Date: Sat, 19 Oct 2002 16:43:36 -0700
From: auto240353@hushmail.com
Subject: para boxers episode 3

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para boxers

episode 3

please email the author at auto240353@hushmail.com and
visit the website for this story at http://paraboxers.i8.com

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SCOTT

I watched Steve's car until it disappeared around the corner
at Lake Street. I couldn't believe it. What had I done to
make him run away like that? Was it the comment about him
not being able to get it up? At least I know he likes guys.
Maybe he hasn't had a boyfriend since his accident. I know I
read that paras could enjoy sex. Even if they can't get
hard. But Steve wants to get hard. How would I feel if I
couldn't? A little useless, I guess. Like an old man.
There's gotta be a way. I jogged back into the apartment and
got on the web.



STEVE

I drove fast, probably too fast, my face hot, my eyes
tearing up a little, my hands gripping the controls tightly.
I grabbed the brake too hard at the stop sign and my chest
slammed into the seat belt. I heard something hit down in
the footwell. I looked down; no blood, but my legs were
still sandy from the beach. I thought Scott knew a lot about
paras! Maybe some paras could get hard. My legs didn't
spasm; maybe that meant my dick couldn't get hard either. I
turned right. There was a guy in rehab who had really bad
spasms. He was a T-6, a lot higher than me. Once his legs
jerked suddenly and threw him out of his chair. I didn't
have to worry about that, but I never asked him whether he
got erections. The only person I talked to was the doctor.
As soon as I found out I couldn't feel my dick.

I looked him in the eyes. "Will I be able to have sex?"

He fiddled with the lapel of his white lab coat. "At your
level, the reflexes don't work anymore, so you won't be able
to get erections."

That was all he said. Nobody else talked about it. It was so
depressing there. I left rehab as fast as I could. I just
got my chair and learned how to use it.

I turned into the parking lot of my old club, Mike's
Fitness. I couldn't believe it -- my favorite handicapped
spot, the one on the right of the walkway, was taken. There
was another one on the left. I backed the car in so my door
would open on the walkway. I got into my chair and wheeled
to the back, grabbed my gym bag from the trunk and dropped
it in my lap. I was curious so I went over to look at the
car in the other spot. It was a white two-door, and it
didn't have a placard hanging from the rearview mirror -- it
had handicapped plates, like my car! Whoever it was had a
permanent disability. I got as close as I could to the
driver's door and looked in. No hand controls. Huh. I
wheeled to the curb cut and up the path to the front door.

"Hey Steve." It was the attendant with dark wavy hair. His
string tank exposed his bulging arms. "Where've you been?"

"Hey Mark," I said, wheeling over and stopping near the
desk. "Just around. There's a pool at my new place." I liked
how the desk was the height of a regular table, so I could
see over it easily. At Scott's gym, the desk was up high.

"Let me know if you need a lift," he said, smiling at me. He
sometimes helped me onto the bars so I could do dips. The
feeling of Scott's hard shoulders under my hands flashed
through my mind. I pushed the thought away.

"Sure," I said, and pushed towards the locker room.

It took me a minute to remember the combination to my
locker. I pulled off my tank top and grabbed a clean towel.
My membership here didn't run out until October, so why did
I go and become a member at Scott's gym? I slammed the
locker, but it bounced open. I slammed it again and held it
closed.

The accessible shower was free, as usual, so I folded down
the shower bench and transferred onto it. My feet slapped
onto the tile floor. I noticed the sand on my chair cushion
and brushed it off. I pulled the curtain closed so my chair
would stay dry, then I turned on the shower. My chest
muscles jerked a little as the cold water hit. Spasms? My
dick and legs didn't move at all.

There was sand on the back of my legs and my butt, so I
leaned over and ran my hands under my calves and thighs
until they felt smooth. I put my hand on top of my knee for
support and it felt slimy. Scott had rubbed suntan lotion
there. What was I thinking when I let him do that? It didn't
even feel good. It didn't feel like anything. I tried to
wash it off, but it was waterproof. Slimy legs. Maybe they
would slip through the water better.

I put my left hand under my thigh and pulled. My hips rolled
to the right, and I braced myself with my right hand on the
bench. My left leg crossed over my right and I dropped my
foot on the floor and used my free hand to brush off the
back of my trunks. Then I rolled to the left and got the
other side. I switched off the water, dried off and
transferred back to my chair. I felt the wheels skid a
little on the wet tile as I headed for the door.

