opened gay nudist campground just a forty-mile drive from home. I had a blast rolling down the trails naked in my power chair and chatting with other naked campers. I was accepted, the sex was great, and my queerness felt fulfilled. My first visit turned out to be my last, however, when the township trustees found out about the place and closed it down. It was a membership-only campground, completely legal, but ours is a Red State.

Although I live in one of America's most conservative cities, there are enough of us here to support a gay men's gym and swim club. That's were I hang out for nude sun-tanning, a place where I can practice nudism outdoors without fear of arrest for indecent exposure. With no public, clothing-optional beaches or parks in my state, this club is my only option. I go to socialize, lie in the sun and watch the cock walk by. My attitude is, if I get lucky, I get lucky. Occasionally, I do.

I sent the host of Guys Night Out a picture of myself naked and asked about accessibility. He replied that the suite was on the ground floor and assured me I'd fit right in, no problem. The party was on a Friday evening, so I secured a later hour for my evening attendant (I employ attendants only for personal care in the morning, and to help me transfer into bed at night). I kept a close eye on my diet, too, since quads are without bowel or bladder control.

When Friday evening came I called the secret voice mail message for the room number, with no luck. The party was scheduled to begin at 7:00pm, but by the time the host finally answered, it was going on 8:30and I had to be home by midnight. He apologized for the inconvenience and promised that one of the guys would meet me in the parking lot. It was winter and cold as a straight man's ass. My gym bag packed with water and a towel, I headed out.

Of course, I got lost trying to find the hotel. By the time I pulled into the parking lot after losing another forty-five minutes I saw a guy waving me towards him. Jim turned out to be about fifty-five and looked like the guy behind the counter of the auto parts store who talks about his wife and kids and tells fag jokes.

I parked the van and rolled down the window. Jim asked if I smoked. Yeah, I answered. He told me the party was nonsmoking, so he hopped in, we lit up our smokes, and scoped each other out with some small talk. Don't worry, he reassured me, you'll have a ball.

With that encouragement, I pressed the dashboard toggle switch that releases my power-chair lockdown, rolled onto the lift and lowered it to the pavement. As I closed the side doors with the handheld remote Jim said, "That's one pretty cool machine you got there." "It gives me the independence to come to parties like this," I told him.

Although this was my first orgy, I had some ideas about what I'd find. The host had attached a sample picture on the e-mail acceptance notice, and from surfing porn sites and hanging out at the club, I also knew enough not to expect a bunch of buff dudes but a roomful of everyday body types.

When Jim opened the door to the suite the first thing I saw, right there on a couch about two feet from my chair, was a forty-something guy with an armband tattoo getting a blowjob. With his shaved head and waist-length beard he looked like a beer-drinking, shit-kicking redneck. In the kitchenette another guy was getting his ass rimmed while drinking a glass of wine and carrying on a conversation with someone else. Lying on the bed in a circle were three guys giving head and fingering each other's asses. Other guys were standing along the walls kissing and beating each other off. Sitting in an armchair was a heavyset bear jacking off while he watched a biker show on the Discovery Channel. After stopping to look at me when I rolled in, they all went back to what they were doing.

With just enough space to maneuver my chair, I dropped the $10.00 donation into the Kitty while the host introduced me to a couple of guys and told me to make myself comfortable. Aiming for a spot between the bed and TV I rolled to the center of the room and excused myself to a pair of middle-aged guys who were kissing and playing with each other's cocks. This damn wheelchair, I silently bitched as they stepped aside. It's always a little too big and the space a little too small to get where I want to go. They looked surprised but not annoyed and returned to what they'd been doing once I got my chair positioned.

Here I was in the middle of a live porn video, a smorgasbord of naked men, wondering what to do next. Most were between the ages of thirty and seventy (you had to be twenty-one to attend), guys of all shapes and sizes fondling their cocks. I wasn't nervous, just a little, well stunned. I'd seen action at the club, but nothing like this. The aroma of cum makes me horny, and this room sure smelled of cum.

I was pulling off my sweatshirt, watching a couple blowing each other in the bathroom doorway when I was attacked by an older guy who stuck his tongue down my throat, the kind of guy you'd see lurking in the shadows of a school yard or in a gas station rest room. He kept asking, in a sissy voice, "Do you like that, do you like that?" Well, no, not really, I thought to myself, but I kept tonguing his mouth anyway, trying to be a good newcomer. After a few seconds, he pulled off my sweat pants and underwear and started playing with my scrotum piercings.

