A WALK ON THE BEACH
“It’s smooth sailing with the highly successful sound of wonderful Radio London.”
Historical fantasy by strzeka (07/26)
Dedicated to Steven P with thanks for the inspiration
It’s funny how one thing always seems to lead to another. Moving to Essex from our bombed out flat in Hackney was one. My mum moved me and my little sister to Jaywick as soon as word got around that there were pretty little summer cottages along the coastline which would suit homeless bombed‑out people like us to a T. I went to business school in town and ended up on a radio operator course. The war ended before I finished the course but we were all offered the chance to buy a short wave radio transmitter of our own afterwards and that became my hobby.
I moved to Holland‑on‑Sea around that time. It was further up the coast, just a sleepy little village where the government was building prefabs. I got one on the pretence that my mum needed one and it was for her and her kids. She’d fallen pregnant again to an ex‑army man who knocked her about but they both wanted me gone and I was glad to be out of it. Being disabled myself, I felt helpless against someone twice my age with both legs. Anyway, I was able to move in to my own digs with my radio and kept in touch with the world from my bedroom on the very eastern edge of England.
I got a job in a new grocer’s shop in Frinton because I noticed a very strong local signal one evening and contacted the source. I introduced myself and mentioned my situation, a one‑legged teenager willing to learn a trade but unsure what to do. The source was the owner of the store who said he needed a reliable stockroom worker who could keep a tally of goings on. I said it sounded pretty much what I had been studying at business school anyway and so he took me on. I became his foreman by the mid Fifties. My teddy boy mates never thought of me as being hip with my boring grocer’s job but they had to admit that it was me who could always afford a round. I had a black leather jacket and blue jeans too, and that made me into an object of envy, tin leg and all.
I never gave much thought to why I didn’t have a girlfriend. Sometimes one of my mates would ask me why I was such a loner and I simply pointed to my right leg. It was such a convenient excuse. I wasn’t bad looking, I had a good job, I had my own home, more or less, and I kept my nose clean. But I didn’t have a girlfriend. The reason was simple enough. I liked men. I was infatuated with the idea of loving a hale and healthy lad. Could be my age or younger. I didn’t much fancy older blokes. They were usually twisted by all the years of hiding. I hated the way they spoke and what they said to signal their homosexuality. I couldn’t understand why men who loved men could not behave like men. Why the loose wrists and foppish behaviour? I was simply waiting for the right person to turn up, I suppose, like everyone else.
As the Fifties gave way to the Sixties and television arrived, people seemed to stop going out so much. I noticed it especially, and I reckon most other men like myself noticed it too. There weren’t so many pretty young men in the pubs. Oh, they might drop in for a pint after work but they usually hurried home before seven to watch the box. I never had much time for television. I think it was 1966 before I bought one. Just a normal seventeen inch black and white, nothing fancy. I didn’t get a colour set until 1980 to watch the World Cup but that was far in the future and I was heavily influenced by Felix.
Felix has always been football mad. Personally, I don’t mind it but I never had much enthusiasm for the game. I suppose having only one leg might explain some of it. I just never had a favourite team. Felix is football crazy, although he manages to keep himself under control most of the time. I ought to mention how Felix and I came to be each other’s ideal man.
By 1961, I was running the Frinton store as store manager. We had two shops further up the coast by that time as well as a big supermarket just off Clacton High Street. All the local ladies flocked to my Frinton store because I employed only handsome young men and encouraged them to be a little flirty with the ladies, but always polite. I also paid them two pounds a week above what they would have got elsewhere and this helped to keep pilfering down. I had a sharp eye for what went in and what came out and I could quickly spot any discrepancy. I had my eye on one saucy young lad who I liked the look of but I had to admit that he seemed to be dishonest. I was able to catch him nicking a ten bob note he’d dropped in the floor scrapings to be swept up and dumped outside. I quietly asked him what he was scrabbling through the rubbish for. I will never forget the look of sheer panic on his face. His nerve broke straight away and he plucked the note from the rubbish, now stained with beetroot juice. I took it from him and returned inside. I had to let the boy go. He was so ashamed of what he insisted was the first time he had stolen. I suspected it might also be the last. I was sorry to lose him. As I said, he had a pretty face and a nice body. Four years passed before I saw him again.
