Watching television during the day is depressing, particularly if it's during the workweek. Nothing but soap operas, talk shows, infomercials, and those bad ambulance chaser lawyer advertisements showing people like myself saying they'll never walk again.

Eric says that because I can feel my legs, chances are good I WILL walk again. I can only pray that it's true. However, I am at least extremely grateful that I CAN, by the grace of God, feel my cock.

Oh, great. Another exercise machine infomercial blares from the television screen where for only three payments of $49.99 you can work out your lower abs, legs, buttocks, and your wallet for a piece of plastic connected by large rubber bands. But hey, at least there are a couple of shirtless male models flexing their muscles with care and finesse. Me, a married man, watching these boy toys with careless abandonment, feeling the muscle between my immobile legs growing as the young men on the television continue to pose and work out with their clean and sanitized skin.

I reach my hand between my legs and begin to stroke myself, feeling the need for a release when suddenly I hear footsteps approaching the bedroom.

"Drew?" calls out Eric's mother.

I quickly turn off the television but my erection stands like a tent pole, raising the sheet above my pelvis. I grab a pillow, putting it across my waist.

"Yes?" I respond as Mrs. Espinosa enters the bedroom.

"I'm going to the grocery store now. Would you like something special?"

I want to ask her to go to the bathroom and get me some lube, but I refrain. "No. I'm fine."

"I'll be back." And as quickly as she arrived, she's gone. I wait until I hear the front door close before turning on the television. The infomercial is over, replaced by a series of regular commercials before the afternoon brigade of kids cartoons begin. Damn!

I think of masturbating to the images of the naked men in my brain, but I also ponder the thoughts of Eric and I. Him on top of me, our eyes locked, making love--- when suddenly I hear a car in the driveway. But it doesn't sound like my car. Did Mrs. Espinosa forget something?

Suddenly the television goes off, sending the room into afternoon shadows and low light. I look over at the clock radio, seeing the usual digital read out is now completely dark. The house has no power.

I reach for the phone and hear dead silence as FOOTSTEPS are heard moving around the side of the house, jimmying the glass door off the living room. My heart begins to pound, unsure what to do, when I hear the glass door open and a series of fast moving footsteps now spreading through the house. I try to move but it's pointless, my legs are dead weight. I can hear our belongings being tossed into trash bags as FOOTSTEPS move closer.

I immediately think of nothing more than my safety and the robber's realization that there's a gimp in the bedroom. Does he have a gun? Will he hurt me? The FOOTSTEPS enter the room and I shut my eyes, pretending to be asleep.

The footsteps freeze and as I peer through my squinting eyes, I can see a man wearing a type of industrial outfit that looks like a pest removal company uniform, staring at my immobile figure, then quickly proceeding to fill the contents of the nearby dresser into a plastic duffel bag. I think of screaming but I'm afraid of what he'll do. I keep my eyes shut, hearing him leave the room, when suddenly I can feel my erection returning once again. Perhaps the energy I have been unable to use because of my accident is finding a way to release itself. Regardless, as much as I don't want to admit to it, the danger and excitement--- on one level--- is turning me on.

I open my eyes, finding the thief hasn't left the room but is in fact leaning directly above me, his face hidden in the shadows. He puts his hand across my mouth, cupping my scream. I cannot see him.

Before I know it I can feel the stranger's muscular hands moving across my chest as he unbuttons his uniform. He takes my hands, spreading it across his chest hair, moving it to his crotch where an erection stands firm. He moves slowly, comfortably--- he knows who I am.

I can feel his warm mouth across the head of my firm cock, going back and forth. I am immobile and confused because the motion is familiar. His gloved hand moves from my mouth and face, and as I look closer--- I can see the top of his head, his black hair slicked backwards, moving up and down in front of me.

His touch is familiar, his tongue knowing--- and as he looks up, I can see Eric's brown eyes staring me down.

"What are you…?" I mumble.

And then I realize the gift my husband is giving me--- eroticism in a time of pain. Sexual boundaries are being explored, pleasure being given a different name--- in a new game of excitement between two married men.