Thursday, February 3, 2011

Heartbreak and Phone Sex, Part V

He found my blog, then my Facebook, and asked if we could do pay-to-view emails instead of phone calls, to help him get to know me first, and because his funds were limited.

I've been in a writing mood lately, so it seemed like a good fit: I could write, and productively fill time between calls with guaranteed income. I told him not to expect immediate turnarounds, but I was in.

His first email described me giving him a back rub, encouraging him, and then sucking him off before he fell asleep, neglecting his promise to go down on me, overwhelmed by sheer bliss. He wanted my reply to be me, the next morning, helping him make good on his promise by showing him exactly what I liked.

And then the story part of the email wrapped up. And he explained that he is in a wheelchair. He has cerebral palsy. He has very limited sexual experience, so sexual actions don't come naturally to him. He needed someone to understand his circumstances, but not let those circumstances define him for me.

Wow.

I was sooooooo so so so so grateful I had said yes.

He's not my first customer in a wheelchair. I love feeling helpful, encouraging, attentive to restrictions (or directions to ignore restrictions), and the feeling that I am adding a bright spot to a hard day. 

I poured my heart into the response, playfully but calmly showing him what I liked. And much to my surprise, the me-character in my head changed up the action a bit halfway through. That saucy Inner Slut, she's not one to be pigeon-holed, is she?

He liked it. He loved it. He loved it a lot. He caught all the happy energy of it, and lobbed it back at me, and I was elated.

And then he explained that he was seeking the help of a professional (oh wait, that's supposed to be me? yikes!) because he had a lot of fear and anxiety around sex. But he thought about sex all the time, and he was tired of being afraid of his own thoughts, so he wanted to build some good thoughts. Sure, that makes sense, but why...?

Because he had been sexually assaulted. More than once. And had post-traumatic stress about it.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK. Are you fucking kidding me?

Fuck the world. Fuck it in fucking half. How the FUCK could someone who had already been dealt a pretty crappy hand physically then also be dealt the crappiest of hands in a physical-emotional connection? What. The. Fuck.

I don't pray in traditional ways. I don't speak sentences, or words even, or not often. The way I pray has more to do with making mental pictures, feeling feelings, and opening myself to an exchange that I cannot find other ways to express.

I opened myself, doors blown wide, and wept. And the energy which poured back into me, the energy of a warrior, and of a muse, and of a healer, more than made up for the energy I gave. 

Then I couldn't write. For almost two full days. His requests were sitting in my inbox, begging for attention, and I would get 1 sentence in and freeze up. Grrrrrr ferrrrr fuxxxx saaaaaake... Why can't I put words together? Why can't I do his next fantasy? I can see it in my head. I know how I'd do it if I were on the phone...

/ding. /light-bulb. Ohhhhhh. I should record it. Give it to him as an mp3. Right. I knew that. /wink. /finger-gun. I'm totally following along here. Not slow on the uptake at all. No, sir, not me. /face-hide. /blush.

So I did an mp3 for him. I had a blast doing it. The orgasm was absolutely real, and it absolutely delighted me. He was happily overwhelmed with the result.

He gave me permission to share with you, my dear blog readers, a passage which I will give to you with great joy, and deeply amused respect, but without comment:

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I am Sexually Accessible (a freebie comic riff response to a serious question)

Feel free to quote me directly when I tell you "People in wheelchairs love having sex!!!" (The exclamation points are very important - LOL)

Seriously, the number one reason I want to stop being afraid of sex is: I think about it all the time and I'd prefer to not fear the thoughts in my head, considering that sex shouldn't be feared.

The way I'm going to explain this is going to sound racist.  Please believe me, I'm not, and I'm just trying to communicate clearly.  I own every label of my disability the way black comedians own "the N word".

MY COMIC RIFF ON THE SUBJECT

I'm crippled, handicapped, disabled, a half-man, a gimp, and I'll even except "retarded", on the first meeting, if you don't mind me knowing that you're a narrow-minded simpleton who likes to group people before saying two words to them.

I'm NOT handi-CAPABLE, dis-ABLED, Physically Challenged (I don't climb mountains every day, I go from a laying down position, to a sitting position.  I don't stand often because I don't like falling over that much.  This might qualify me as a lazy bastard, It certainly doesn't qualify me as PHYSICALLY CHALLENGED).  I'm not Mentally Challenged (unless you call me retarded, at which point I'm trying to calculate how many times I can run you over with my wheelchair before you realize I'm doing it. 
f(ouch) = Size of your stupidity/Size of your brain  Ouch = As long as it makes me laugh (usually forever -- I'm an ass)).

And one thing I'm definitely not is able-bodied, but then again neither are you.  Your condition on this earth, like all conditions in the material plain, is temporary.  Put another way, when you're in your 70s shitting your pants, I will have had decades more experience than you.

END OF RIFF

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My heart isn't broken for him any more. Now it's just full of excitement with him. I get to be part of co-creating happy sex memories, and reveling in the knowledge that they mean even more than just making a rough day a little lighter. Maybe, in some way, they are making a rough life a little more joyous. I hope so.


I'm so very much looking forward to our long and mutually gratifying relationship.

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