Business continued to grow. We opened another shop in Clacton, outside the town centre this time on one of the new housing estates. The new bungalows on quiet culs‑de‑sac were popular with senior citizens who had the chance to retire in a smaller and nicer home near the seaside. They appreciated a new grocery shop within walking distance which saved them effort and expense of the bus fare into town. I happened to be in the main store in Clacton for a regular monthly meeting with the owner. When we had finished business, I strolled along the aisles admiring the broader variety of items on sale in the bigger shop, wondering if there might be a demand for new products in Frinton. I noticed a young man with a well‑formed back and rear, bending over and pulling several packets of something from the bottom shelf. When he stood to place them in his trolley, I saw it was the chap I had sacked for stealing. I was pleased to see him again, quite honestly. I spoke to him and asked him why on earth he was buying so many products. He had grown a trendy moustache which curled around his lips and his curly hair was almost to his shoulders. He had a blue and white striped T‑shirt which gave him a jolly nautical air. He possibly had trouble remembering me. He hesitated before answering something about buying for a crowd of people. Then the penny dropped.
– I remember you!
– Yes, I thought you might. No hard feelings, I hope. I’m glad to see you’re doing well for yourself.
– Yeah, I suppose I am.
– Do you often do a large shop like that?
– Once a week, at least.
– Oh! So it’s quite regular then? Have you made any arrangements for a bulk discount?
– Er, no. I don’t think so.
– Well, you should. I could give you at least five percent if you shopped regularly at the Frinton store.
– I’ve been avoiding going there because of what happened.
– Look, I’m sorry, I forget your name—
– Felix Carroway.
– Of course. Felix. Forget all that. No‑one knows anything about it except me and you, and I never think about it.
– That’s kind of you to say so. You’d have to talk to my boss, I reckon. There’d be papers to sign and that sort of thing, I expect.
– Yeah, there would. Where can I find your boss?
Felix was unexpectedly quiet for a few seconds.
– I’m not sure I should tell you.
– Oh? You’re not mixed up with anything illegal, Felix, are you?
– Well, it’s difficult. Can you keep a secret?
– I’m a businessman, Felix. Of course I can keep a secret.
– Well, it’s for the crew on the Galaxy.
– I don’t understand.
– We’re anchored just offshore. It’s the ship which broadcasts Radio London.
– Oh, good lord! You’re doing the shopping for the disc jockeys on the pirate radio station! How are you going to get all that produce across to the ship?
– There’s two others waiting near the pier with a dinghy. One will stay there to keep an eye out for trouble and me and the other one will load the dinghy up. Probably need two or three trips.
– I should think so. Listen, I have an idea but I’m obviously going to have to discuss it with your boss. Give him my business card and ask him to call me, OK?
I took a fresh business card from my wallet and handed it to Felix. He studied it.
– Tobias. That’s an unusual name.
– Everyone calls me Toby. Toby Hatherleigh. Alright, Felix, I have to get back to work. No rest for the wicked. I’m glad to have met you again, Felix. I have wondered what happened to you after—you know.
He nodded but looked directly into my eyes and shook my hand.
– I’m sure we’ll meet again. Bye now.
The next Saturday evening, I had just wound up a regular call to a contact in Alice Springs when a loud signal interrupted me. I quickly adjusted the volume and answered with my call sign.
– Is that Tobias Hatherleigh?
An American accent, deep baritone.
– Roger, I am Tobias Hatherleigh. Over.
– OK, great. You gave your business card to our galley slave during the week, if you remember. He was buying our food for the week. Er, over.
– Yes, I remember. Is Felix a slave? Over.
– Felix is our chef and although I wouldn’t say so to his pretty face to stop him from getting a big head, he’s pretty goddamn good. He was in town with Tony Blackburn and Dave Cash for a coupla hours. Every week we have to sneak into town when the weather’s clear to stock up. Over.
– It must be very inconvenient. Can you not get deliveries to the ship? Over.
– There are no businesses which want to deal with us openly because they’d be breaking the law and we’re officially outside UK jurisdiction so there’d be all kinds of tax nightmares. That’s what I want to talk to you about. Felix tells me you’re the boss of a supermarket in Fincham—
– Frinton. Frinton‑on ‑Sea. Yes, I’m the manager. I mentioned to Felix that if there was a regular bulk purchase, I could see my way to offering a five percent discount—
– Ten! Make it ten and we’ve got a deal. Over.
– I’ll have to check my figures but let’s say a ten percent discount on a weekly purchase of seventy pounds. Over.
– Sixty-three British pounds.
– Yes. And if it’s a regular order, we could pack the same products once a week for collection, all ready to be shipped across to the, er, ship. Over.
