2004 - Vol. 1, Issue 6

Jeremy's palm is rough under the pad of my thumb as I trace soft circles into his skin. My hand is shaking a little - his too - but I am not nervous, and he takes a deep breath and smiles up at me. This is what he wants, and he's patient.

We laugh about things. The two of us are good at that; it's the best way to be. Earlier, when the spasms in my hands were worse, I managed to get parmesan cheese absolutely everywhere but into my bowl of pasta. Jeremy nearly dropped a forkful of linguini onto his lap but saved it at the last moment: well practiced. "Gimp girl: minus one; gimp boy: one," we joked. Jeremy had suggested I lose two whole points, considering the mess I had made. "Don't push your luck," I told him. Besides, it was my kitchen, so I was on cleanup duty by default.

Strangers, and not strangers. Friends from the IRC chat room meeting face to face for the first time. One stone butch; one strong, beautiful femme; and me: one super-sized woman who feels more comfortable spinning words behind the anonymity of the computer than risking looks of pity from those I meet face to face. Meeting the first time and feeling awkward, yet hopeful. My attraction strong, but too shy to voice my desire for something more than the distant friendship of chat room conversations - for the physical touch that no IRC fantasy can replace.

Watching you both leave to sample the City's dyke bars and restaurants, the museums and shops: all of them inaccessible to me in my wheelchair. Hearing the door close on your good-byes, wondering why you never ask me to come along. Is my chair such an anchor that you cannot imagine it leaving its mooring?

All night, I explore the contours
of your legs. Fitting my hands

around your knees, I know - solid -.
I knead the muscles of your calves,

hold your ankles, tightly. Your skin
surprises my lips and I want to drink

your smoothness. How else can I quench
this thirst? I want to break your bones.