That was the moment when everyone looked around at me. I figured it must have been my willingness to expose my tattooed and pierced disabled body that grabbed the room's attention. The first rule of conduct for Guys Night Out is respect for ALL men. Disabled guys aren't supposed to be sexy, but here, right before their eyes, was one horny crip letting it all hang out and jacking his stiffening cock, despite the fact that it was encased in a catheter. Now that was guaranteed to be something they'd never seen before.

When I was in college in the 1990s I liked watching the twinks, with their shaved heads, pierced ears and tongues, and began exploring the world of bodyart myself. When I look at computer porn, I like to masturbate to pictures of guys sporting a Prince Albert. The PA is a ring inserted at the head of the urethra and through the underside of the penis. So sexy! I can't have one myself, because of my catheter. Instead, my first piercing was a 10-gauge closed ring in the middle of my scrotum. Over a five-year period I had seven piercings done. My navel is pierced with a curved, 8-gauge barbell, and completing the project are two 8-gauge nipple rings. Then I was ready for the ink.

I started with a Tahitian abdomen tattoo that points to my cock, then added Tahitian warrior armbands on my biceps and tattooed tribal symbols on my thighs. Another Tahitian design is tattooed on my stomach and covers a scar from surgery.

I spread my legs apart so the guys standing against the wall jacking off could get a good look. As I sat in my wheelchair, I felt awkward and a little odd but I reminded myself why I was there. Scanning their faces, I grinned as they watched with amazement at this crip in their midst.

An older, heavyset guy with fresh cardiac stitches started rubbing my scalp. I had had my head butched earlier that day and the fresh cut was like tiny spikes. As he tongued my mouth he leaned down and grabbed my balls. I didn't think about his age or condition. He ran his hands over my piercings and tattoos and pushed his four-inch cock at my face. When I took all of him into my mouth he started moaning and pumping furiously. One thing I've learned is how to give a good blowjob. If I can't get fucked, I figure I can at least offer first-class, sensual cocksucking.

Once I decided I was going to make this guy cum it didn't take long. Sucking his balls and his little cock down my throat, I found that his total package was small enough to leave me breathing room. When he asked if I swallowed cum I gagged out a slurping, Yes. In less than a minute he'd shot a load that seemed as small as his dick. I swirled it on my tongue, licked my lips and shared it with him in a passionate mouth-to-mouth.

Sitting down beside me he started talking about his surgery, then playfully rubbed my chest and balls (I have intense sensation in my scrotum), and gently wanked my stiff cock, straining to burst its catheter. After a few minutes he melted into the naked crowd. I felt OK, he felt OKthat's all that mattered. He'd driven 120 miles to get here, I learned, and was escaping his wife and kids. Satisfying his lust made me feel skillful and inclusive.

The room started getting smaller as more guys showed up, twenty-five naked bodies by my count, with more arriving. Reclining in my lay-back wheelchair, I fondled my cock while I watched the scenery. One hairy bear, ass in the air, stomach dragging on the bed, waited for another bear to roll on a condom. I'd never seen two guys fucking live before. This was better than porn. The bear on the bed was waving his ass back and forth like a hippopotamus in heat, waiting for Bear No. Two to mount him. Watching these 275-pound beasts fuck was a turn-on.

All around the room were couples and groups connecting in every way you can think of. Back in the kitchenette, the same guy was still getting his ass rimmed, he hadn't moved! By now, however, two guys were taking turns working on him while he leaned on the counter, still chatting with a buddy, still drinking wine! He was a good-looking thirty-five-year-old; occasionally he would see me watching and pull on his cock. I knew I wasn't going to get a piece of that action but I was doing just fine, thank you!

A man of about sixty, with a firm body, trimmed pubes and eight inches was watching two guys "docking" their uncut dicks. I'd seen him on the bed earlier, with his mouth full of cock, and was happy to oblige when he asked if he could play with my nipple rings. Turning them from side to side is great foreplay, I told him.

