Sean part 2
On December 28th in the morning I receive the following email from Sean:
hey what's up here's my addy. ... so your bringing a bag huh...hope that bag has a strap-on or a double sided... never tried neither but would love to learn...if i am gonna try being a bit sub for once i bet u can make it happen...like the idea of catching me with a guy? i have never done that. my ass is virgin and i mean virgin. few lucky guy had me only got head u got my libido spinning...i feel so kinked out i can't contain it in words...your fault!!! wink wink
I type in his address to Google maps and print it out. Oh man, it's going to take me two hours to drive to his place south of Raser City. I hate that southern stretch of highway so much. It's like in the Cake song, the land of race car ya-yas, where you can't change lanes.
As I grit my teeth and grip the steering wheel, surrounded by four lanes of nearly bumper to bumper traffic zooming along at seventy and above, I wonder what the hell I am doing. Fucking Sean. I swore I was done with him. It's been five months since our one and only meeting in person. I feel stupid for how hard I fell for him. After years of dating lukewarm idiots who get nervous whenever I breath the words "boyfriend" or "I like you," it was so wonderful to meet someone who said he wanted to get married. I should have known it was a huge red flag that he was already talking about marriage and kids on the first date. He's clearly someone who doesn't think things through, who only acts on impulse. Exhibit A: the fact that he has a spinal cord injury from a stupid stunt.
And yet I still have kind of a soft spot for him. As we've been talking on the phone and emailing lately, he's opened up to some of his issues about being bi and being ashamed of being kinky, and I have a lot of sympathy for him. While it's clear he's in no shape for a serious relationship, I still like him. And god damn but he is so fucking sexy. So I'm not anticipating that this is the start of anything serious, but I can't say no to a booty call from a hot para.
After a terrifying drive down through late afternoon traffic, the first surge before rush hour gridlock, and after a few wrong turns, I finally pull up in front of Sean's house. I know I have the right place because of the wooden wheelchair ramp out in front, a long slope with a turn, bounded by railings. The house a white bungalow he shares with two or three other dudes.
I ring the doorbell and he lets me in, smiling awkwardly as he wheels backward to reveal a living room littered with red Solo cups, ashtrays with cigarette butts, and several bongs. It looks and smells like a dudebro kind of house. I say hello just as awkwardly, feeling too weird to greet him with a hug and a kiss as if nothing ever happened between us. Two of his roommates drift through the living room and Sean introduces us but they just stare at me incuriously. I know that look. It says, we are not bothering to get to know you. Whatever, I don't want to talk to them either.
Sean hustles me into his bedroom at the far left corner of the house. His room is crammed with junk--more bongs, clothes everywhere, dumbbells, CDs, cardboard boxes and milk crates with more stuff. The walls are decorated with glossy, high-res close up photos of marijuana plants.
I toss my overnight bag in a corner and perch on the edge of the bed, because there isn't anywhere else to sit. He pulls up next to the bed in his chair.
"Thanks for coming over," he says shyly. "I mean, thanks for giving me a second chance. I know I don't deserve it."
"No," I say evenly, staring him in the eye, "you really don't."
"I'm sorry. I know I fucked up."
I kind of want to maintain this attitude of righteous indignation but I didn't drive all this way just to bitch at him. If I didn't want to get over it, I could have stayed home.
Instead of answering, I lean forward and kiss him, gripping one wheel to balance. He puts his huge arms around me, gripping me in a tight embrace against his chest. His stubble tickles my lips as we kiss hungrily. I can hardly even believe I'm here again, with him, after thinking and dreaming and crying over him for so many months.
I scoot back, giving him room to transfer onto the bed. After sliding his butt over, he grasps his pants to swing his legs up onto the bed, one after the other. We kiss some more on the bed, and right away he has my bra off and his hands up under my shirt.
I can hear his roommates moving around in the living room. "Uh, did you lock the door?" I ask.
"Nah, don't worry, they won't come in," he assures me. I guess they know what's going on, but that thought does not put me at ease. I kiss him again, trying not to think about the dudes on the other side of the door.
We lay next to each other, kissing and pressing closer. This is so nice. Honestly often I feel like this is all I ever want to do, just being close, feeling like our bodies are melting into one another. I love the feeling of his arms around me, his rock-hard chest, and wrapping my legs around his, pushing his feet with mine. I put my hand on his hip, rubbing down toward his waist, and encounter the round outline of the baclofen pump. Even as we're lying here, he's still having occasional spasms, his foot twitching up and down.
