Mobility Ch. 01

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In traditional hip disarticulation—the surgical removal of the entire lower limb at hip level—the ball is separated from the socket of the hip joint, with the removal of the entire lower limb. These amputations mean the loss of three weight bearing joints – the hip, the knee, and the ankle – definitely more difficult and complex than losing one or two, which in itself is difficult enough.

Hip-disarticulation amputations are among the rarest. According to the 2000 census, out of the U.S. population of 281 million people, 1.5 million are amputees, and less than 1 percent of these individuals, or approximately 10,000 people, are hip-disarticulation amputees.

These high-level amputations, by starting to involve the core of the body—not just a limb or even two—carry unique physical and emotional impact. They have an increased impact on self-image, There’s increased worry and stress as these surgeries start encroaching on that personal area involved in central body functions and gender identity.

The surgery usually spares bowel, bladder plus genital appearance and function, but the person is essentially cut in half.

Finding a compatible lover and sexual partner to perform intimate acts is fraught with difficulties of trust and perception.


For the first few days, it was simply awful. Though I’d exercised at a local gym, I ached and groaned with the effort of tricycling down and then up—mostly up, it seemed—the back roads of rural Pennsylvania. I slept in farmer’s fields and ate food bought in small stores, or at roadside stands. I had to buy toilet paper and pain meds. I slept exhausted but with nightmares, speaking to no one, beyond my basic purchases.

As one would expect, I got tougher, dropped some weight, re-learned to live simply and gradually increased my mileage until I was averaging 150 miles a day in the mountains and more than that in the flatter mid-west. I avoided all population centers, except for small towns. I ate sparingly and drank water copiously, sweating most of it out in cycling mileage.

I bought cooking gear and other things needed for a long-term tour by tricycle. My gut peeled away, the nightmares ended and I became tough and content.

In weekly touch with my attorney, now managing the 10% of monies my ex-wife was forced to cough-up, I heard snippets of information about an un-official, region-wide man-hunt for me, un-successful. This was not surprising, considering that I was traveling by tricycle, off-grid.

[You don’t believe me, one man against a multi-billion-dollar, ruthless corporation? OK, you try asking just ONE question of all the people who might possibly have this information within a 50-mile radius of a certain courthouse or condo. It’s just not possible to do that. Too many people. Too many false leads. After the middle of the second day, I was well beyond that radius.]

I also heard about the antics of my former wife, as she accumulated wealth and position by prostituting herself to gain clients for her company and keeping the executives with her company happy. She caused a couple of divorces, when the wives found out about the corporate whore and her internal company ‘services’.

My data-analytic skills noted that her company and her boss became more and more dependent on her willing body to be available to them, neglecting sales innovation.

I could see distant disaster for them looming on the business horizon, although my concern was abstract: they’d ‘made-their-bed’ by accepting her skills as a corporate prostitute for getting and keeping contracts, and they soon would have to deal with that devil’s bargain.

Across Ohio and the Mid-West states, until I came to the Rocky Mountains. Through Denver and then Boulder and finally into the series of passes that led to the high desert, on roads that bordered the Interstate Highway. I continued camping fethiye escort in small spots, though now fully-equipped for a Colorado night (high altitude and cold), although I could now stay at motels when bad weather struck, which was about 2 nights in a week.

Which is why, several months later, I found myself at a highway pull-out, overlooking the descent into Glenwood Springs, and about to have my Damsel-in-Distress gene activated.

The pull-out was just a wide place in a well-maintained Colorado paved road. OK for taking a brief rest or letting the car’s radiator cool down. Nothing special, not even a water source. Just a pretty view into the valley above Glenwood Springs. I pedaled onto the packed surface, tired but thrilled to think of a well-earned motel, a shower and a good meal instead of another dirty campground or farmer’s field.

The only other vehicle in the pull-out was a small van, though somehow parked hard up against the guard-rail that kept people and kids from tumbling down the steep slope just beyond. Idly, I thought that the van’s passenger side doors would be blocked shut, so the driver would have to get out on his or her side. No biggie.

That thought fled when I saw a long, dark-skinned arm wave a handkerchief out the driver’s side window. Then I heard the woman’s voice call out, “Help me, please. Help! I’m stuck and I can’t get out. My tire is flat and the van won’t start any more. Please help!”

Cautiously going up to the van’s door, I quietly said, “Sure, I can help you out. Get the jack out of the trunk area, please, so I can get the tire off and the spare put on.”

