Handy Capped

The following episode is rated CI, for Cringe-Inducing. Averting the eyes is recommended for the faint-of-humor.

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“Hire the handicapped. They’re fun to watch.” – from the Book of Tasteless Jokes

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This happened a couple of years ago.

I was roaming around the bathhouse when I chanced upon a room with its door slightly ajar. I peered inside. The guy was seated on the bed, his towel modestly covering his crotch and legs. A cap covered his eyes. Infurnezz, his upper body is well-developed, I said to myself. Why not?!

He motioned for me to enter. When I locked the door, he didn’t budge from where he was seated. So I started putting the moves on him and he responded. I gently pushed him onto the bed. Slowly I removed his towel, anticipating that I will finally admire his stiff, throbbing—

—polio legs. His legs were deformed; one was shorter and thinner than the other.

My mind immediately kicked into high gear: Survival mode, activate!
“No wonder his torso is well-developed.
Maybe he doesn’t look that bad with the cap off.
Oh no, I locked the door already!
The polio affected only his legs, not what’s between them.”
The thoughts came fast and furious. But one thought overrode everything else: Go through with it, dammit!

So I did. At first I had to ignore the lower half of his body. I mean, gimme a break here! What would you do if you found yourself in that situation? I had a few seconds to wrap my head around the idea of having sex with a handicapped person—I was a virgin in that area. But theater taught me to focus, dammit! Soon he was moaning and groaning. My lips and tongue explored every part of his, ah, upper body. My hands tag-teamed with my mouth, sliding up and down his chest, his back, down to—

—I touched his shorter leg. Eep! In panic, my mind kicked into theater mode again: “Focus! Focus! FOCUS!” But wait! A new thought hit me: So what if he’s handicapped? What if I used his polio legs to—pardon the pun—kick up the kink-ante?

Scientists, trainers and problem-solvers call this “reframing”. Reframe the situation, and see things in a different way.

I quickly got past the initial shock. In the end we both got—again, beep! beep!—a kick out of the experience.

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This happened a few weeks ago.

I was standing in a corner of the bathhouse, watching prospects, unreachables, never-minds and ano-ka-sinusuwerte?s walk by. He looked my way, paused then stood beside me. He peered closely at my face (it was fairly dark where I was standing). Apparently I passed his standards; his hands started groping. My turn to peer into his face—hmmm, not bad, ha. He was an earlier rough draft of John Loyd Cruz; years earlier Mother Nature hadn’t perfected the look of Lloyd yet. Not exactly in the best of shape (he obviously doesn’t go to the gym and has the start of a beer belly), but hey! Variety is the spice of life, di ba?

So with “Colors of the world, spice up your life!” playing in my mind, I proceeded to slam it to the left, shake it to the right with him on the hallway. He was frisky! Pretty soon we were attracting attention, so I turned to him and whispered, “Do you have a room?” At first he didn’t pay any attention, so I put my mouth close to his ears and asked again. When he noticed me leaning over, he stopped me, and made several gestures, one towards his ears and another towards his mouth.

Oh! He’s a deaf-mute.

It wasn’t my first time to do it with the hearing-impaired, but at least the previous one could still make moaning sounds. This guy seems incapable of making any sound from his mouth (except slurping sounds when he… uhm, nevermind). So again, my theater skills helped me communicate with him. Using mime, I invited him over to my room. And there, using body language we tackled deep, penetrating subjects. It was a silent film complete with jerky movements.

Afterwards we made an attempt at small talk. We spelled out our names on the bed sheet. We held up fingers to give our ages. Afterwards we were silent. (D’uh.)

But the “forced” silence changed the atmosphere in the room. I had the urge to be physically demonstrative to him. I kept throwing kissing at him. He cuddled nearer to me and placed his head on my chest. We looked affectionately into each other’s eyes; no words said, but his eyes spoke volumes.

Later when he was walking out the door, I said, “Ingat!” intending it as a private joke for me (a reference to John Lloyd’s paracetamol ad). Then I realized he didn’t hear it at all and the joke was on me.