Today I flirted with a man with one leg and he flirted back

It was one of those situations you find yourself in where you’re walking in the opposite direction of someone and are about to pass them and neither of you know which side to take, so there’s an awkward dance before one of you plows through, forcing the other to whichever side is left open.

Except for his dance, he popped a wheelie using his wheelchair. And it was so incredibly hot (and so was he, which helped).

He looked up at me and we both smiled; after passing, both of us looked behind us and I managed to get a wink from him as he turned the corner, one leg of his jeans tucked under his butt. It made my day.

Actually, it was one of two things that made my day.

After I left hot amputee boy, I jumped on the skytrain and ran into a friend of a friend. She has a craniofacial disorder and can’t see out of one of her eyes. We chatted from uptown through to downtown. She bitched about her partner; I beamed about mine. We parted ways and I headed to another train bound for home, where I got a text from our mutual friend telling me that the woman had called her after she got off the train to tell her how incredibly nice I was, but more importantly to me, considering the day, how hot she thought I was.

I don’t brag. I’m writing about this because shit like this never happens to me. I got hit on by a boy with one leg and was admired by a girl with one working eye, and I feel so fucking sexy…

Actually, does that ever happen to anyone?

I’ll admit. Amputees are a bit of a turn-on for me. Legs only though. And oddly enough, boys only. Hot, buff, athletic boys only. It all started one hot summer day about eight years ago in August, where I was spending the day with my then girlfriend and caught a glimpse of this strikingly attractive man learning how to roll in a kayak. The instructor wasn’t sure how to deal with this man’s bionic leg, but said man was confident – wearing shorts showing the full gear (a plus!) – and had a fuck-it-I-can-do-what-everyone-else-can-do attitude that was such a turn on that I didn’t want to leave the lake.

I joke about it all the time: Just think of the positions you could do it in! But in real life, I like women with two legs (and preferably two working eyes).

I’m lucky to have just that, though with how hot I was feeling about myself and the fact that she is away, I didn’t really know what to do with myself when I got home and had the evening to myself. Well, I knew, but, you know…

I’m chiming in a little late on the sex topic posts. And I think that’s about all I’m going to say. That’s what one-legged kinks and cross-eyed fantasies are for now, aren’t they?


Lying/Dying in a Field

Oh great, I think, the first time in thirty years that I’ve actually been alone – like *really* alone – and I’ve got a crow hovering around me. How symbolic.

I’m away on a cliché escape to a cabin in the woods, finding myself, because apparently I’ve been missing. Now why do we think we have to go somewhere brand new – somewhere where we don’t recognize a thing, where we can’t even locate a flashlight to help us to the toilet – to find our selves? I don’t know, but I promised myself I’d try.

Or maybe it’s not so much missing as it is knowing. I have a body that comes everywhere I go, but I’m learning that I know very little about it… and though I’m in it, living every second, I’m missing every second. I’m not present. I’m not here. I’m not now.

I live in my head, and I love with my heart, and that combination has proven to be fallible of late.

So I’m away, trying to find peace, and all I can fucking hear in my head is caw, caw, caw…

I know enough about Native literature to know that crows are not only shapeshifters, but also commonly thought to circle above scenes of death. I look up at the crow hovering in the tree above me and say out loud, (in my best Monty Python voice) “I’m not dead yet.” But he doesn’t leave me alone. I try not to think about foreshadowing.

Crows are also known to symbolize a guardian, and a sort of guide from darkness into light, so I feel as though I kind of have to let him hang around. Lord knows I can use all the help I can get to find some sort of clarity these next few days.

So I’m outside with my journal, hashing it out with my conscience and an acorn hits me square in the crown of my head. Bastard hit me on purpose. I look down and my writing to find some sort of significance – did I get hit on the head with an acorn to drill in a point? Like the exact moment when Einstein discovered gravity? “My parents just moved,” is all it says on the page. No symbolism there.

So Joe the Crow, as I call him, caw, caw, caws all afternoon. I go inside the cabin and cook a dinner I can’t even taste, and when I come out, he’s still there. So I decide to walk the grounds of this place, and Joe the Crow follows me. Just as I’m walking up a hill, he starts to dive-bomb me.

There is nobody on this “resort” – a few empty cabins next to a river. The only other person I’ve seen was when I pulled in with the car: a little girl of about five who stood beside the car as I pushed a button for the convertible roof to cover up. As it moved by itself, she watched in awe, “Wwaaaaahhww”.

She had a little dog. There are more dogs. Big huskies, and a few mutts. I think there is an accountant in the office, but on the phone, before I came, I told them to leave the key out and charge my credit card. I’m not here to make friends.

