I wanted to become a photographer. I supposed any sort of photographer would do, but if my wildest fantasy was to come true, I’d specialize in photographing men. Naked men. But of course that was not to be. Someone who grows up like me in a series of foster homes doesn’t get any kind of a silver spoon.
I was so typical. I never graduated high school. I hung around with, well anyone who was cool in my opinion, basically loser dropouts. Maybe it was because I didn’t have parents to influence me. Maybe it was just my surroundings. But I had this photography dream. I was sure drugs and alcohol would kill that. So I didn’t even smoke cigarettes. I mean, I’ve had ugly dreams about finally making it as a photographer, then dying of lung cancer before I could fully enjoy my success. My friends though I was crazy. Maybe I was, but it just seemed less crazy than the shit they were doing.
Back to reality. I was not a photographer. Oh, I did take pictures, and was so thankful to be in modern times. Do you know that photographers had to mess around in dark rooms with chemicals until about 20 years ago? They had tanks and trays and things and had to keep everything just the right temperature. I think maybe I would have liked that. Who knows? On the other hand, they had to pay for supplies. Every picture they took cost money. How could they afford all that?
I did, however, have to earn a living. From my background, going to college was out of the question. I was not going to earn a living by selling heroine on the street corners. I was not going to steal anything. So what was left? Nothing, that’s what! Well, I guess there was the military, but that’s not really my cup of tea.
When I was really getting desperate, trying to decide whether the Marines, Navy, Army or Coast Guard would be the least objectionable option and worried about how they’d handle a gay guy, I came across an ad for a caregiver.
I knew there’s no way the guy would accept a gay, uneducated orphan, but I went ahead and wrote back. I mean, all it took was a minute to reply. One thing one of my foster mothers taught me is that if you try enough long-shots, something might just hit the target.
The guy wrote back all suspicious. I answered him anyway. He wrote again, I wrote back again. This went on for a week. I was actually enjoying the e-conversation, even though it wasn’t going to amount to anything. It’s not like I had something more important to do.
Guess what? They guy said, ‘Come on over.’
Well, I went on over. I was a half-hour late. I mean, I started out early enough, but the bus system here is, well, less than ideal. I figure that was the end of it. Half-hour late. Come on, like why did I even bother?
I rang the doorbell of a surprisingly large house, and it took like a full minute for the guy to answer. He was, just like I knew, in a wheelchair. I expected an all fat, pasty, bent-over guy. No, he was really quite handsome and not much older than me. Maybe mid-twenties.
He greeted me with a scowl. But it was a joke. He then broke into a big smile, and welcomed me into his home with open arms. That’s who Lewis is. He is always happy and friendly. How a guy who was born in a wheelchair can be like that beats me. I mean, if I had spina bifida, I’d be grouchy most of the time. Mad at the world. Not Lewis.
We talked. I told him about my dream to become a photograper. Of course I didn’t mention the part about wanting to specialize in naked men. I’m not an idiot. He told me about his business which he conducts entirely from a laptop. I didn’t realize it at first but the whole house was his. I thought maybe he must have had roommates to afford such a place. The money for the whole place came through a little 15-inch laptop. How cool is that?
To keep the length of this account reasonable, let me just say that I moved in as one of his caretakers. He has five. We each work 8-hour shifts, and kind of divide up the weekends. You’d think I’d get a swing shift, or maybe nighttimes, but I ended up working from 7:30 in the morning to 4:30, five days a week. You might find it interesting that the other four were all female. Later, Lewis admitted that he wanted me to be a woman also, but some of the women were having trouble lifting him, so he wanted the daytime caregiver to be stronger. That’s the guy who has to give him baths. Not my idea of a good time, but whatever, right?
A few weeks in, As I was carefully dumping him into the tub, I got the crazy notion to take my shirt off first. That’s because every time I got it wet, which was kind of miserable. Lewis complimented my abs. Whatever.
My pants were still getting splashed most of the time, plus I was doing everything at arms length, trying to adequately bath Lewis without getting wetter than I had to.