The weight machines weren't crowded for a Saturday. Probably
the football game. There was a curly-haired guy I didn't
know on an exercise bike. His eyes followed me as I rolled
across the room. I pushed the glass door open and wheeled
out to the pool area. The sun felt good on my back. Nobody
else was in the pool. I picked the lane next to the wall and
got out of my chair at the shallow end. The deck felt hot to
my hands. I threw my legs into the water quickly to keep
them from getting burned. Five laps backstroke, five
breaststroke, and ten freestyle. The water felt good. I
could almost forget about the tall boy with Abercrombie
looks, silky blond hair and deep blue eyes.

I grabbed the edge of the pool and brushed the water out of
my eyes, catching my breath. There was a foot on the pool
deck near my hand. It was a left foot. I turned my gaze up
slowly. The foot was attached to a muscular calf and thigh,
which disappeared into navy blue racing speedos, cut very
low. His right leg -- wasn't there.

I stared at it. It ended halfway down his thigh in a tapered
stump. I finally pulled my gaze away from the stump and
followed the light skin up a well-built torso and arms, to a
face with short, medium-brown curly hair and piercing blue
eyes that looked into mine. He balanced there on his left
foot, his arms and stump moving back and forth a little. I
looked back down at the stump, then up at his face again.

"You swim real well," he said, looking into my eyes.

I froze for a moment. His eyes were close-set and his nose
was kind of big. His lips looked full but were set in a
line, his expression serious.

"Thanks," I said.

"Race you," he said. He hopped on his left leg, holding the
stump of his right leg up a little, until he stood in front
of the lane next to mine. Then he jumped in, foot first. I
shielded my face from the splash. He surfaced, his hair
slicked down, and stood on the bottom. He didn't need to
hold the edge like I did.

"You gonna race or not? Freestyle, one lap."

Me race someone? I thought. "I can't use my legs, you know."

He sighed. "Yeah, I saw you swim. And I know that's your
wheelchair."

I remembered. "You were the guy on the bike inside! But you
have legs. I mean..." I trailed off, looking down at his
stump.

He gripped the edge with one hand and pulled himself over to
the edge, bending his arm. "I'll push off with my arm, like
you."

I looked down the lane to the end, twenty-five meters away.
"Okay." I tensed my arm.

"Go!" he yelled, and pushed off.

I swam as hard as I could, but I could feel him pulling
away. He beat me by a full body-length. I grabbed the edge
and surfaced.

He was grinning at me. "Awesome, man."

"What do you mean?" I tried to catch my breath.

"You're really good. I've got three classes on you and I
didn't beat you by much."

"Classes?"

"You know, crip swimming." He cocked his head a little.
"You've never heard of classifying?"

"Um, no," I said. I guess I was a crip. "I've only been
swimming for two years, since... you know."

"Only two years?" He whistled. "Are you at State?"

"No, I'm working," I said, wondering if I looked that young.

"I'm a sophomore. We've got a great team this year." He
paused for a moment. "I'm starving. You wanna get something
to eat, and I'll tell you about it?"

The sun was getting low. "Sure. I'm Steve," I said, suddenly
realizing I didn't know his name.

"Brian," he said, reaching over with his right hand while he
gripped the edge with his left. It was the deep end, and
even he had to hang on. His hand felt smaller than mine.

"I need to get out that end," I said, gesturing back.

"Oh yeah," he said, looking over at my chair. "See you
there, then."

He took off. I followed, arms churning furiously. No fair!

It felt like the pool was longer than before. I glanced
ahead. No one there -- and the edge wasn't getting any
closer.

I stopped stroking and looked back. He was holding my
ankles. Laughing his head off.

"You wiseass!" I yelled, bending over and yanking on his
wrists. He let go and I had to tread water with my arms to
keep from sinking. I had to laugh too.

We swam over to the end, in my lane, and he got out facing
the edge of the pool, pushing down on the edge with both
hands until he could get his stump over the edge. He turned
and sat, his foot in the water, facing me. He watched me
lift my butt backwards up to the edge. I pulled my legs out
one by one, crossing them in front of me. I grabbed the
frame of my chair and rolled it closer, put one hand on the
seat, and pushed down on the floor with my other hand to
lift my butt onto the seat. I shifted my butt back and
reached down to adjust my feet so they were flat on the
footrest.

"So how'd it happen, man," he asked, looking at my feet.

I looked at him. "Rock-climbing," I said, thinking that was
the most blunt way anyone had ever asked. Not that many
people asked. They just pretended I didn't exist.

"Bummer," he said, standing up, hopping a little to keep his
balance. He was shorter than I had thought, maybe five-
eight, about the same as me, if I were standing, anyway.

"What about you?" I asked, thinking he wouldn't mind.