– I can tell you’ve been thinking about this already, Mr Hatherleigh. I like what I hear. You do your recalculations and get back to me as soon as you like. Use this call sign. I’ll be here. Over an’ out.
To cut a long story short, the deal was done. Felix ferried me over to discuss future arrangements with the boss. Nothing was signed. There was no risk of jeopardy for myself or for the company. But every week, three boxes of dry goods and one of perishables made their way by dinghy from one of the breakwaters below Holland‑on‑Sea. Everything was cash only. I drove the foodstuffs and the two Radio London lads from the back of the Frinton store to the breakwater closest to my prefab. It was one of the few which had lost its wartime barbed wire and had easy access from the lower promenade. When the tide was in, it was easy to lower the goods into the dinghy. Sometimes I accompanied Felix and Mr Blackburn on their second long walk down to the breakwater to say hello to the third man and to see them off. The first time I did so, Felix noticed my slight limp and asked if I had hurt my leg.
– I don’t have a leg there, Felix. It’s an artificial leg.
– Oh! I never noticed before. I didn’t know you had a wooden leg.
– Ha! It’s not wooden, Felix. It’s aluminium.
I put my hand in my pocket and managed to pull my trouser leg up far enough to expose the shiny metal surface of my leg. Felix was agog.
– I never knew! I’m sorry, Toby. How did it happen?
– During the blitz. Our house was hit and I came a cropper. Could’ve been worse, I suppose.
– So you had a wooden leg when, er, when we met the first time.
– Yeah, of course.
– I never knew.
– Don’t let it worry you, Felix. It’s perfectly fine. It doesn’t hurt me. Don’t worry.
Felix did not let it worry him, by any means. He stashed it away in his imagination and, as I have learned, masturbated furiously to the memory of me trudging along the breakwater in the dusk with the setting sun reflecting a red glow from my tin leg.
I met Felix every week unless the sea was too rough for the dinghy. I knew the Galaxy had enough food in reserve for a few extra days but there was a more pressing need to stock up on drinking water and milk. Felix explained how he tried to keep the weight down by serving pasta instead of potatoes. He made a lot of spaghetti bolognese and lasagne, most of which could be made from canned produce. I looked forward to seeing Felix. It was the high spot of my week. There was always a chaperone along so we could never get intimate. Usually Tony Blackburn came to the store with Felix. The two youngsters were the dogsbodies and Tony’s two hour show was on in the mornings so he was usually free to help carry provisions. I ferried them back to the breakwater in the company van and the three of us ambled down the long sandy footpaths to the lower promenade and the beach. It was usually dusk, that time of day when the light can be deceptive and something like a dinghy was hard to spot in the grey swell of the North Sea.
Like a bolt from the blue, the government acted with spiteful efficiency and passed the law forcing pirate radio stations to cease broadcasting. The BBC was behind it. After several years, they had learned what people wanted to listen to and it wasn’t the BBC. People were disappointed to lose the friendly familiar voices of regular DJs who played the latest hits several times a day with an upbeat attitude which caught the spirit of the times. 1967 was the first summer of love and the music reflected the growing hippy movement’s ideas and ideals. But suddenly, there was only silence.
Felix turned up a couple of days later. I was just getting ready to close the front of the store, bringing the A‑frames in. I caught sight of Felix looking sorry for himself, lugging a suitcase. I stopped what I was doing and stood watching him approach. He spotted me and seemed to gain new strength in his step. His face broke into a smile then a grin. His transformation was fascinating to see. I knew exactly why Felix had come. I was overjoyed by his trust and his love. I was not prepared for his infatuation with my tin leg.
– I didn’t expect you so soon. It’s only Wednesday.
– I know. The ones who aren’t part of the crew have been asked to leave as soon as possible. We’re expecting to be towed to shore by the coast guard and I for one would prefer not to be caught up in that sort of business.
– Are you going to be in trouble with the law?
– What for? Cooking spaghetti outside the three mile limit? I don’t know as if that’s a crime yet.
– I suppose you want a place to stay, don’t you?
Felix grinned again and nodded. My heart melted.
– You can come home with me.
– Thanks Toby. I thought you might say that.
This time, we both grinned at each other. Felix saw to tidying up the front for me while I tallied the takings and after three quarters of an hour, we were ready to leave.
– You don’t need to take your case, Felix. Just put what you need for tonight in a carrier bag and bring that. We can collect the case in the van tomorrow.
I locked up and the two of us walked back to Holland, above the breakwater we had stood on many times before. My prefab was further back from the main road, one of the first. My next door neighbour saw us from her kitchen window and we waved a hello.
