Finally, rather than hear some unpleasant truth, he supplied me with an answer.  "So, were you curious about what it's like to have sex with a blind guy?"
"Yeah."  I didn't tell him that I already knew what it was like, or that I had fantasized about it for nearly all my life.  Of everything that happened between us, that is the one thing I regret.  I should have told him. 
"So, what's it like?" he asked.  Evidently that stuff about blind people being able to tell when a person is lying is bullshit.
"Mmm, it's wonderful, the best."  As we were talking, he had been running his hands to get a clear, complete mental image of me.  "So, what's it like being blind?" 
"I'll tell you, the worst thing is not being able to drive a car."  This wasn't what I wanted to hear.  I was more interested in the way he experienced the world, but instead he gave me a list of complaints, laced with some trite sentiments about appreciating what he has and living life to the fullest.  It sounded like he was reciting lines from some after-school special.  "Hey, what are you doing?" He asked suddenly.  I had propped myself up on one elbow and was twisted around so I could see his face. 
"I like to see your face when we're talking."  I explained.  He seemed to find it strange.  Didn't anyone look at his face while talking with him?  I couldn't get enough of watching him.  His expressions were innocent, unstudied.  When he smiled he showed all his teeth unselfconciously, and when he laughed, he tossed his head from side to side.  But the longer I looked at him, the more disturbing his eyes seemed.  Up close, they were obviously fake, like the plastic eyes of a stuffed animal, and I could see dry patches on the surface of the lenses.  It was unsettling to see them in a living face.  After awhile, his hands moved from my body to exploring the bed and its surroundings.  Soon he was running his hands over the heavy metal bar that acted as a headboard on my bed.  His fingers found some bits of cloth and toyed with them for a long time before he even realized what he was doing. 
"Hey, what's this?" I blushed.
"Oh, I keep those there for boyfriends that need, you know, discipline."
He tugged on the black bands.
"What's it made out of?"
"They're old pantyhose that I sut up.  It's better than rope or handcuffs because its soft and stretchy, so it won't cut off circulation or cause nerve damage."
"Cool."
"Wanna try it?"  I felt a shiver run through me.  Bondage was something I had done with a past non-disabled boyfriend to make him seem more interesting.  The idea of doing it with a guy who was already disabled had never even occured to me.  Or rather, it was more that I had never dared to hope for.  "Are you sure you want me to tie up your hands?"
"Yea, let's try it.  I've never done that before."  He lay his arms against the metal bar invitingly, and I could hardly refuse.  I tied his wrists tightly, then tied his ankles to another bar at the end of the bed.  Since he was so short, the bands barely reached his feet, and when I was done he lay spread-eagled, unable to move.  At first I hovered at the side of the bed and tried to move silently so he woudn't know what I was going to do next.  I kissed him all over, quickly, teasingly.  Then I lay down next to him, rubbing all over.  If he couldn't feel me with his hands, at least he could feel me elsewhere.  I grabbed his dick and held on tightly while I licked and bit his nipples over and over, until his breath was ragged and he was straining against the bonds.  I moved up and ran my tongue lightly over his ear then bit him hard.  His fingers twitched helplessly.  He's dying to touch me, to see me with his hands, but he can't -- now he really is totally blind, I thought.  It was almost too much.  I could feel the soles of my feet tingling and a strange twisitng feeling in the pit of my stomach.  The blood roared in my ears.  As fast as I could, I put the condom on him, then took him inside me.  He bucked and twitched underneath me with increasing strength.  The bonds were coming loose.  Suddenly his feet twisted free, then his hands and in the moment he sat up and put his arms around me and his mouth on mine, greedily taking what had been denied, I felt him come inside me, both of us pulsing in the same unconcious rhythm.  We lay quietly again for awhile, but soon hunger drove us from the bed.  I made a quick soup with noodles and vegetables, then sat facing him at my tiny kitchen table, watching him eat.  "It's Japanese style.  You can drink from the bowl, I explained.  He declined my offer or chopsticks in favor of a fork.  He held the bowl under his chin with one hand, using the fork in the other hand to randomly rake the surface of the soup in hopes of finding something.  Sometimes he missed and his mouth encountered only the empty metal tines.  Whenever I handed him something, like a glass of water, there was always a brief pause while I waited for him to take the offered glass, but of course, not knowing it was there, his hand remained at his side, cupped expectantly until I placed the glass in his fingers.  We talked of various things, but I remember none of it, I was so fascinated by the sight of him eating. After he left, I would sit in the chair with my eyes closed, and bring the bowl to my lips, feeling its cold edges, trying to enter his world, if only for a moment.  Then I would open my eyes and swallow the rest of what he had left behind.  I never saw Chad again.  As soon as Karen gave birth to his daughter, he felt overcome by guilt and a hackneyed desire to live a normal life.  We talked on the phone several times and I encouraged him to come over again, but he refused.  "I'm afraid every time I kiss you, I'll see that little girl's face," he said over and over.  I wanted to tell him, you can't see anything.  You're just repeating what you think you should be saying.  But it wasn't my place to tell him what to do with his life.  Before long, I had left the country and then it really was over.  I have occassionaly considered calling, just to see whatever happened to him, but the memories that I have are perhaps best left unchanged, perfect.



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