Ever since Eric pulled that stunt pretending to be a burglar, and then proceeded to make love to me in a sex game of great fun and imagination, I’ve been…well, for lack of a better word…horny. I’m not sure whether it’s out of boredom, the fact that it’s great entertainment (it’s the one body part below my waist that works), or just because I’m desperate.

Confined to my bed, I watch daytime television but at least I now know where all the hottest men are and continually flash back and forth between soap programs, hoping to find one of these actor studs in a bedroom scene with some frosted blonde actress helping him take his shirt off.

Bingo! He’s hot.

Obviously, I’d prefer two guys, but soaps haven’t become Colt videos. At least not yet.

My mind suddenly panics, wondering if I’m becoming a sex addict--- just like Eric was last year. I suppose it’d be like suddenly becoming addicted to booze after living with an alcoholic for years. Inevitable? God, I hope not. I can just see myself in a wheelchair arriving at some SA meeting, with people wondering what the hell happened to me. “Well, I was giving a blow job to a guy while he was driving on the freeway and suddenly he lost control of the car and now I’m paralyzed from the waist down--- but don’t worry, Mr. Happy is just fine. Hey, you’re cute. Meet me in the bathroom at break?”

God, my mind. It’s amazing the power it has. Christopher Reeve said after his accident that “we are not our bodies,” and he’s proved it. He really is Superman because I’m not sure I’d have the courage he’s shown. But I understand what he means. We are our minds and our hearts, and can do so very much or absolutely nothing.

Or we can think about that hunky actor in the soap commercial lathering his hairy chest as he smiles. The only way I could be that perky in the morning is if Eric was giving me a tongue bath between my legs. Listen to me! I am obsessed.

I reach forward and turn off the television, hearing Mrs. Espinosa still puttering around in the living room. I wonder if she could hear me jerk off? Oh, forget it. Should I read? Should I look at the morning paper? Should I call up and do some phone sex? That would be hard to explain when the bill came. “Oh gee Eric, I meant to call 976- WAKE but accidentally dialed 976-MUSCLE.” For a minute I think he may be concerned, but would quickly, hopefully, understand my needs.

As I look down at my feet poking through the bed covers, I realize they’re over 6 feet away from me--- they are a part of me, and yet I cannot move them. They are connected, I can feel them, but completely immobile.

Perhaps if I try really hard to move them, if I think to myself that I WILL move them, they will swivel beneath the sheets. I concentrate, shutting my eyes, thinking there has to be a way for them to finally move. In my mind I can see my toes moving, I think of releasing all of my fear and knowing in my soul that I can move my feet back and forth without effort. Ease. Comfort.

I open my eyes and look down at the end of the bed but nothing--- no movement whatsoever.

The earlier eroticism is replaced by a sudden burst of depression, knowing the reality of my situation will perhaps never change. I will be the proud owner of a blue parking placard for my car, a hydrolic lift in the back of a van, and a wheelchair that will be a part of me for the rest of my life.

I shut my eyes one more time, remembering myself as a child, my mother’s hands showing me how to tie my shoelaces. I go over it again and again, looping the new laces but wanting my mother to do it for me. I like the attention she gives me. My little feet squirm as I realize I’ve tied the perfect knots for my little sneakers.

I open my eyes and look down at the bed edge, seeing my feet, when suddenly I notice my big toe moves a fraction of an inch. A feeling consumes my body, a rush. I try to move it again, the electrical impulses from my brain connecting through my spinal cord.