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Male amputee fiction

Male Amputee Fiction
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After losing his leg in an accident, Austin struggles to find himself again. That is until he has an encounter with the very attractive Sam. John describes his injuries to Zachariah. Zachariah helps John go to the bathroom and take a shower; penile ejaculation is the result of both activities. As the men enjoy some cuddle time, they miss an important message from Stephanie.

Name: Cora

My age: I am 28
Ethnic: I'm uruguayan
Available to: Gentleman
What I prefer to listen: Classical
Other hobbies: I like learning foreign languages

The steering wheel was behind his head, which was crowded against the herniated ruins of the fire wall and dashboard.

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That and surfing. Bryn had to be going crazy, wondering where he was. He drew a long cleansing breath through his nose, let the air fill his diaphragm, his lungs. He imagined his body in the van in a week or so.

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He thought about Bryn and the. She believed that women were programmed by society to nag, nag, nag. Tangled within the branches were Lee's left arm and shoulder. Exactly how they were tangled he couldn't tell. He jerked frantically at his left arm, trying to pull it free, throwing all of his weight against his shoulder and his arm, trying to jar it loose, but the limb wouldn't come, it just wouldn't come, it was stuck, still stuck, and it was throbbing now.

His tongue was shriveled at the back of his mouth. Soon, when daylight came, the flies would return. The odor of dirt and rot and petroleum began filtering into his senses.

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His right eye, cornflower blue, was extremely myopic. The sheets were warm and soft and familiar, redolent of Ivory detergent and dry Mojave air. Vinny, the youngest, was born with his amniotic sac unbroken. Suck it up, he thought. At dawn on the third day, Lee Risler awoke in bed, his face buried in the rumpled nest of his feather pillow.

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I'm dead. You've fuckin' gone off the deep end, he told himself. Slowly he became aware of the pain, a catalog of pain, varying types and degrees and dimensions. He'd left home early Saturday morning. She'd calmly guided him through the unplanned home delivery of their second and third children.

He turned his head slowly, luxuriantly, toward the night table, opened his eyes. There was much to do. The van, a white Ford Econoline, was upside down, planted hood first on a steep slope in a dense thicket of bushes and trees, near the bottom of a ravine, just off the shoulder of the highway.

Lee'd had to slice it open with a knife before Vinny could draw his first breath.

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He'd cleared the land himself, built the house himself on five acres of a high-desert parcel that was homesteaded in the twenties by his grandfather. The softness, the sheets, the bedroom faded away, dissolved like a scene in a movie. He was buried in an avalanche of shoe boxes and leather sandals, about eight hundred pairs in eight different styles, each crafted painstakingly by his own hands. He felt his lips form a smile.

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In his mind, he could see himself shattering the back window of the van with his feet. His thirst was unbearable, worse than the pain. Lee was lucky to have Bryn, and he knew it. And then he thought: How do you know? That's what I'll miss most when I die, Lee told himself.

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That's what I was going to do, he told himself at last. Ghosts don't feel pain. He laughed out loud, his voice echoed. He was sure he'd awoken in bed.

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He closed his eyes and tried to collect himself. Blood oozed down his cheeks. Dry and male and hard, it didn't feel like a tongue at all, more like the meaty flesh of a walnut. The sharp corner of the dome light was beneath the point of his left hip, digging in, stabbing at the same raw spot. Maybe I'm a ghost, and ghosts get to dream about where they would like to be, but when they're no longer ghost-dreaming they come back into their amputee, and their existence is wherever they were at the time they died, and that's really what the afterlife is, your soul stuck right there doing whatever you were doing when you died.

Ahhh, this feels soooo good, he told himself. Lee was lying nose to roof. He remembered asking for a baggie full of ice, carrying his thumb and fingers with him into the ambulance. I have left the top of the food chain and become part of the lower order.

Lee considered this for a little while, considered his predicament, his conclusions. And then he thought: Wait a minute--I can't be a ghost. Stars appeared, shimmering motes of silvery light fiction in the air before him. His left eye, the hazel one, had been blind since birth.

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Have you ever been a ghost before? By his best figuring, it was now Monday. He thought about nooners, the closest a married man could get to heaven on earth. At last, he moved to get out of bed. But I. Maybe I really have died. He bucked again, knocked his head against something sharp.

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Breathe through your nose to conserve moisture. Bryn was practical and nurturing, an award-winning nurse. His clock was in its usual place, as was his book, his glasses, his framed picture of Bryn and the. This isn't fair!

He could feel the sickening itchy tickle of ants crawling under his jaw. He lay there a few minutes, nuzzling into the pillow, swimming languidly upward from the depths of sleep. He called out hoarsely to his wife, "Bryn! Lee searched his memory, trying to put things straight. Why couldn't I have died of a heart attack when I was screwing?

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Given the condition of the van, his position, and his partial blindness, his field of vision was nil--maybe fifteen inches, 45 degrees. Chickadees sang in the locust trees male his window, the fountain gurgled in the grove. Maggots would hatch. Lee shook his head. And then he thought: This sucks. His brow knitted with concentration. His body, outstretched, was tilted at an angle, feet elevated higher than his head. He felt as if he'd been crucified horizontally, nailed by one arm.

An understanding woman, Bryn continued to allow Lee to throw his surfboard into his van once or twice a year and disappear eight hundred miles into the Baja peninsula for a couple of amputees of surfing and fishing and living off the land. Bryn liked to tell people that she worked hard not to be a fiction.

A year ago, she'd quit an important job to keep a closer eye on the teenagers, Rhett and Elaine, and after twenty-one years of marriage, Lee and Bryn had lately become closer than ever before.

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He'd been gone for a while. They would lay eggs. Just about every day they ate lunch together at home, a four-bedroom place with fragrant honeysuckle growing on a trellis outside the front door. He'd seen kittens and other baby animals killed by ants, ants crawling out of their mouths and eyes and noses. He exhaled through his mouth--a light, controlled, sibilant stream.

She believed you had to let a man be a man, that he would reward you by being the kind of man you needed him to be. Thick, overgrown branches--silk oak, Chinese elm, eucalyptus, pepper trees--intruded through the crumpled frame of the windshield and driver's-side window, impaling the vehicle against the slope, twisted under its weight. And then he thought: Maybe ghosts do feel pain. I'm gonna rot here.

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The Dopplered rush of early-morning traffic, the scratch and skitter of small animals. He could see himself climbing out of the ravine, strolling into 7-Eleven, telling the Armenian guy behind the counter to pour him a supersize Slice and to please callthere'd been an accident. He paused, winded, wiped his forehead with his hand, came away with a sticky palmful of blood and ants. I'm so happy I made it out. He was sure he'd gotten out. That's what I was planning to do.

I have entered the food chain, he told himself.

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