Lewis and I were becoming fast friends. Now, you’d think him being crippled and all, that I’d keep my distance or something. And I tried to, but I really enjoyed talking with Lewis. He was a brain and I learned a lot from this man who had seldem even been out of his house.
I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but one day I found myself bathing him in only my underpants, and all was well. A couple of weeks later, I decided that since he’s always nude during the baths, I might as well be also. Lewis didn’t complain. Far from it.
One day, out of the blue, he asked me what my cock looks like when it’s hard. I mean, he just came right out and asked. I kind of muttered some sort of nothing, like, “Oh, I guess it’s alright.”
Then, I don’t know what came over me but I just came right out and asked, “So with you and your condition, can you get erections?”
That was the door opener. He admitted that he gets sort of hard sometimes, rarely, but that’s all.
“What about orgasms?” I had to know.
Lewis, being the honest man he is just went ahead and told me. “From all I can see from porn and so on, it seems I don’t have orgasms like men normally do. Oh, I feel something. It’s kind of a very nice extended tickle. That’s all.”
I kind of knew, because he had told me early on that the reason he wears adult diapers is because he can’t feel his bladder. He doesn’t know when he needs to pee. It just comes out. Well, I was glad he could have some sort of orgasm. Maybe, and I wasn’t sure about this at all, the tickle thing he was talking about was an orgasm just like I feel. Or, maybe not.
He broke me out of my musings by adding something else that just floored me. I was like, ‘poor guy.’
“Because of my hands – you know the way they are – I haven’t been able to masturbate for years. In fact even as a teenager, it wasn’t very satisfactory.”
I was kind of tongue-tied. What do you do with a good friend tells you something like that? I sort of stupidly offered my condolences, as if someone had died. Then, as usual, I got him out of the tub, dried, dressed, and back into his wheelchair.
I was me who instigated the next sexual talk a few days later. “Hey Lewis, what about the four women? Have you ever asked for maybe a handjob from one of the caregivers?”
Jeez! I had no idea. All this time, and I never knew. It was time for me to let my own cat out of the bag.
“How did you know?”
“I just did. From the first day you gave me a bath. There was something. Something about the way you respected me. No, something else. Maybe the way you looked at me. Hell, I don’t know. I just knew.”
That was the end of the conversation. Neither of us said anything about it for around a week, although I felt like our friendship had gone to a much deeper level. Imagine having a friend who you can confide in like that!
Then, again at bath time, “Hey, do you remember when I asked what your cock looks like when it’s erect?”
“Um, yeah.” I mean how could I forget? I had jerked off several times remembering that conversation, and wishing I had answered differently. Like I could have said something like, “Sure, wanna see?” But no, stupidly, I just mumbled something and let the moment slip away.
“I was serious. I want to see it hard.”
It doesn’t take an engraved invitation. “Well, OK then!” I answered, laughing. Sitting right there on the side of the tub, I started stroking and was erect in less than a minute. It was somehow glorious to have him intently watching me like that. A moment later, I was yelling with joy and squirting cum into the tub.
After I calmed down, I knew I couldn’t leave it at that. What about Lewis? So, I carted him into his room, laid him on his bed, and gave him the blowjob of his life. I knew it was the best he ever had, because by his own admission, he claimed he had never had a blowjob.
I think, but am not sure, that he got a little bit erect in my mouth. I didn’t care. His soft dick was very nice to suck on. Oh, I had sucked my fair share of good and firm dicks at the various foster homes, but I actually enjoyed his soft little thing more.
After maybe five minutes, Lewis started kind of squirming and moaning and laughing too, and with his barely effective hands firmly pushed my head away. He had an orgasm. His version of an orgasm. To this day, I don’t know if he had cum in my mouth or not. If so, it was only a drop or two.
Time went on. Our afternoons turned into a regular thing. It got to where I was butt-fucking him on a fairly regular basis, and he was loving it. One time – just once – he sqirted cum out just like a fully-functional example of maleness. It was a delight to see.
Speaking of maleness, he was a grand example. Oh, he couldn’t operate a drill, pound nails or even type with all his fingers, but he was a man, through and through.
