Archive for apotemnophilia
I expect you are wondering why I am lying here on the railroad track with the certain knowledge that the 6.15 northbound is due in sixty-five seconds? It probably dates back to June 25th, 1957. I remember that date as if it were yesterday. We were on the playground at morning break, that delicious time when we left the classroom after an hour of monotonous arithmetic, and played a boisterous game of bar-the-door. He came out of the Primer three classroom. He was dressed in a woolen suit, and he wore a striped tie. But what made my heart hang suddenly, stop beating, and reserve judgment if it would start again, was the lower half of his body. He wore short pants to the woolen suit, and, he had a wooden leg.
It was just that, at first. A physical sensation that I had no name for. That and a need to know this boy more and to be seen with him. I wanted to let him rest his hand on my shoulder when he stumbled at the waterfountain as he reared back after the icy cold water pained his teeth. I wanted to go home with him after school and maybe, just maybe, see him take off that wooden leg. I wanted to know how he cared for it. Did he, like my grandfather, lovingly rub all wooden objects with boiled linseed oil and then wipe them down with a dark yellow cloth? How did it smell? Of pine? Or oil? Or did it have a scent all of its own? Maybe a mixture of human and wood. I wasn’t particularly interested in how he had lost his leg but if finding out meant I could win his friendship then I would do that.
I never did. He was gone within a month. His father or was it is mother gained employment elsewhere and like many kids at our school, he just simply disappeared. His wooden desk sat as testament to his presence for a further school term and then a vicious little boy in cowboy hat and boots took over the place that I had seen as a shrine.
I can feel tracks vibrate beneath my sturdy spine. In less than a minute my lifetime dream will come true. I will finally be the person I want to be. Some of you will call me mad; some may think I am bad. I am really no different from you. We all want the same thing. To be fulfilled, to be our true self.
I forgot about the boy in the woolen suit with his wooden leg until my mid-teens. I had been hanging out with this nice girl but things just weren’t sparking. She was keen on me but my burgeoning sexuality kept throwing curve balls at me. I was recently not-a-virgin and my hormones were raging but this girl, beautiful as she was, did not stir my juices. I was on the verge of moving on when a curious thing happened. Debs, yes she was a Debs, was an active athlete and she had an accident at one of her track meetings. She didn’t exactly break anything, but for some reason she had to wear a knee length plaster and use a pair of crutches. For the next month, my life was heaven. The feel of the plaster, the sound of the crutches, the look on her face as she painfully tried to master her new appendages drove me into a sexual frenzy. Unfortunately Debs became rather depressed over all of this and was not in the slightest bit interested in sex. When she became interested after the plaster was removed and the crutches thrown away, I had lost interest. Debs and I were not destined to be. But, for the first time, I had an inkling of what it was about myself that was missing.
If I twist my head, I would be able to see the yellow and blue engine coming toward me. He has started hooting, so he must be able to see me, but it is too late. He will never be able to stop. I will get my wish. That I have to come to this is an outrage. I am filled with so much anger. Anger that is hard to explain. I will try, so you can understand why a thirty five year old man, in perfect physical and mental health, would be lying on a railroad track, in a wealthy and advanced society, waiting to be run over by a fourteen ton railroad locomotive.
I didn’t think much about the sexual excitement that Debs and her crutches and plaster cast had caused and I went through a normal period of what any teenager would. There were some troubles and a few skirmishes with the law and with parents but by and large it was normal. Bland even, and I often did think that there was something missing. Something about the way I felt about myself and about being a complete person. I read books, I took a course at Uni in Introductory Psychology, but it was only when I discovered the Internet that I got an inkling of what it was that was missing. I’ll tell you how it happened but I’ll have to be quick because my time is near. Very near. I can feel the cold steel about to tear my body apart. Rip my limbs asunder.
I had been having this curious desire to be in a wheelchair. As part of our Psych course, we were required to go into the city and drop articles from our person. One group did it as normals and the group that I was attached to had to be in a wheelchair. I have forgotten the object of the exercise but I can vividly remember the thrill I got going through a mall in a wheelchair. I quickly forgot about dropping things. I just loved to try steep ramps and feel the eyes of people willing me that last few metres as I ground my teeth and emitted little sighs. Inside I was overflowing. I had never felt so full. Full of self-love, full of desire, full of love for those who paid me attention. When I finished the experiment one of my instructors took me aside.
“We took some video of the experiments so that you could give a talk at the end. I want you to look at yours.”
She showed me wheeling through the mall. The expression on my face was one of absolute, unadulterated, joy. She switched off the tape and talked to me in that conspirational tone that some earnest shrinks have when they are about to give you some babble-type theory.
“You get a sexual thrill out of this don’t you Dexter?” She was so close to me she was practically in my mouth. I didn’t know what to say because I hadn’t made that connection. Sure, I had the hots for Debs cast and crutches, but my mind had thought of other things. The short dresses she started to wear at the time, the way the crutches pulled at her blouse, the way she came to depend on me.
“There are people like you all over. It’s an unspoken of thing but there are others who want to share. Here, look on the Internet. See what it’s all about,” she whispered slipping me her card with an URL scrawled on the back. I thought she had gone over the top and the card remained in my back pocket for a week or so, when I found myself at a friend’s house and hooked to the Internet. Out of curiosity, I typed in the address and that is when my world changed. I suddenly stumbled on the world of wannabes, devotees, and pretenders. I stumbled on hundreds of lost souls who only wanted to have their inner and outer selves match.
I now had a name for what it was that left me with that empty feeling. I now had an explanation for what had happened with Debs, those many years ago. I now sought a means to satisfy my longing. I was not a devotee, although that is what my initial urge had been. I tried the pretender route but it ultimately left me feeling less and less satisfied. Tying my leg into a bandage and lashing it to my thigh left me feeling more like a fake than a real amputee. Agonizingly crawling in and out of wheelchairs or dragging myself up and down flights of stairs on crutches temporarily made me happy, but what I desired was to have a leg removed. Possibly both. Unfortunately, not too many doctors were keen to be involved. I thought of other ways to do it but there were all sorts of reasons why I didn’t try them. Finally, in desperation, I have come to this.
I now feel the heavy steel wheels cut into my right leg. I am tossed to the side of the railroad track as the rest of my body is separated from that limb I have tried to rid myself of for these last few years. I pass out.
The lines between mental dysfunction and ordinary life are not as sharp as some psychiatrists like to pretend. Look, even medical science has resorted to a form of apotemnphilia to cure illness. The frontal lobotomy performed on thousands, probably millions, of patients had little valid scientific evidence to back it up. Removing clitorises or penis to stem excessive sexual appetite, cutting of thieves’ hands, and cosmetic surgery such as breast enlargement, liposuction, and tucks. Yet, these same doctors call someone who wants to be an amputee a freak.
Amongst our group, we have come to embrace our beautiful bodies and not talk about them in politically correct ways. We don’t talk about disability and handicap and debate the language that has hung up amputees for so long. We have no fear in referring to a double amputee as a bucket jockey, a single arm amputee as a lefty or a righty. We are now happy that we have the bodies that we prefer. Some have managed to have legitimate operations performed by sympathetic doctors. Most of us have had to resort to self mutilation. I am one of the more radical. Gun shot wounds are the most popular method. Just rest the barrels of a shotgun on your kneecap and after a brief, blinding pain, then unconsciousness, you are an above or below the knee amputee, depending on how good your grip is.
The only unfortunate thing is that the train didn’t do its job properly. My right leg was damaged but below the knee. It is just not enough. I want a reduced stump. I want an above the knee amputation and, my patience is running out.