I heard muffled sobs, then a tearful voice that said, “I can’t. I’m an amputee. I can’t move around without my power wheelchair and it’s stuck inside, with me. I’ve been here hours, waiting for some help. I think the jack is at the back, along with the spare tire. The flat’s over on the other side, and right up against the guard-rail.”

The spare tire, jack and handles found, I located the flat tire right against the rail, as expected. Several minutes of knuckle bashing, swearing and sweat, I got the tire’s lug-nuts off, evidence that the threads had never been greased. I wondered what else I was gonna find not done or gone wrong, almost as a premonition of things to come.

The spare tire only held half pressure, so out came my little tire compressor, hooked to my electric-assist. It ran off my battery assist until the overheat light came on, but brought the car tire up to 30 psi. I re-mounted the spare onto the lug threads, with a little grease on each of the threads and tightened up the nuts.

Then it was time to s-l-o-w-l-y move the van away from the guard-rail, luckily down the slight slope of the pull-out area. Push and pull, a few inches at a time. I dropped on the ground, exhausted.

Then I heard the ‘click-groan-whine-silence’ of an all-but-dead battery, as my still unknown van driver tried to start her engine. No dice!

Her slim arm re-appeared with a cold bottle of water, for which I said “thanks,” and gulped down. Still talking to an arm and a woman’s voice, she said, sadly, that “The bottle was the last of the iced ones.”

Getting my strength back, I asked her to un-latch the hood, so I could check the oil and other fluid levels. Yeah, I know, check the engine oil when hot. Screw that, as I already had a bad feeling. The dipstick barely registered any oil at all. The power-brake fluid was OK, seen through the translucent container, as was the power-steering fluid, but the transmission fluid had little flecks of something suspended in that fluid, so I knew she’d need a transmission flush and fill, ASAP. The radiator fluid was low, too.

I flagged down a passing car and negotiated a price for 2 quarts of engine oil. When The driver heard the woman’s voice from the van and that she was an amputee, she got a jump-start, too and my escort fethiye money was returned. Just a short request, something about ‘paying it forward,’ as the guy drove away.

I folded up my trike and loaded it, along with my camp-out and personal gear, into the van’s living space, then joined the driver in the passenger’s seat, as she carefully eased the van out onto the road and started down toward town. I noted the hand-controls of the van, and looking, back, the tied-down wheelchair.

I didn’t like the sound the transmission was making and there was another dull-screech coming from under the rear.

For the first time, I was able to get a good look at my damsel-in-distress. Wow! She was a darksome maiden. Very dark, almost coal black, wearing her hair in medium-length braids. Big boobs, but set high on her chest, and with little sag, from what I could see, which wasn’t much, as she wore a dirty, bulky sweatshirt running down to a folded blanket grouped from her hips down.

I guessed she was an above-the-knee amputee, and not able to use a cane or crutches to get around. She had a scarf around her neck and dark-glasses. Traces to her last-shed tears marred her lovely face and African’s thick lips. A doll, to my way of thinking.

I thought, “It had been sooo long since my last … no, don’t go there.”

We exchanged names, me being Cymrick Beckham, which, as usual, needed a spelling, pronunciation and an explanation. Mom was Welsh and Dad was American, but both deceased now. I said I was a Data Analyst, but now on an extended tricycle touring/camping vacation across the USA, but partly to hide from my vindictive ex-wife, giving as few details as I could get away with, right then.

She being Kimbra N’tongha, Nigerian-American, an ex-fashion model from New York, but having been in an auto accident about 2 years before, which cut short her career, but paid off with a large settlement, disability insurance and having had her legs and body insured beforehand. I gathered that she’d been close to suicide several times and that the van she depended upon to transport her and provide living space was falling apart.

I pointedly didn’t ask her about her legs or how she got around to shop and live, figuring that she’d tell me when she was good and ready. Not realizing that ‘good-and-ready’ was less than an hour away.

In fact, when she pulled up the short ramp into the motel’s parking area, the disasters started piling on, one after the other. We both heard the dull ‘clang-thud’ of a transmission failing, defaulting into the snail’s pace of 1st gear. This was followed by another ‘skree-clang’ as her overworked, oil-starved engine threw a rod. The engine itself, on opening the hood, was spewing dirty green foam, indicating that the head-gasket had blown. The long-suffering, underpowered battery finally boiled itself dry in a cloud of acid-laced steam. Then the rear-wheels seized. Finally, the engine gave one last shudder and torqued/twisted itself off the worn motor mounts, bending the drive shaft to the rear wheels.