– Come in and make yourself at home. Welcome to my humble abode.
I wasn’t exaggerating. My place was about as nondescript as you might expect a bachelor pad to be. The few bits of furniture I had were Fifties pieces, all showing their age. My radio equipment took up half my bedroom. I had a guest bedroom full of empty cardboard boxes, an ironing board and the vacuum cleaner. A collapsible camper bed stood folded against the wall. Felix stood behind me and I felt his warm hands hold my shoulders. He leaned in and nuzzled against my face and kissed my cheek.
– Have you had anything to eat? Would you like me to cook something?
– No, I’ve not eaten. Shall we go out for something? We could get fish n chips in Clacton. There’s a bus due in ten minutes. Come on! I’ll treat you.
– Thanks. I haven’t had fish for ages.
– Ironic, isn’t it? You live on a ship but never have fresh fish.
– Fish needs a decent kitchen with proper tools to do it justice. The galley on the Galaxy is really tiny. There’s no room to do proper cooking. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see it again.
– No, I don’t suppose so. Alright. Are you ready?
– Can I use the loo?
– It’s right there.
Intentionally or not, the toilet door swung slowly open on its hinges as it always does. I caught sight of Felix’s penis. I didn’t initially understand what I was seeing. I turned away before he noticed my expression.
The old open‑top 4A rumbled into view and farted to a halt beside us. Two athletic youngsters bolted upstairs ahead of us. Felix made to follow them but I called him back, pointing to the downstairs saloon. Felix nodded his understanding. I try to avoid stairs whenever possible. My mechanical knee is reliable on the flat but I don’t trust it otherwise. I handed the conductor a shilling for two to the Pier and got two old‑fashioned pale pink tickets and fourpence change. I knew a nice place down a side street near the pier and looked forward to getting a big plateful of crisp battered cod. I loved the smells of frying oil and the sharp tang of vinegar in the air and listening to the cheeky banter between the staff behind the counter which always seemed to be part of the experience, some kind of performance, as predictable as Punch & Judy on the seafront. Felix sat next to me and I fancied I could feel his left leg pressing against my tin leg. I already realised at that stage that Felix was fascinated by my artificial limb but I had no idea to what extent. In those early carefree days of flower power and with a sense of trepidation in the midst of evolving sexuality, there simply was not the vocabulary to describe the erotic attraction to leg stumps or the obsessive urge to undergo an unnecessary amputation in order to gain a stump of your own.
It was a wonderful night out. We had left home as the last light faded landward. Lights from the pier sparkled on the waves, late summer visitors crowded around its entrance coming and going, the streets were thronged with people out to enjoy the atmosphere with others like them enjoying themselves. After our fabulous meal, we walked up the illuminated High Street as far as the bus station and climbed onto the evening’s last 4A back to Holland. We were the only passengers to alight there. We stood by the bus shelter watching the tail lights disappearing up the road towards Frinton. Felix pulled me into the shadow of the shelter, quite roughly considering I have only one leg and kissed me on the mouth with a passion I had never experienced before. My stump is usually denied external sensation but I could definitely sense how Felix was crushing my artificial leg between his flesh and bone legs. And my penis was definitely rising to the occasion. Most amazing and confusing of all, I could feel Felix’s penis seemingly uncurling itself from somewhere and strengthening its pressure against my own erection. He pumped his pelvis against mine, squeezing my tin leg to maintain his excitement and once again, we kissed in what I now know to call a French kiss. Our tongues explored each other’s mouths, and we tossed our heads from side to side for a better angle. All the time, we were becoming more aroused and excited. Felix groaned and pulled away from my face and my tin leg and fumbled with his flies and belt. He eased his amazing penis out of his trousers into the cool air and worked his hands along its length as if to straighten it out after its imprisonment of many hours. He masturbated for half a minute, concentrating first on the lower shaft near his groin and then reaching ahead to tease his beautiful glans. He placed both palms facing upwards under his penis and leaned back, his gorgeous face twisted into a momentary rictus of ecstasy. He came. I could not see it. There was not enough light. But I smelt fresh sperm on the night air.
– Come on. Let’s go.
– Aren’t you going to put your tool back in your trousers?
– No.
He pulled his T‑shirt out of his belt line and lifted his penis so it was mostly hidden by his shirt.
– No‑one will see.
I was astonished but had no argument against Felix accompanying me back to my prefab with his penis out.
Felix seemed willing to extend the evening. He tucked his penis back inside his jeans after his erection subsided. We sat at my spindly round kitchen table and drank a nightcap of cocoa, as I customarily do.
