Chasing Seagulls











{April 17, 2009}   A Story

I want to tell a story. Most of my stories so far have been about Cancun. I will continue to give you lots of stories about Cancun because it was one of the most interesting experiences I’ve had. Before that, it was the Crackhouse. I’m not going to tell a Crackhouse story, though. I will fill you in later about the origin of the name and all that, but I’ve got another story to tell.

I’ve wanted to tell this story for a while. The problem is that it’s hard to tell without giving away the identity of myself and those involved. Of course, the only way that would happen is if the people who knew me or the others mentioned were to read this. Of the millions of people out there, those chances are slim, but possible. However, I don’t feel like it’s enough to hold me back from what I want to write. When I started this blog, I promised that it would be as honest as possible, and that’s the way I’m going to keep it.

I had a friend named C. She had a friend named M. I don’t know how they met. All she felt like mentioning to me is that they had fucked. She took me to his house one day and told me on the way over that he didn’t have hands. He had lost them in a sheet-metal accident at his job. Of course, he was compensated extremely well and had bought himself a nice house, an SUV, and all the toys a young man could think of…computer, Playstation, big-screen TV, surround sound stereo system. He even had his own recording studio. All of that didn’t make up for the loss of his hands, but it made him quite comfortable.

He was a really sweet guy. When I first met him, I thought he looked like a teddy bear. He was about my height, which is a little short for a guy, and he was softly built. A nice way of saying a little tubby. He had brown hair and eyes, with a beard. He smiled a lot and was a very intelligent, likeable guy.

His arms stopped a little below the elbow. In place of his hands, he had 2 steel double-fingered hooks. The whole setup was strapped around his shoulders and worked like so: when he stretched his arm out, the “fingers” of the hook would open; bringing his arm toward his body would close the hook.

Watching him do things was fascinating. Things that I don’t even think about, he had to learn to do with no hands. For example, since he was a smoker, he had to do things a little differently. He would shake a cigarette out of the pack and into his mouth. To light it, he used a Zippo. He would roll the wheel of the Zippo down his leg to light the wick. After lighting it, he would smoke the whole cigarette without ever taking it out of his mouth. It would just hang off to the side. To dump the ash, he always had a 2-liter bottle around that was half-full of water. He would lean forward and expertly flick the ash into the mouth of the bottle.

The one thing that he wasn’t able to do alone was light the bong. Either C. or I had to help him with that. During the day, he had a friend come over and help him do little things like cooking and cleaning and lighting his bong. He told us that this guy was leaving town soon, and he was going to have a problem finding someone else that was cool enough to light his bong for him. I offered my services, but I don’t think he took me seriously.

We hung out for a while, smoking weed, then took off. We told him we’d be back later that night and make a party of it. I was really impressed with M., who didn’t seem to be affected by his disability. However, C. told me that he was really shy about going out in public, especially to clubs, because people stared at him. I thought that was awful. There was nothing wrong with him besides the fact that he was missing hands. Shit happens. But I guess people can be stupid sometimes.

We came back later with my boyfriend, T. We all got high, then went to a bar to play pool. T. was really good at pool and cocky about it. When M. said he would play him, T. said, “Alright, I gotta see this.” I was interested in seeing it myself. And he was pretty damn good. Watching him play using only hooks to control the cue was not something you see every day. And he held his own. T. ended up beating him, but M. only had 2 balls left on the table. Not bad.

Through the night, while he was playing, M.’s hair kept falling into his eyes. I watched him flip his head back enough times that I began pushing it out of his face for him. He was such a cutie. I’d never met a guy that impressed me so much. I liked him.

We went back to M.’s house. I started playing on his computer, downloading music. He introduced me to a song called “Shut Up and Fuck” by Betty Blowtorch. I loved it. We talked about everything. It was basically M. and I having our own conversation and C. and T. left to themselves, which was fine by them because I think they were doing some meth together. I found out that M. was a big fan of James Dean, as was myself. We seemed to have so much in common and I was having a lot of fun getting to know him.

A little later in the evening, T. said something to me about it. He said he could sense the chemistry between M. and I. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with it and neither did T. We had what you would call an open relationship. We didn’t fuck around on each other until the end, but it was understood that if we wanted to, we just had to say so. I don’t remember if I wanted to fuck M. at that point, but I was definitely attracted to him.

He took us into his studio and I discovered that he could play guitar and the keyboard. Amazing. To play the guitar, he placed it on his lap and used a slide for the chords. He used his open hooks to play the keyboard. He played both instruments well. He also sang for the band. He said that he had just started learning to play the guitar when he lost his hands. He almost didn’t continue with his lessons, but decided to do them anyway. My admiration kept growing.

We left that night and I didn’t see M. for a few days. During this time, T. and I broke up. (He was shooting up cocaine and I couldn’t handle watching him do that to himself, so we split.) M. had given me his number, so I called him. He invited me over to watch Kurt and Courtney. When I got there, we got stoned and then went into the kitchen to make popcorn. When he started to plug the microwave in, I told him, “I don’t feel good about you doing that.” He said, “Yeah, me neither.”

The real problem came when it was time to sit down with the popcorn. I was just munching away and realized that he wasn’t eating any. Because his hooks closed tighter the closer he brought them to his body, there was no way for him to eat the popcorn without crushing it to bits. So I had to feed him. It started out as funny, but became somewhat sensual. It sounds corny when written down, but he was staring into my eyes with each piece of popcorn I put in his mouth. We ended up having sex on the couch. It was nice and sweet.

When I got ready to leave, I was trying to put my shoes on but having trouble with a knot in the laces. He sat down and asked me if I needed some help. I looked at him, smiled, and said yeah. He got the knot out in a couple of seconds, something I couldn’t do with ten fingers.

The next time I saw him, we had an argument over sex. He thought I wasn’t attracted to him because I wasn’t able to achieve orgasm, which was a problem for me at the time. I tried to assure him that it had nothing to do with him, but he wasn’t hearing it. So I left and never went back to his house.

A few months later, I was delighted to see him at the club. I ran up to him and threw my arms around him. He didn’t seem to have any hard feelings, which was cool. I told him to follow me on my “rounds” so I could introduce him to my friends. He was a good sport about it. I don’t know if it made him uncomfortable, since everyone was shaking his hand, but he seemed alright. Only one guy acted stupid and jumped back when he saw M.’s hook, but then he played it cool and apologized and M. said he was used to it.

That was the last time I saw him. I hope he’s doing well for himself and has found someone to love.



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