"Cancer," he said, and I thought he would leave it at that,
but as I wheeled and he hopped toward the showers, he went
on. "I was thirteen. It was either lose the leg, or die."

I swallowed. "You can walk, though."

"Yeah, fake legs keep getting better and better."

"How come I've never seen you here before?" I asked. "That's
your car in the handicapped spot outside, isn't it?"

"Those are my wheels," he said, and then glanced at my
chair.

"These are my legs," I said, looking at him as I continued
pushing the handrims.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I just drove by and saw this place.
Never been here before."

I went in first and held the door for him. At the locker
room door he returned the favor. I wheeled to my locker,
grabbed a towel, and headed for the accessible shower.















BRIAN

His legs are so thin. I've never seen legs that thin. But
his abs are pretty nice, I guess he's just paralyzed below
the waist. Pretty cool wheelchair, flaming red like he wants
to be noticed. I keep on pedaling and watch him roll out the
door to the pool. He goes around the corner and I can't see
him anymore. Wonder if he's good. I cool down for a minute
and then stop, reach down to pull my right sneaker out of
the footstrap, then step off the bike. My right knee is
locked and it's clumsy as usual. The knee on my new leg is
supposed to be smarter. I walk quickly into the men's room,
open my locker and pull off my T-shirt. I kick off my left
sneaker and pull down my sweatpants and briefs together,
then step out of the left side. I pop the seal on my leg and
pull my stump out of it. I lean the leg against the back of
the locker with my pants and sneaker still on it. I lift up
my stump. It looks a little red. I grab the end with both
hands and squeeze a few times. My Speedos are in my backpack
so I take them out and sit down on the bench. I yank my sock
off and pull my Speedos over my left foot. Then I stand and
pull them up. I scratch my pubes. I hop to the showers and
wash the sweat off. It kind of sucks that there aren't any
rubber mats. There's a handicapped shower, though, and the
bench looks wet. He must have used it. I hop back to the
locker and grab a towel, then head out to the pool.

The wheelchair is there, looking kind of lonely. Like a lost
puppy or something. I guess it's cause it's the only one.
The deck is pretty warm under my foot. He's doing freestyle,
and his form looks great. What if he's some kind of champion
or something? If he's paralyzed below the waist he should be
an S6. I ought to be able to beat the record for the class.
I hop over and stand right near the edge, next to his chair.
I watch him do a few laps. He hasn't noticed me yet.

His hand grabs the edge near my foot and his head pops up.
He sees my foot, singular FOOT, and he looks me up and down,
then he stares at my stump, naturally. I tell him how good
he is and offer to race him. He whines that I have legs. I
offer to start in the water and not kick off the wall. He
says yeah, so I jump in and we go. I only beat him by a
length. I'm so impressed I grin like an idiot and offer to
let him meet the team, and he says sure.

Then he points to his wheelchair and says he needs to get
out over there, so I pretend to race him. He takes off and I
keep pace with him, then halfway down I sneak underwater and
get into his lane. His limp legs twist left and right behind
him. He's not gonna feel a thing. I get behind him and keep
on kicking while I reach out and grab one foot, then the
other. I gradually slow down and stop, treading water. He
doesn't notice he's not moving for like four strokes! He
finally turns around, sees me, and hacks at my arms to make
me let go. We're both laughing like maniacs.

We get to the end of the lane and I get out, and I watch him
get out, picking up his legs with his hands. He gets into
his wheelchair easily. He catches me staring at his
paralyzed feet, just lying there on his wheelchair. I ask
him how it happened, and he says rock-climbing. Then he asks
me, so I say cancer. Not that talkative, but he's got this
great body, at least above the waist.

I follow him in and he actually holds the door for me. I
hustle to the locker room and hold the door for him. It's
embarrassing, I mean, it's harder for him to get through
doors, isn't it? I go over to my locker and pull out my leg.
My pants and sneaker are still attached to it, so I pull off
the pants, then I look for him. He's at the handicapped
shower. I carry the leg over to show him.















STEVE

I was about to transfer to the shower bench when I heard a
loud noise on the tile, slap slap slap. I looked up and saw
him hopping over, carrying something.

"Let me show you my leg," he said, stopping nearby. I turned
my chair to face him. He held it out in front of him with
both hands. At one end was a black Nike sneaker, low cut. I
could see the top of a gray plastic foot in it, and attached
to it was a cylinder of black metal that extended up to the
shiny hinge that was his knee. Above the knee there was more
black metal, and then a large white curvy thing that looked
like a bucket. I reached out to feel it with my right hand.
It was hard plastic.