One of his female caretakers, Sylvia, was of Hispanic descent, and beautiful if you like the female form. Somehow, she didn’t know he and I were fucking around. With my cock buried in his ass and my tongue in his mouth, she burst into his room one day with an armful of clean clothes. She was paralized with one hand on the doorknob, and just stood there for like five seconds, before turning away and closing the door.
I was mortified. Lewis on the other hand, just laughed, saying, “She’d have to find out eventually.” A few days later he reported that everything was the same as usual with her, although she admitted happiness knowing that he was getting some sexual outlet.
I was still a hobbyist photographer. One day I brought my camera. I thought Lewis would enjoy seeing it. He asked whether there was film in it.
“It’s digital, silly.”
“I know, it’s just an expression. I mean, do you want to take some pictures?”
“Of me. Didn’t you say you’d like to take pictures of naked men. Well, I’m naked.”
Why had it never occurred to take pictures of Lewis? Of course, what a great idea.
So I took a bunch of dignified pictures of him in his wheelchair – naked of course. I also took pictures of him on the sofa, curled up in his bed, and even some with a self-timer of us together. One showed me with an obvious erection. My god, even though he and I were having all the sex we could eat, I jerked off big-time that night to my own picture.
Little did I know he was going to post pictures of himself – none including me – online. He said something about a ‘wonderful photographer’ taking the pictures.
One day, he just came out with, “Do you remember when I first took your cock in my ass?”
“Did it seem easy to you?”
“I don’t get it.”
“I mean, you’d have expected to have to go really slowly with a virgin, right?”
What the fuck? What was he saying?
It took a couple of minutes during which Lewis seemed unusually shy. Then he told me the whole story. Unlike me, he has a father. I’ve met the guy. He seems really nice. He’s obviously loving to his son. I’ve met his mother also. Good people.
“When I was still with my parents, they expressed concern that I wouldn’t have a normal sex life. Ok, well I have to admit this. When I turned eighteen, they came to me one day and wanted to know to what degree I could function sexually. My own parents, by God! Of course I was shocked, but I trusted them. Over the course of weeks, we enbarked on a set of experiments to see what could be done. They both tried giving me handjobs, testicle massages, fingers in the butt, oral sex and so on. It ended up with my father butt-fucking me while my mother watched. I loved that, but it freaked them out, so it only happened once.
You might think I’d be mad at him for not telling me before, but after being shocked for a moment, then trying to imagine the scene of my dear Lewis getting butt-fucked by his father with his mother looking on, it made me very horny. I was more in love with Lewis than ever.
Time moved on. We considered legally marrying, but it seemed too problematic. However, for all intents and purposes, we were married.
One day the phone rang, not for Lewis, but for me. He handed me the phone. It seems a gay couple who had seen the pictures of Lewis that I had taken, and wanted me to photograph them. They owned an art gallery. It was to be their anniversary present to each other.
I asked if Lewis could watch the photoshoot, and they were delighted. Frankly, I was nervous. I had never actually done a truly professional photo shoot before. I had arranged a couple of stools in the seldom-used family room in the big house, had the men remove their clothes, and expected them to pose various ways on the stools. One of the guys was immediately erect. The other became erect a moment later. I took the pictures while Lewis not only watched, but clapped his crippled hands together in hooting, laughter and applause.
Not knowing anything about the actual busines of photography, I emailed the guys their photos, and charged them $100. Later I found out that as a celebrity photographer, I could have charged ten times as much.
Did I mention ‘celebrity’ photographer? Well, here’s what happened. They printed the photos, hung them in their gallery, and sold prints almost immediately. That in turn brought me more business to the point where Lewis and I bought the house next door and turned it into a studio. It’s been four years, and I have people flying in from all over the world to have their photos taken. You’ll note I said ‘people’ not ‘men.’ Whereas I prefer men, a number of lesbian women and hetero couples have me photograph them as well. I don’t mind.
One final detail: Two of Lewis’ former female caregivers had their pictures taken with clothes on, and have now embarked on their own careers as models.