I think about what Rollerboy once said to me, clearly echoing what he heard in rehab, that every SCI is different. You can, like The Mantis, spend a decade or more as an alcoholic, treat your body like crap, and come out at the other end pretty ok, with no major health issues, only some impressive scars as reminders that you were careless enough to get pressure sores on your heels. Or you can be unlucky like Sean and have endless UTIs and crazy spasms, or other complications right from the beginning.
Another thing Rollerboy said is that it sucks to have an incomplete injury. Sure, he's less likely to get pressure sores, but he's always uncomfortable. I can see it with Sean--those spasms can be painful. He can feel his dick but he can't come, and he doesn't even get the benefit of extra sensitive ears or nipples.
So if vanilla sex isn't doing much for him, why not try something kinkier? Sean kept talking over email and on the phone about how he wanted to try kink with me, since he never had before. Although he seems to think kink means me pegging him, which I am not going to do. SCI and ass play do not go together. If he's sitting on his ass all day long, he has to be extra careful with it. Also I know the main way many paras poop is by sticking something up in there to stimulate the muscles, so there's no way I'm going to replicate that with a sex toy and risk inadvertently making him shit the bed.
My idea is to start with something less risky. I brought my best flogger, which is a cat-o'nine-tails made of thick latex, also a small riding crop, and a set of leather wrist restraints fastened with a d-ring (much safer than handcuffs). This is like the SM starter package--looks impressive but very easy to use.
I hop off the bed and show Sean my gear, but after all that talk about kink, in person suddenly he's nervous about actually trying it for real. I put on the Mistress voice and order him to take his shirt off, then give him a few very light strokes with the flogger, just so he can see what it's like, but he just sits there stone-faced.
I change gears and offer to let him spank me with the riding crop, but after a few half-hearted whacks he's still making awkward jokes and seeming uncomfortable, so I tell him it's ok, we don't have to do any of this if he doesn't want to. I shove all the gear back in my bag.
It's not like vanilla sex is a consolation prize. It's still pretty great to be having sex with a hot para, and oh man is Sean good at oral. He buries his face in my pussy, his callused hands gripping my ass, and his legs tangled up at the end of the bed, spasming regularly like a ticking clock. He knows exactly how to move his tongue, when to go fast or slow, licking or sucking. I come over and over again until I feel like I'm being turned inside out.
Finally I have to push him off, when I'm feeling spent and worn out. He lays next to me, and again we're just cuddling. I ask what he wants me to do for him and he says, nothing, it's ok. There's something deliciously, sinfully selfish about not be expected to reciprocate. I feel a twinge of guilt for being so happy that he just wants to lie there with me, like a cuddly bear in a warm little cave.
As much as I'm enjoying just lying there, though, it's getting to be dinnertime and we're both hungry. Sean orders some pizza and I reluctantly put my clothes back on and follow him out into the living room.
I really really don't want to hang out and make small talk with his bro-y roommates, but when the pizza arrives we share with them. They ask me a few questions about work and school, which I answer in the vaguest way possible, then they ask what I'm doing with a loser pothead like Sean. He laughs and they trade insults in that way that guys have.
As soon as we're done eating I retreat to Sean's bedroom again. It's bad enough that I'm here for a booty call--do I have to watch his roommates laughing about it too? Even though it's not that late, I stretch out on the bed, feeling exhausted.
Sean putters around the room, complaining about the mess which he himself created. He grabs a shoebox full of papers and starts rifling through it.
"Last week I went to a fifth grade class as a motivational speaker, to, like, talk to them about disability and living up to your potential and shit," he explains. "The teacher made them write thank you notes after. Man, these kids crack me up. I want to put some of these on my wall." He flips the pages, reading out loud from the childish scrawl.
Apparently his version of motivational speaking includes lots of stories of his drunk or high escapades because the kids say things like, "You are a badass mofo I want to be like you when I grow up." I have to wonder what the teacher made of this. It reminds me of my driver's ed class in high school, when they brought in a reformed alcoholic, supposedly as a cautionary example. But instead the other kids just wanted to know what her favorite drinks were, how she got booze as a minor, her craziest stories, and she was happy to oblige. It didn't exactly set the tone the teacher had hoped.
Sean thinks this is all hilarious. He cackles about setting a bad example for the kids.
By this point, it's getting pretty late and I'm feeling sleepy. I confirm with him that he's ok with me sleeping over, and he says yes, so I start to get ready for bed. Luckily, Sean has the master bedroom so there's a small bathroom connected and I don't have to venture out to brush my teeth and wash up. He wants to take a shower before bed, so I sit on the toilet lid and watch as he transfers to the shower bench then tucks the plastic curtain under his ass to keep the water from going all over the floor.