Im other words, within a minute, Kimbra’s van had gone from a functioning handicapped transport and living space to a steaming, oil-dripping pile of useless metal junk.

Naturally, when I retrieved her power wheelchair, the batteries were flat discharged. When I quietly pushed her to the motel’s front desk, it was to find that the place was full, except for the expensive handicap suite, which I paid for and got her inside, as fast as possible. While I was back outside, gathering what I could find of her things and my minimal change of clothes, I returned to find the she’d levered herself up on the King-Size bed, covered what I thought were her shortened legs with her grubby blanket and was quietly sobbing, drooling tears onto a pillow held to her grubby, dirty face.

She wailed, “I’m ugly. No one wants me. Nobody even wants to touch fethiye escort bayan me. I used to be beautiful but now I’m a wreck. I’m fucking cut in half.”

Then she added, “And I have to piss so bad it hurts and my wheelchair is across the room and the battery is flat so the motor won’t work and …”

This had to be solved and quickly, so I said, in an even voice, “Do you trust me, even a little?”

I heard sniffling but then a small voiced, “Yes, just a bit … maybe a bit more.”

“OK, then, put your hands around my neck and hold tight. I’m gonna carry you to the bathroom and you can piss. I need to go too.” Suiting actions to words, and not letting her make an objection, I guided her dark arms around my neck, hands locked and carefully lifted her up, off the bed. The blanket fell away, but I wasn’t paying attention.

My hands were under her naked butt cheeks, I lifted and steadied her and maneuvered to the toilet in the bathroom, sitting her down on the ring. I stepped back momentarily, as she settled there, her hands searching for the supports on the sides of the toilet.

Suddenly, I realized. She had no ‘stumps’ of legs. My chance-met van-driving companion was completely legless.

There was no time to stare, though, because she started to urinate and it came out with a rush, stinking strongly and demonstrating that she’d been drinking very little liquid, so as not to use the bathroom ‘facilities’ very often. I swore to myself that I’d change that behavior and get her back to liquid health.

I looked up, to see that my companion had pulled her dirty and stained sweatshirt over her head and had thrown it in the corner of the bathroom. All that remained was a grubby bra and a lot of coal-black skin.

Then she giggled. Actually laughed at the both of us. I passed her a wad of toilet tissue from the roll and she wiped herself down.

I lifted her, hands again around my neck, up to the surface of the bathroom’s sink, where I ran warm water. Taking one of the clean washcloths that were supplied, I wet it, soaped it and then tried my best to clean her ‘lady-parts’. Her giggling increased and I saw the bra sailing over my head, to land on the sweatshirt in the corner.

Looking up, I saw the darkest, blackest, total nude half-woman and I lost it. Lost my sense of propriety. Lost my good behavior. I bent down and took a big sucking kiss of her right boob, tasting sweat, dirt, unwashed skin and woman, all at once, as I sucked on the breast and nipple. When I transferred my attentions to her left boob, the giggling reached a high-pitch squeal. I finally lost all good sense, as I fell to my knees and latched onto her ‘lady-parts’ with my lips and tongue, holding on to her now stiff-nippled boobs with both hands, finger-tip on her fantastically-stiff nipples.

She stiffened and screamed, “Oh, no. Don’t. Stop. I don’t want … Stop. Don’t.”

Right then, suddenly and without warning, her back arched, her buttocks clenched and she had an orgasm, shooting a blast of ‘squirt’ all over me. Not urine. It was female ejaculate, the infamous ‘squirt’. It shot and covered my lower face, neck and my chest.

It didn’t stop me in the slightest, as my lips and tongue found her clit and I started gently tonguing and sucking on this love-button.

Her back arched again, and she re-squirted me, as she came and came, screaming, “Don’t. Don’t stop! Don’t you ever stop! Oh, yeah, that’s right, lick me, you sucker! Don’t stop! Oh, Gawd, I want your tongue up in me. Put it in me. Lick my clit. Bite my pussy lips. That’s right. Do me. It’s been so long, I … I … Oh, Gawd, I’m coming again (shriek and scream).”

Someday, I thought my ears would recover from being in the same room with a steam-whistle, as I attended to a darksome-maiden’s pussy and clit, squirting and cumming until she slumped against me, clearly passed out.

I held her upright until her eye fluttered open.

I heard another giggle, as my black, nude, so-well-licked companion said, “I squirted. All over you. Splashed on me. We’re a mess. We need a shower.”

I agreed.


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