"That's the socket, the part my stump goes into," he said.
He pointed to a black button thing, an inch or so across.
"This is the suction control."

"It's held on by suction?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, turning the leg so I could see into the
socket. He reached inside and put his hand on the side of
the socket, pushing a little. It moved. "It's made of
silicone. Feel it."

I reached in and felt the soft, flexible lining. "How does
it keep from wiggling around?"

"The outside is rigid, and it has curves that fit my pelvis
tightly," he said. "The inside has to be soft because my
stump changes shape during the day."

"Your..." I found it hard to say. "Stump... changes shape?"

"Yeah," he said, leaning the artificial leg against the
wall. He hopped a little closer, and raised his stump,
cradling it in his right hand. "My stump gets bigger and
smaller depending on the temperature and how hard I'm
working it. Here, you can touch it."

I looked up at his eyes, then back at the stump. "Are you
sure it's okay?"

"Yeah, go ahead," he said, waving his stump around a little.

I reached out with both hands and tentatively touched the
rounded cylinder of flesh, holding it up on the bottom,
touching the top gently. It flattened as I squeezed it. It
was covered lightly with medium brown hair, just like his
left thigh. On the end, near the back, was a scar, about two
or three inches long and U-shaped. I rubbed it with a
finger. The stump jumped a little. I looked up.

"No, that's okay," he said, smiling, his mouth hanging open
a little. "Go on."

Okay, I thought. I squeezed the stump with both hands,
rolling the muscle around. It was really soft. I rubbed the
sides, fascinated by how it felt. I held the stump with my
left hand and stroked the inside with my right, from the end
towards his crotch. He let out a strange noise. It sounded
like a moan. I looked up at his face again. His eyes were
closed.

Then I felt something touch my right hand. It was his dick.
It was growing in his Speedos. I stroked the inside of his
stump again, back and forth, in and out, getting closer to
his crotch. I stared at his dick. It kept swelling until it
popped out the top of his low, low Speedos. It was big,
bigger than how mine used to be, at least I thought so. And
it was cut. And it throbbed. And it pointed straight at my
face.

I leaned forward and took it in my mouth. "Ohh," he said.
His hands reached out and grabbed my shoulders.

I kept stroking his stump, fingertips gently kneading the
muscles, while my tongue caressed his shaft, his tip and the
ridge in between. His stump and dick were the same. My hands
circled around the tip of his stump, and my tongue circled
around the tip of his dick. My hands slid up and down the
shaft of his stump, and my tongue slid up and down the shaft
of his dick. I moved my head back and licked the sweet pre-
come off the tiny hole at the end, and he jumped a little,
his stump twitching, his hands gripping my shoulders hard. I
swallowed him again, deeper this time, and my hands and lips
and tongue moved, faster and faster. His head fell back, his
butt clenched, he groaned, his stump jerked, and he shot.

I let him go and wiped off my mouth with the back of my
hand. The taste was salty sweet. He leaned backwards and
hopped back a little to keep his balance, breathing hard. He
tried to stuff his dick back in his Speedos. I looked down
and felt my own dick with my hand. It was lying against my
right thigh, limp, as usual.

"Man!" he gasped. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"You liked it?"

"It was amazing!"

"I haven't done it in two years," I said. It felt sort of
good. "Since... you know."

"Man," he said. He pulled down his Speedos and hopped out of
them. "I gotta wash off."

"You want to join me in here?" I was surprised the words
came out of my mouth.

He looked at the handicapped shower, then back at me.

I put my hand on his shoulder and looked meaningfully at
him. "There's room for two."

He looked down at my legs, then back at me, and shrugged off
my hand. "No, that's okay." He hopped over to the regular
showers, holding his stump up as usual, his dick bouncing up
and down.

For a few moments I watched him. I transferred to the bench
and started soaping myself down. I kept looking at him
through the curtain. After a couple of minutes he turned off
the shower and hopped over to his locker. He dried himself
off quickly and put on his T-shirt and pants, but not his
leg. He sat down, put on his left sock and sneaker, then
stood up and tucked his rights pants leg back and up into
his waistband. He shut the locker and hopped over, carrying
his leg.

"You know where the main campus is, right?" he said.

I switched off the shower. "Yeah, sure," I said.

"Our next practice is tomorrow at the Aquatic Center," he
said. "Get there at one."

"Wait, weren't we going to get something to eat?" I asked.

"Are you still hungry?" He asked, and he laughed. He hopped
away.

I transferred into my chair as fast as I could, still wet,
and followed him. When I got out the front door he was
unlocking his car.

"Hey, what's the deal?" I asked, rolling down the path. I
stopped in front of him. "I thought you liked me." I felt
pathetic for saying it.