After some small-talk he bent down to kiss and hug me tightly. The hugs felt sincere, loving. When he whispered that he wanted to fuck my mouth, it struck me as an erotic way to ask for a blowjob. He told me he liked the way I got the other guy off and he wanted to cum in my mouth, too.

I leaned my recliner back and savored the taste of his meat as he dropped his semi-erect, banana-shaped cock in my mouth. Everybody's eyes were on me, but I didn't give a damn. Once the other guys got over their awkwardness at watching wheelchair sex the atmosphere in the room relaxed.

Now I felt like a full participant, and this time it was no short pump. My new partner stood astride my wheelchair fucking my mouth while I held onto his hips and he pulled at my nipple rings. This time I could not get the whole package down my throat. He was just too big! I was in a fantasy state as he groaned and pumped, wondering if this was a dream. Here's this guy standing over my wheelchair, not caring that I'm a crip, fucking my mouth for a good ten minutes.

Affectionately massaging my buzzcut, his dick rigid and slick, he said he was ready to shoot his load. I sat up as he moved around to the side of my wheelchair, slipped his cock back in and started to build up speed. Here it is, he announced, and filled my mouth. I never knew I would become such a cum lover.

He knelt down next to my chair and we tongued his load, looking into one another's eyes while he played with my scrotum piercings. As we caressed each other he kissed me again, then got up and wandered off to approach someone else. Of all my encounters that night, he was the best.

After I had been there for about an hour a few more guys trekked through the door, rounding out the crowd. I decided to turn my wheelchair toward the bed to enjoy the show: sucking, fucking, rimming, licking, it was incredible. As guys came and went from the bed to the TV area they'd stop for a blowjob. Boy, was I ever sitting in the right spot! Some guys came up behind my chair and wrapped their arms around my shoulders, or scratched my freshly buzzed head and kissed me. Several stopped to pull on my nipple rings as they passed; one guy even knelt down and licked my balls.

Being surrounded by naked men felt so good that I didn't want to leave, but I couldn't risk missing my attendant. Carefully maneuvering my wheelchair around bare feet I rolled past the kitchenette where the same guy was still getting rimmed, still drinking wine. He grinned at me and yanked on his cock as I gave him a nod.

Unable to put my sweat pants back on I rolled them up and stuffed them in my bag. I slipped on a XXXL sweatshirt and one of the guys helped get my socks on. Once I get undressed in my wheelchair I can't put shorts back on unless I transfer into bed, but since I'm only a medium in waist size, I'll wear a big floppy shirt or tank top and nobody's the wiser that I'm naked underneath. In summer all I wear is a tank top when I go out. Driving naked is erotic.

After thanking the host I left with a big smile on my face. Rolling onto the lift and into my van in the cold winter air I could smell cum on my body, a sweet aroma I enjoyed all the way home. I had been at the party for only two and a half hours. I wanted to stay longer but there was that attendant I had to meet.

Disability limits my independence, especially my opportunities for sex. I went to the orgy for recreational sex with a bunch of guys who shared my passion. I was not there to find love or to talk about the outside world. I was there to get off, and I did.

I know the difference between love and lust. I seek the love of a permanent partner, but I'm a realist, too. Nobody has yet to return my affection in the way I would like. When I've reached out to gay men they have not always reached back. There's an adage that goes something like, "Just knowing your gay and accepting it is far more important than sexual gratification." The guy who dreamed up that philosophical bullshit must have been blessed with a ten-inch cock. Those who take a vow of abstinence, I salute you. For the rest of us sex is a natural expression of our humanity.

I know the Christians are praying for me. I know the homophobes are wishing me to hell, but that's OK. When my time in this existence ends, I will pass on as a better person for having lived a life of struggle, not a struggle with my queerness, but with the discrimination of those who could not deal with my being a crip. Until then, I plan to go back to Guys Night Out next month and every month, for as long as it lasts.

© 2005 Mike Shumate


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I'm a C-7 level quadriplegic as the result of an automobile accident when I was twenty-nine years old. I was a long-haul trucker and figured I would die in a fiery truck accident on Donner Summit instead of wrecking my car on vacation. Post-injury I attended Ohio State University and graduated with two degrees and a minor. Beatle music gives me the will to live. Strange, Huh?!



BENT: A Journal of CripGay Voices/May 2005