Machine by Normandie Alleman
5
Bridger
The next day, when I woke up and went running, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dynassy Barnes.
I hadn’t thought much about Dynassy Barnes after seeing her at the garage. Celebrities weren’t my thing. Their problems, their lives, seemed to exist in a different stratosphere from the rest of us. And I’d faced down more than a lifetime of real-world problems over the past four years; I couldn’t relate to people who lived in a tower so far above the rest of us.
After I’d come back from Iraq, my body in pieces and having unwillingly left parts of myself behind on the sandy soil of a foreign land, I had needed more than surgeons, more than nurses, even more than my own mother’s help. I needed the camaraderie of being around others who were struggling with the same sorts of issues I was.
Whether it was the loss of an arm, a leg, or in my case, physical function in the groin area, it was helpful somehow to be around other guys who’d lost part of what made them men, too.
I was grateful to still have my legs, my sight, my arms—the things people first notice when they see you. But what I lost was something so fundamental to my identity as a man that for the first year, I was practically paralyzed with grief and depression.
If it hadn’t been for my mother, I don’t know what I would have done. My fiancée was mildly helpful at first. But her support waned over time, and my fears of not being able to satisfy her became more and more pronounced. In some ways, I wish she had just let me down easy at the beginning, told me that she didn’t love me anymore, that she loved my best friend Dave. But she didn’t do that. I guess she was afraid that I would off myself if she added one more loss to the tally.
Eventually she did break it off with me. But not until stringing me along for months after she’d already moved on in her heart.
My mother, on the other hand, flew to Germany to be with me while I was in the hospital for ten surgeries overseas before I was finally shipped back to the USA to Walter Reed Memorial Hospital. She stayed there with me for months while I underwent operation after operation, one skin graft after another.
The IED had blown up and everything from my lower abdomen to just below the knee was a bloody, mangled mess, including my pelvis. I lost some muscle in my stomach and thighs, and there was significant damage to my genitals.
Fortunately, the structure of my penis was intact for the most part. Nerve damage was the doctors’ biggest concern, but they hoped I would eventually be able to function normally. Eight months ago, I’d finally been able to lose the catheter and go to the bathroom by myself. Such a simple thing, but something I learned not to take for granted.
As for sexual functioning, that hasn’t happened.
It’s a bizarre experience, because my brain is still as sexual as ever. Because of my business with Barvo, I am constantly being exposed to sexuality, but things that would normally have made me pop wood without a problem don’t do a thing for me physically. It’s weird, because even when I’m aroused in my brain, there’s no response from the little guy down there.
It’s fucking devastating.
But I guess it’s why I had the courage to ask a girl like Dynassy Barnes to dance. What the hell did I have to lose? Since I knew all I could do was ask her to dance, the interaction seemed simple.
Except that halfway through our dance, I thought, hell, she’s probably wondering why she can’t feel my erection pressed against her. A girl like that probably has guys’ dicks popping up like kernels in a popcorn machine.
But instead of being weird, dancing with Dynassy had been so different from the warped world I’d become used to over the past few years, and I loved every second of it.
I hadn’t dated since my injury. I couldn’t bear to see the look of disappointment in the eyes of a woman when she realized I wouldn’t be able to give her what she was expecting. I knew some women would say they didn’t mind, but those types were either martyrs or the kind of women who would treat me as their special “pet project.” No way was I going to be with someone who saw me as weak, someone to be pitied.
Nope. I’d resigned myself to being alone.
But last night, when the music began to play and Dynassy was standing there, I just wanted to dance. There was no pressure to do more. Certainly I didn’t have to worry about the future with a girl who ran in such insanely different circle than the tiny one I’d created around myself. Oddly, it was how famous she was that made it feel safe to approach her. The ending to my flirtation with her was already written in permanent ink, so there was no need to worry about it.
But, as we danced, as I held her, I found myself becoming more and more enchanted by her. I expected Dynassy to be snobbish, conceited. Instead, she was confident, but she was able to laugh at herself, a quality I’d always been drawn to in others.