This is one of the great advantages to being out as a dev, I can watch these everyday things to my heart's content without trying to hide my interest. Sean knows why I'm watching him but he's cool with it. He chatters away about shampoo, conditioner and such, and which are the best to use. He's surprisingly passionate and well-informed about hair care products. This must be the work of an ex-girlfriend. He lectures me at length about how I'm using the wrong products for my long hair and need to switch brands. I just smile and nod, watching as he transfers back into his chair without putting a towel down on the seat first, which seems like a bad idea, but hey, it's his routine.
After a cursory rub down with a towel, he wheels back into the bedroom and pulls on a t-shirt and sweat pants, squirming around in his chair to slowly work each leg up over his hips. I lay down in the bed, thinking we might have sex again, but no, he keeps pushing around the room, looking through papers, putting things here and there.
Eventually he cracks open his laptop, as if an afterthought, and opens up Craigslist.
"Gotta see if I got any replies," he mutters.
I sit up sharply on the bed. "Replies to what?"
"Oh nothing. I put up joke personal ads with the most messed up shit I can think of and see if anyone writes back. Look, here's one: 'M for F: Donkey punch, felching, cream pie. Whatever you're into I will make your fantasies come true.' Hey I got a reply, it says, 'Dude there's something wrong with you. Get help!'" He barks with laughter then starts speaking his reply out loud as he types, "Thanks for the reply. I'm in love with you. I want to come all over your face. Give me your number so we can make your donkey punch fantasies come true." He hits send.
"What the hell are you doing?" I've seen those ads. It makes me queasy to realize he's the one posting that vile bullshit.
"What?" He looks up at me with wide-eyed innocence. "I'm just messing. There's some crazy shit on Craigslist."
I can't believe I have to spell it out for him. "You met ME on Craigslist!"
Ugh, I give up. I fling myself back down on the bed, while he continues to troll anyone foolish enough to reply to him, then posts a few more new ads in the same vein for good measure. By the time he closes the laptop and transfers into bed, I'm so disgusted and exhausted that I just roll over and go to sleep.
Or try to sleep. Sean lays on his back and snores away, while his legs spasm the entire night, his feet jerking as regularly as a metronome. The movement makes the entire mattress shake. It's like trying to sleep while someone is jostling your shoulder, trying to wake you up.
Also his mattress is the worst. He has one of those thick foam rubber things but it must be a cheap knockoff because it doesn't breathe at all. My back is covered in sweat. It's like sleeping on a sheet of plastic. I toss and turn, trying not to disturb him, until the gray morning light starts to filter in through the blinds.
After dozing fitfully through the early morning, I carefully stretch my stiff legs. When I was with Rollerboy, I used to cuddle up to him in the bed when I woke up in the morning, rubbing my legs along his affectionately. I somehow didn't make the connection that my touch was triggering spasms, stronger than usual after his legs lay mostly immobile all night long.
"You've been doing that on purpose?!" Rollerboy asked in frustrated disbelief when I wondered aloud if there was some connection between my embrace and his spasms. I learned my lesson and tried not to touch his legs until he woke up and stretched first.
I try not to touch Sean for this same reason, but it's no good, his double bed is just too small. My shifting around wakes him up. A second later, he's doubled over with spasms, not just in his legs but in his belly as well. He curls up on his side, his knees drawn to his chest and head down, grunting and moaning.
He's in serious pain, maybe worse than I have ever observed in another person. No wonder he has the baclofen pump, if he has to go through this every morning. How much worse would the spasms be without it?
As his grunting goes on and on, I feel intensely guilty. Not just for triggering the spasms, but for being a dev in general. Is this what I find so fucking sexy? I hate seeing him suffer, and I wish he wasn't in pain. But this is part of his reality of SCI, and his injury is the whole reason I'm here right now in this bed with a guy I really should not be sleeping with.
After about five minutes, Sean slowly relaxes.
"Are you ok?" I ask hesitantly.
"Every fucking morning!" he grunts, dragging himself into his chair and off to the bathroom to cath. He pushes back a few minutes later and flings himself back onto the bed with a sigh.
His legs are still spasming like crazy, so he goes through a slow stretching routine. As he has an incomplete injury, he still has enough muscle tone to lift his right leg a couple inches off the bed and slowly flex his knee a few degrees.
"Wow!" I had no idea he could do that. He lifts the left leg and does the same thing. "That's amazing!"
He flicks his gaze over to me for a second then rolls his eyes with a snort. "Whatever. It's just a leg."
Once again I'm stricken with guilt. I've gone too far with my dev gaze, showed him too much of my weird desires and it creeped him out.
We don't try to have morning sex, or even kiss or cuddle. As I get dressed, Sean comments that he has a lot to do today, people coming over, errands to run, etc etc. Whatever. I get it. I don't want to stick around either. I am so done with him.
