Short Takes is designed
to eavesdrop on readers' experiences of what it's like to be gay
and disabledin 1,000 words or less. This time we asked contributors
to tell us about their first sex with another man. Was it a disaster
or a little slice of heaven? Funny, fearful or ecstatic? Laughable,
forgettable or sublime? Randy Warren writes about how list making
Eight On My List
by Randy Warren
Are you a list maker? After countless
attempts to get direction in my life, I was counselled at age twenty
to make a list of the ten things I wanted to accomplish before I
turned fifty. I made sure my list was a tough one, full of dreams
and fantasies; I wanted to make it a list of goals I would always
strive for. Naturally, one of my ten points involved sexI'm
gay, after all. Because I am also visibly disabled, some say malformed,
I believed that point number eight, the "sex point," was a reach.
Little did I know that I would make it happen before I turned thirty-five.
Despite being commitment-phobic
(for reasons I won't explain here), I derive the most gratification
from gratifying others. I also have a penchant for pretty boys
you know them, the centerfold, the stripperand I'm a huge
risk-taker as well, a guy who likes to roll on the line a lot. Yup,
I'm an electric wheelchair user, but when I travel I travel with
a manual chair and a personal care attendant. I used to travel a
lot, attending too many conferences in too many cities. After a
gruelling eight years of playing the perfect conference attendee,
I realized that evenings were my own, and began to allow myself
to wander off at night.
On one of these trips to the big
city I found myself feeling frisky (to say "randy" would be just
too easy) and a little antsy. So, after the day's agenda was complete,
I was ready to play. Hot Toddy (my attendant, Todd) was gorgeous,
a tall raging heterosexual who, like me, had a wild side. We started
with drinks at our hotel bar, where we mapped out the night's activities.
After years of talking about it, Todd was finally ready to get a
tattoo, and the tattoo parlour just happened to be nestled between
two strip clubs, one for straight boys, one for the real boys! I'd
never had a problem balancing my needs with those of my attendantand
anyhow, I think the best food is served at straight strip clubsso
we did the tattoo parlour thing, then headed into the straight joint.
With infallible gaydar the strippers gathered at my table on their
breaks, knowing they wouldn't have to work. Always the generous
employer, I treated Toddy to a few lap dances. "Just as long as
I don't have to see it", I laughed."
With stomach full and Toddy sedated,
it was my turn: into the real club! Usually I get settled a couple
of tables back from the stage, but not tonight. Maybe it was the
double Jack Daniels talking, but I was determined to enjoy the show
with a seat right up front.
Now what you need to know is
how obvious my disability is, a consequence of the drug thalidomide.
I have little feet where people's kneecaps are, and four fingers
on each hand. I like to say that while my hands may be slightly
bent to the side, I am fully bent! There is just no escaping the
fact that I am disabled, and as a wheelchair user to boot, I am
often overlooked as far as pickups are concerned. What I do have
going for me is a friendly, outgoing personality, a sexy voice,
and an irreverent sense of humour, all tools I use to maximum effect.
When I am out enjoying myself I can go anywhere alone and end up
with a full table. Tonight was no different.
I was laughing at Todd's discomfort
at being in a gay strip joint and at his barbed comments, which
I knew were attempts to assert his heterosexuality. This drew the
attention of some of the strippers, who wandered over after their
sets. While working the pole, one of the boys inadvertently landed
his own pole on the back of Todd's head. Now although it landed
on the back of his head, Todd turned with a wide open mouth,
and well, let's just say it was a close call for Toddy, who turned
beet red and quickly ordered a double! As more men who joined my
table, I made a point of being more and more generous with compliments
One of the boys urged me to visit
the club's second floor, reached by a long staircase. With help
from Super Attendant this would be no obstacle, and when an irresistible
blond Adonis seconded the suggestion, I had no choice but to comply.
No matter how much I drink, I am always street savvy, so I left
my wallet with Todd after he hauled my chair up to the mysterious
top floor, where I found a row of bathroom-style stalls, a chair
in the middle of each. After Todd transferred me onto one of them
I sent him downstairs and enjoyed the dancing of my Adonis, who,
it turned out, had been a Playgirl centerfold named Peter. Peter
was quite the mover and I was quite the groper.
Gingerly at first, wanting to
see how far he'd let things go, I explored his back, buttocks and
thighs. When he offered no resistance I accidentally-on-purpose
pulled him closer and let my nose graze his balls. He reacted the
way I'd hoped he would, moving closer still. Soon I was sucking
on eight inches. In time to the music I was taking and releasing,
taunting and teasing, while Peter quivered and moaned and gasped.
There was no question of who was in control. Control is very important
to me because usually life has control of me!
After twenty minutes, Peter's
buddy showed up to monitor the action (standard club safety procedure).
Gilles was a raven-haired Pierce Brosnan with an inch more equipment
than Peter and plenty of foreskin. As Peter nodded that everything
was fine, I took the opportunity to share my talents (trying hard
not to discriminate!). It was a buffet, my dream come true, and
number eight on my list crossed out! Half an hour in, I saw my concerned
attendant peering over the wall, just doing what we had prearranged,
making sure I was okay. I summarily dismissed a shocked and sheepish
Toddy, who promptly went downstairs and ordered a triple. With a
little more attention from me, both boys came. Sated and $600 poorer
I was carried downstairs in my chair like Cleopatra.
Needless to say, those boys were
built for pleasure, not strength, and proceeded to drop me. My hazy
afterglow, mixed with alcohol, landed me on my head, so I was just
fine. I was even better when two more boys came over to help me
back in my chair. Toddy paid the boys, but not before getting a
report card on my performance. I left with names and numbers, a
witness, an A+ and a gold star. It took a week for my throat to
recover, but the memory of that adventure has sustained me on more
than one lonely night.
And what of Toddy? In classic
Todd style, all he had to say on the subject was that if you have
to go "that way," you might as well go all the way!
©2006 Randy Warren
know what you think of this BENT feature.
lives in London, Ontario, Canada, and is a long-time advocate for
people with disabilities. Born disabled as a consequence of the
drug thalidomide, he runs his own Reality Speaking and Consulting