And I enjoyed doing something as simple as dancing. It was such a refreshing change from the down-and-dirty views I usually got from women on practically a daily basis.
I wondered if that was what it was like for a gynecologist to go on a date with his wife. Looking at different pussies all week, then eating dinner with a woman who he’s connected with through her brain, her personality. Like when a woman says, “My eyes are up here.”
Was I losing my mind? Of course it would be different with a doctor. He wasn’t watching all those pussies convulse as they climaxed.
Either way, I enjoyed the respite from sex city and appreciated having an interaction with a beautiful woman that did not have to do with sex.
Dynassy had probably thought I was crazy, leaving her like that. I mean, how many men would turn down an invitation from her?
None, I could think of, which was why I didn’t feel so bad doing it. She might be disappointed, but she’d bounce back--probably took her all of about ten minutes. If she’d been thirsty enough, she’d be able to get a booty call in less than an hour. Even with LA traffic.
I smiled to myself at the image of Dynassy being left hot enough after our encounter that she needed to call in someone to satisfy her. Almost made me wish I could give her one of my machines. I’d much prefer the image of that in my head to that of her being serviced by another guy.
Fuck, I wished it was me.
That nightI went to bed thinking about her. Those big brown eyes, that silky dark hair that I wanted to run through my fingers. Those pouty ruby-red lips I’d so wanted to kiss… My fantasies about her helped me drift off to sleep.
I slept like a bear in hibernation. I snoozed through about seven alarms, my brain immediately coming up with excuses why I didn’t need to get up to go run, and why I could sleep later and later.
I’d run yesterday…
Then I began having the kind of dreams where you’re awake enough to control them, but you know the story began in full dream state. I was dreaming about Dynassy, and I greedily allowed myself the pleasure. After all, these half-waking dreams were all I was going to get, I’d might as well enjoy them to the fullest while my memory of her was fresh.
I recalled that model from the shoot a couple of weeks ago. The one I’d pretended for a moment was Dynassy the day we’d met. How luscious and full her body had been for that split-second she had looked like Dynassy. I pictured her, thought of what I’d like to do to her. Imagined myself approaching her in those medical stirrups, walking towards her while stroking my cock, staring at her intently, giving her a chance to anticipate me. I approached her mouth, and as soon as she licked her lips to let me know she wanted it, I let her suck on the tip.
In my fantasy, the more I stroked myself, the harder I got and the bigger her eyes grew. “Oh Bridger, please,” she asked, and I let her swallow more of me.
After I’d had enough of her mouth I pulled out, and she begged me to fuck her. Entering her slowly, I filled her completely, relishing every minute of it. I went slow, torturing her with the exquisite pleasure of bringing her to a climax. This time it was me and my cock and the girl I wanted more than any other, not one of our porn girls and a damn machine.
Ding-dong! Ding-dong! Ding-dong!
Church bells began to go off. What the hell?
Then I remembered the final alarm I’d set as a backup was church bells. I had to get up now or I’d be late for work.
But all of a sudden, I realized that my hand was on my cock.
And it was hard.
I blinked several times, continuing to stroke it, scared if I stopped it would fall over limp like the flaccid son of a bitch I’d been working with for the past four years.
But it didn’t.
And I forgot all about work. I’d be late. If they didn’t like it, they could fire me.
I had to keep this up.
And I did. For almost half an hour.
I wasn’t able to climax, and it scared the hell out of me that this could be a one-time thing. But…it had worked. My fucking penis had worked. There was hope for me after all.
I didn’t need to get ahead of myself. Didn’t want to get my hopes up, so I qualified the achievement; maybe this would be a slow progression. Maybe it would take years. Maybe I’d still never be able to father children.
Oh to hell with it.
I jumped out of bed and crowed at the top of my lungs, “I got a hard-on, dammit! And I kept it—for half an hour. Fuck yeah!”
As I got dressed for work and made myself some breakfast, I couldn’t stop smiling.
There was every chance I could get a normal life back. The doctors said it could happen, and now their predictions were coming true. There was only one thing I needed to bring me all the way back.
And her name was Dynassy Barnes.
