There's something strangely erotic about the sight of a young guy temporarily incapacitated by injury. As the nurse parked my wheelchair in the corridor outside the room I caught a glimpse of him -- or, at least, of his legs. One was plastered and raised in traction; a sheet was draped over the other and failed to disguise the fact that he had an erection.
"Voila, tout s'arrange: vous allez partager une chambre avec un autre anglais," babbled the nurse, wheeling me in, my envelope of x-rays balanced in my lap and my saline drip held aloft on its stalk. "Il s'appelle Mark. Ca sera sympa, non?"
Yeah yeah yeah. Fucking sympa. I wasn't in the mood for enforced socialising. Nor was Mark, by the look of things. He lay there, sleeping, or more likely feigning sleep. Again, that question nagged at me: how would the spectacle of someone suffering, his body subjected to pain and injury, lead us to think of sex? Well, I say "us": that might be a little presumptuous, but I've been around long enough to realise that few thoughts are unique -- and few fantasies are so far-fetched and downright sick that nobody's thought of them before. I guess it has something to do with the gladiatorial thing, with notions of youth and pride and heroism and insouciance and beauty and invulnerability... and fragility. I was reminded of the colour plates in the children's illustrated edition of the New Testament depicting suffering saints, usually stripped to the waist, and had a fleeting thought of updating them with the aid of modern medicine: The Happily Brief, Non-Fatal And Eminently Treatable Passion Of Saint Mark.
They got me into bed and eventually left me alone. I had to admit it was a pleasant room, even if I wasn't there by choice. To my left, through a large window, beyond the sleeping (or sleep-feigning) figure of Mark, you could see all the way to the Alps. To my right, the bathroom blocked out a corner of the room. Beyond that lay the door and the bustling orthopedic department on which this hospital had built its reputation and probably most of its funding.
I looked over at Mark. He was about my age, 23 or so, and like me was wearing a hospital gown that hung off one shoulder or the other, but there the similarity ended. I was fair, tall and wiry, with a climber's build and a high power-to-weight ratio. He was shorter, dark-skinned, solid and densely-muscled. His close-cropped hair was barely any longer than the stubble on his face. His bedside table had an eclectic stack of reading matter: a Mickey Spillane, something by Henry James, an anthology of poetry, a manga comic, several skin magazines, yesterday's edition of Le Monde and, on top, a bound sketch pad. He didn't look like he was really sleeping but he certainly didn't look like he wanted to talk. I turned away and drifted off to sleep myself.
I woke up to a sort of slow, rhythmic chafing sound. I know the sound of wanking when I hear it so I didn't bother to look. He must have realised that I was awake, though, because he said:
"Not bothering you, am I, pal?"
"No."
"Fuck all else to do. Least, not till Sister Pethadine comes round."
"Yeah. It's alright for you, at least you can use your hands." I held out my arms and showed my hands, wrapped in bandages as big as boxing gloves.
"Fuck. What happened?"
"Friction burns. Climbing accident. The other guy fell."
"Fuck. What happened to him?"
"Oh, he was fine. He drove me to hospital."
"Hey. So you're a hero. You'll have to ask the nurses to take care of you."
"Yeah, dream on."
"Oh, they'll take care of you all right."
"Come on, " I said, "You believe in that fantasy? They're busy girls with jobs to do and homes to go to."
At that moment the door opened and a male nurse came in, checking our medication charts and adjusting our drips.
"Yeah, sure," said Mark. "Busy girls... and boys. This one'll give you a blow job if you ask nicely."
The nurse hurried out of the room, saying something about lunch being served in half an hour.
"Hey, you're really working through all those stereotypes", I said. "How about asking some convent school girls to come over and gang-bang us this afternoon?"
"No smoke without fire," he said mildy, and without much discretion went back to his wanking.
This is the point at which I say, without wishing to protest too much, that I am not gay. I'd have nothing against being gay, if I were. At that particular time of my life I felt I was on a voyage of discovery, reacting against five years of medical school by immersing myself in travel and dangerous sports. I wanted to experience everything, and I think that had I given it any thought I'd have welcomed the idea of trying out man-on-man sex. At that moment, though, I didn't give it any thought. I just found myself getting horny and angry that I couldn't do anything about it.
"For fuck's sake," I muttered, under my breath.
"Sorry, mate, I suppose I am bothering you." He stopped masturbating and lay silent for a minute or two, then started to show signs of restlessness. He sighed, he drummed his fingers, he picked up the newspaper and put it down again. I looked over at him and laughed: his erection was still there, holding up the sheet like a tent pole.
"Oh, sod it", he said finally. "Come over here, I'll give you a fucking hand job if you can stand up."
I could stand up. My legs were working fine. I swivelled out of my bed and went over beside him. He reached out and held my fast-growing cock through my gown, massaging the fabric over my glans. "Wow, that's a big boy," he said, reaching under my gown to take it in his hand. That was one expert hand job he gave me. "You do this well," I said. "Got a lot of practice," he answered.
He guessed well when I was about to shoot my load and held a wad of Kleenex for me to cum into. Then he did something odd. He drew me closer, leaned down and briefly took my cock into his mouth, bathing it in his warm saliva. Seeing my surprise, he said: "Well I can't ask you to do something I wouldn't do myself. My turn."
I thought he was kidding. "Yeah, I'm sorry I can't return the compliment."
"Oh, but you can," he said. "Come on, no such thing as a free lunch."
I figured out what he was asking me to do. I moved down towards his groin and he drew back the sheet, exposing his belly, his thick dark pubic hair, balls the size of a pair of small avocados and his cock. I wan't sure what reaction I'd have, but it turned out to be one of curiosity and wonderment. It as as if this penis was the symbol of his entire being, rangy and full of life. Everything he was, it was. It was dark, and strong, and proud. Suddenly I understood the word "cocky", which I felt summed them both up. It was outrageous, presumptuous, demanding, unashamed... and beautiful. I went down on him without a moment's hesitation. I expected it to taste something like the musky aroma I got a whiff of as I approached it, but it didn't. It was more a matter of texture: I tasted its smoothness, its moisture, its hardness. And I fucking loved it. He squeezed it at the base with his hand and I felt the rim of his glans flare and fill my mouth. He let go and, feeling it diminish slightly, I started sucking and pumping up and down on it like my life depended on it.
"You do this well," I heard him whisper. I came up for air. "Can't say it's because I got a lot of practice," I said.
I remembered everything I liked about getting sucked off and did it to him. I teased my tongue into his piss slit, tasting a hint of pre-cum. I gently grazed my teeth around his helmet. I sucked till I thought it must be cheating to vacuum his spunk out rather than wait for ejaculation. I took it in as far as I could and wanted more. Then I felt his cock stiffen further, I felt it twitch and dance, and he filled my mouth with his hot spunk. I had a brief "What the fuck do I do with this?" moment, then swallowed. It felt good.
Now, I thought, there's a defining moment for this voyage of discovery.
There's more to come.