He looked at my face, then down at my legs. I looked too.
They were messily arranged, my right foot half off the
footrest, dripping water.

Then he said, "I'm not gay."

I watched him drive out of the parking lot. What was wrong?
Was it my legs? I smacked my fist into my right thigh. Did I
get anything out of that, I wondered. I guess I could still
give good head.

I started to shiver. I turned my chair around and headed
back in.















BRIAN

And I can't help it, I get a hard-on. And he sucks it. He
sucks it good. But can I do the same for him? Can he feel
anything? I look at his crotch, and there's nothing. Do I
even turn him on? He's sexy above the belt, but his legs are
just wasted. So when he asks me why I'm taking off, I tell
him I'm not gay. He'll be great on the team. What else I can
do. He gives terrific head. I just hope Sean doesn't find
out.















SCOTT

He finally came home around seven. When he wheeled in I said
hey, and he said hey, but he didn't look at me. His hair was
wet, so I wondered if he had gone to the gym after all. I
asked if he had dinner yet and he said he wasn't hungry,
then he went in his room and closed the door. I walked up to
his door and tried to say I was sorry, but he didn't say
anything.

Earlier today I found out that there were lots of ways for
paraplegics to have erections. Viagra only worked if they
could have short-lived or weak erections on their own, and I
didn't think he could have one at all. A penile implant was
kind of drastic. You could stick a needle in your dick,
which made me squirm just to think about, but that needed a
prescription. Then there was the vacuum pump, simple, easy,
not too expensive. I ordered one, next day air so it would
arrive on Tuesday. I knew he still wouldn't feel it, but
maybe it would make him feel better about himself.

Would it make me feel better? I sat down on the couch and
asked myself, did I care if he could get hard? I wasn't
sure. I mean, I guess I liked feeling someone inside me. I
switched on the TV. It was an ad for Herbal Sextasy. I
changed the channel.















STEVE

I played Resident Evil until my vision got blurry, then
flopped onto the bed. I stared at the ceiling a long time
before I fell asleep.

Bright sunlight woke me up. I looked over at the clock. Only
9:42. I didn't want to talk to Scott, so I shut my eyes.

..and I was running on a sea of green, extending as far as
I could see. The sky was blue and clear and it was bright,
really bright. I felt the grass under my bare feet as they
pounded the ground. The energy coursed through my legs. My
legs? I heard someone shout behind me and I turned. It was a
boy with blond hair. It was Scott, chasing me. I ran faster,
but he caught me, grabbed my shoulders, spun me around. Then
he was kneeling on the ground, looking up at me, smiling,
and suddenly my dick was there, hard, huge (was it that
big?) and Scott opened his mouth...

My head jerked up. I was in bed. I tried to get up, but my
legs wouldn't move.

My legs -- I saw the wheelchair waiting there by my bed,
waiting to be my legs. It had been a dream.

The radio was blaring.

"-- just like a couple of tots
Running across the meadow
Picking up lots of forget-me-nots.
You make me feel so young."

Was that Sinatra? I hit the snooze button and fell back on
my pillow. How long had it been since I dreamed about
running? I couldn't remember. I used my chair in my dreams.
It was a part of me. I was okay with that. Why did I dream
about --

Then I remembered. Brian. The swim team. The clock said
12:32! I had to get ready. I got in my chair and wheeled
across the hall to the bathroom. I didn't have time to take
a shower, so I just cathed -- my bladder was really full --
brushed my teeth, tried to comb my hair, but it was a mess.
Then I wheeled back into my room, changed into my Speedos,
pulled on jean shorts over them, threw on a tank top. I
stuck my Birkenstocks on my feet and grabbed my wallet and
keys. When I wheeled into the living room, Scott was sitting
on the couch. He stood up as soon as he saw me.

"Steve, I wanted to say --" he began.

"I'm in a hurry right now, can we talk later?" I said,
wheeling to the door.

He ran over and stood between me and the door. I stopped and
looked up at him.

"Steve, I'm sorry about what happened yesterday," he said.

"Why? You didn't do anything," I said.

"Then why are you mad at me?" he said. He looked really
upset.

I almost said what I felt. That he obviously wasn't able to
accept me with my useless dick. Unconsciously I put my hand
on my crotch. But I couldn't say it.

"I need to go. I'll see you later." I kept my voice cold. I
reached back and placed my hands on my wheels.

He looked at me, then he walked away. I shoved hard, my
front wheels going airborne as I crossed the threshold.

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please email the author at auto240353@hushmail.com and
visit the website for this story at http://paraboxers.i8.com

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