I walk up a small hill and try to hover underneath a tree, and Joe the Crow basically tries to kill me. I rock back and forth with both hands over my head, trying to shut out the piercing caws, which just amplify the other harsh sounds in my mind. You should have been honest. How are you going to forgive yourself? How the fuck do you think you can go on from here?

And then I see her. She’s breathing, but barely, and very slowly. She makes no attempt to move away from me. Most likely because she can’t, but I appreciate her motionlessness. She’s stuck. Like me.

Joe the Crow nails me on the head again with a twig from the tree that is covering me and his friend. Maybe his daughter, or her daughter, or son… Can you tell a crow’s gender? I don’t know.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” I say to Joe the Crow out loud, “I’m going to stay with her. I’m going to sit here with her until she dies.” I turn my attention to this little black, helpless thing, move closer so that we’re a mere foot apart (to the disgust of Joe the Crow), and I talk with her. I don’t know if it was out loud or not, but some part of me has to believe that she can understand me.

I will be with you when you die. I will show Joe the Crow that I won’t hurt you. I will shoo the flies away from you.

She doesn’t seem scared, but I am. She has a passiveness about her – a sense of calm, maybe – the kind I imagine you get before you die. Hopefully. But she doesn’t die. I sit with her for an hour and a half, and she just breathes and tries to move but can’t and Joe the Crow is going crazy and this little thing is my responsibility now, so what do I do? Nothing.

Actually, no. Not nothing. I take pictures. I fucking take pictures of a dying crow, because I think she’s the only thing that can feel as bad as I feel right now. Well, me and one other person, but this is one trip I’m taking alone, and I can’t let my focus break away from the purpose of this trip: to work on my self. Not the you-fucked-everything-up self, but the self that can actually learn and grow. It’s here somewhere.

Night falls and I get scared, so I leave Joe the Crow and his fallen friend. I actually pray. To whom, I don’t know. Please let the dogs eat her tonight.

I spend the next day secluded in the 200 square foot cabin, the faint caw caw caws not so faint. It’s not until seven at night, when I reluctantly go out for air, Joe the Crow is right there again. She must be dead, I think. But she isn’t. She’s about twelve feet away from where she was over twelve hours ago. The dogs didn’t get her. Now she just has more flies climbing on her. She blinks to shoo them off. That’s the only thing she can do.

I tell a boy who walks down the path to ask if someone can help. He looks at me with a that’s-just-a-common-crow look, says yes and then runs down to the river with his fishing rod. I don’t know why, but I don’t do anything. I don’t try to find anyone else. I don’t call wildlife rescue (it’s a crow… do they take in crows?). I don’t do anything except sit there, with Joe the Crow above and the little crow beside me, and I cry. She’s in pain and she can’t do anything about it. The symbolism finally fits.

I’m lying motionless on the grass, broken, fading, with nowhere to go. I want to give up. The only difference is, I don’t feel anyone above, a guardian, watching down on me.

Butterfly Friendship

If you were here, I might tell you how much I miss you. I might tell you that, through the ups and (mostly) downs of my days right now, I could use you here. Instead, as every person should, you are away, working on your self. I admire that. I admire you. I always have.

If you were here, I’d feel that feeling in my stomach. The feeling of love but not love just friendship but more than friendship but not dangerous, just good. Butterflies for a friend. For your friendship. For you.

If you were here, I couldn’t tell you that I miss you so tremendously and that I’m mad you left (how can I be mad at you for living your life?). I couldn’t tell you that, through my pain, I’ve reached out to the memory of you being a phone call or a drop-by visit away, but you were half a world away, and now you are almost a province away.

Butterflies when you wrote me, sadness and the disappointment of a child when I read that you wrote me for a favour. I got upset. Even swore. Even questioned your part in our friendship, and then realized that you wouldn’t know – you couldn’t know – how much I miss you and love you, because you hear people tell you that all the time. You are “that friend” to many. They may just be words to you. And as writers, we both know, words quite often aren’t powerful enough.

If you were here, maybe I’d try to explain. It’s like this: I don’t open up to just anyone. In fact, I hardly open at all. So when I do, it’s with a purpose. I want you to let yourself in. Like, right in. And that’s the thing. Everybody loves you, and you probably have people open up to you all the time, so when my little voice tells you how much I care for you, need you, want you here – words probably so familiar to you – you wouldn’t know that you are the only one that I’m asking that of.

If you were here, I’d thank you for opening my eyes up a year and a half ago. If you were here, I’d ask you to do it again.

Without you here, there isn’t a whole lot of colour. But you wouldn’t know.