(a true story)
Leather-clad, whip-throwing, sweating skin festival.
All crotches at eye level as I maneuver
through crowds, a sea of cocks
in my speedy black power chair.
Corset cinched, see-through skirt,
the sun beating down
on my exposed, crippled body.
My lover and I slip into the space
set aside for all but cis dudes—
(ABCD if you’re in the know).
We head for the tent: shaded, full of queer-infused kink,
every inch of concrete floor alive.
My lover lifts my metal-filled leg
onto the arm of my chair.
They drop into the fold-down seat of their rollator.
Mobility devices pressed together,
our contorted bodies echo the crash.
A black glove pulled on,
their eyes drag across my body.
They steady my weak leg.
My wrist bends,
awkward,
implants turn every movement
into surprise.
My face twists with the pain of sliding down,
ache intensifying pleasure.
Then—
they enter me.
A thick hand pumping,
leaning ever closer:
to me,
to my chair,
to my pleasure mixed with pain.
The crowd dissolves into static.
It is just us—
two queer gimps
finding joy in folds of skin,
grunts, sweat, screams.
When hunger breaks,
their hand withdraws.
The crowd crashes back,
faces lit with smiles.
My seat wet with the evidence
of little deaths.
My lover breathless,
arms draped over rollator handles.
They help lower my leg back down
into the brace of my footrest.
The fair surges around us,
all smiles and compersion.
Sounds of floggers, paddles, and grunts,
which had mixed together
with moans of climax,
into an orchestra
with the crowd as
appreciative audience.
A ballad of metal and skin
entwined in ecstasy –
this is queer crip joy.
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