"Yeah, I gotta get home too," I say as I grab my things and throw them in my duffel bag.
Luckily there is leftover pizza from the night before in the fridge, because I am starving. I wrap two cold slices in a paper towel to eat on the drive home.
Sean follows me to the door as I leave and sits at the top of the wheelchair ramp, watching as I get in my car. I wave goodbye, and he doesn't even wait until I turn the car on and pull out of his driveway before he's turned to go back in the house.
I turn the key in the ignition, staring at the back of his chair as he vanishes inside. I will never see him again, never talk on the phone or email him anymore.
During the long drive back home, I feel a complicated mixture of regret and relief. Coming down here was a mistake. But at the same time, it's given me the closure I so desperately wanted when he disappeared. Now I know one hundred percent for certain I do not want to be with him, not even as a friend. If it took a disastrous, embarrassing hookup and a night of sleep deprivation to realize that, so be it.
The sleepless night with Sean takes its toll, because by the next day I have yet another cold, and by New Years Eve I'm feeling super sick. But I still have to go out because I have this superstitious belief that whatever I do on the exact stroke of midnight will be what I do for the entire year, and because I promised Lulu, who is also between boyfriends at the moment, that I would be her date for the night.
We hit the downtown clubs, me trailing behind Lulu in a haze of cold medicine and tissues, feeling kind of gross and exhausted. Right before midnight we find ourselves in a small basement club with a low ceiling and a tiny dance floor. I turn around and there's an attractive young para woman in a manual chair, her girlfriend straddling her lap, with her tongue down her throat. Watching them going to town on each other like that, not caring what anyone else thinks of them, I silently cheer them on. I elbow Lulu and she laughs appreciatively. As omens go, spotting a hot lesbian wheeler making out with her girlfriend seems encouraging. Maybe the coming year will be better for me than the last.
January 5th is the date that Trip and I set for our next meeting. It's been weeks since I saw him last, because he traveled back east to see his family over the holidays. I've been trying not to expect anything from him or get too excited to see him again, but the flirty emails we send back and forth in anticipation of the date have got my imagination going.
The morning of the 5th Trip sends me an email with one word in the subject line: Disaster.
Girl, I hate to say this, but I think our meeting of the minds today is not going to work. My car will not start. I've got to bring it in and fix it this morning and there's no way I can get it towed and repaired and make it there in time. Looks like we will have to postpone this until I come back. Damn it. Sorry a thousand times, for you and for me too.
Despite my best efforts to moderate my expectations, I'm disappointed. Not just for this one day, but because he's leaving in a few days for China, some writing project or something, and he'll be gone for a month. Oh well, I tell him it's ok and to contact me when he gets back.
Two weeks later, I get an email from someone whose name I don't recognize. Shruthi, why does that name sound familiar? Oh right. It's Trip's girlfriend. While he's in China, she looked through his email and saw our steamy correspondence. Of course. What an ass he is. I can't believe he wasn't more careful. Her message is short and pleading. She's so confused and wants to know what is going on between us.
I think it's pretty obvious what is going on, but I am not going to be drawn into a fight with her. They have to work out their relationship themselves. I forward Shruthi's message to Trip without comment. I don't answer her.
The first email I receive from Trip has the subject line "Returned," with just one line of text under it:
That fucker. Is that really all he has to say?
I write back,
Your girlfriend totally busted you.
Yes, that's what I was going to say.
I have had it with him. If he wants to talk to me, why won't he say more? If he doesn't want to talk, why write anything at all? I'm ready to break it off with him. I write,
Uh, ok, so then what's going on? And please be clear--these cryptic one-line emails are meaningless.
She left me, if that's what you mean. I'm not happy about it and don't feel like doing much. Nothing cryptic about that. Nice to have met you and sorry for getting you into this drama. I wish you well.
Ok then. I write,
I'm sorry to hear it. I wish you well too.
After that I assume I won't ever hear back from Trip again, but it's always the ones I least expect who keep hanging around, messaging me out of nowhere with their regrets. At the end of March, I get another email from Trip with the subject line, "she hate me." He writes,
I don't blame you. That was a fucked up thing and I'm sorry I visited it on you. She's gone for good now, for better or worse. Probably better when I think about it, but it ended harshly.
Again, sorry for that. I'm not really so messed up.
Well. Maybe I should feel more bad about it, but I don't care what happens to him. Shruthi is better off without him, that's for sure. He claims he's not so messed up, but I think this is exactly who he is--a player whose main regret is that he got caught. I'm not proud of sleeping with him. I know I shouldn't have done it. And I'm not sad it's over. But I also don't feel that guilty over it. Maybe I should, I don't know.
I don't write back to him.