– There are things we have to talk about, Felix. I don’t know what plans you have for the future but I want you to know that you are welcome to stay here for the time being, so you don’t need to worry about finding a place to live.
– Thanks, Toby. That means a lot to me.
– It’s why you came, isn’t it?
His face was serious. We both understood that beyond our unspoken mutual infatuation, life also occasionally reared its ugly head. Felix was in desperate need of lodgings or he would be destitute. He nodded and looked at me for my reaction.
– You can stay as long as you want. Come on. Let’s get your bed fixed and we can called it a night.
Felix quickly shoved empty boxes out of the way and pulled the collapsible bed into shape. A skinny ex‑army mattress unrolled along it, emitting a dubious odour of disuse.
– This will do fine. Thanks Toby.
– Good night, Felix.
It was the last ever night we slept alone.
I left the next morning before Felix was awake. I left the butter out for him. If he had any sense he would be able to find some eggs or cornflakes by himself. He was very much on my mind when I was supposed to be concentrating on work matters. The end of the week is when it becomes clear if you have enough stock ordered in for the weekend and you have a last minute chance to order more if necessary. Somehow I was not interested in a rundown of Heinz tinned goods. If we ran out of tinned spaghetti, why would I care when I had Felix in my arms and he had my tin leg in his. I was still amused by his fascination with my stump and I trembled with excitement about his extraordinary penis. We needed time to learn more about each other’s amazing bodies. There was an apparent run on discounted baked beans.
– So order more!
– Four gross?
– Four if there’s room, otherwise two. Check first!
Baked beans or the upcoming chance to feel Felix’s amazing penis. What else could I think about? He was in my home waiting for me. I knew he was looking forward to tonight because it would be the first time I would have the opportunity to remove my tin leg for him for any length of time and I was itching with excitement at seeing his enormous penis. I had only heard rumours about men with gigantic penises before but never really believed the stories. Pornographic novels occasionally had a hero who sported a huge penis but it was never described in any credible detail. The overall length was mentioned and the rest was very much left to the reader to decide. The man waiting for me at home definitely had a foot long penis. I was amazed that such a thing was possible and that I was going to feel it.
I battled my way through the day and limped home at top speed. Felix was in the hallway waiting for me as soon as my key was in the door. We hugged and asked how the other’s day had gone. We had both missed each other. I noticed an unusual smell in the place. Freshly cooked food. Felix had found everything he needed to make a lasagne with ground beef and tinned tomatoes in it. He had made a bechamel sauce himself from flour milk and cheese. I was well impressed. The packet of lasagne sheets was about three years old. I had once tried using them but the end result nearly broke my teeth. Felix had made several trays of lasagne every week on the Galaxy. This one was delicious. It was obvious that Felix would take charge of cooking if he decided to stay.
The rest of the evening was spent discussing our options, or actually Felix’s options. He needed a place to live and he needed a job. He had enough money, several hundred, to tide him over for a few months but there was no time to lose. I assured him that he could stay with me for as long as he liked and if he wanted to move in permanently, I was agreeable to that too. He would have a permanent address again. I asked him if he would be interested in doing something in the big Clacton store. There was a regular turnover there of school kids who worked Saturdays for six months or so. There were usually a couple of positions vacant there. Felix was amenable to it and I promised to talk to the manager on his behalf.
And so to bed. Felix brought his collapsible bunk bed into my bedroom and placed it next to mine. I gave him a couple of sheets to stretch across the mattresses and another couple of top sheets. I had some stump care to get out of the way. For a change, I took my leg off in the living room rather than in the bathroom. I let my trousers drop and sat back down. I removed my left shoe and slipped my leg out of the trousers. The tin leg kept its shoe and remained inside the trouser leg. I opened the three clamps which closed the leather‑lined aluminium socket against my flesh and eased my stump out. It was damp with sweat and lined with impressions from the interior of the socket.
– If you look behind the bathroom door, you’ll find my crutches. Would you bring them to me, please?
Felix did as I asked and stood before me leaning on my wooden crutches. His crotch was directly opposite my line of sight and I was powerless to look away. He gyrated his pelvis in an effort to coax his penis into a more comfortable position. It was already a prominent feature, to put it politely. He moved his hands from the crossbars and tugged at his jeans, trying to find more space somehow for a full‑blown erection. I was about to suggest he drop his trousers like I had done but decided to wait a minute or two to see what Felix would actually do to cope with his erection.
In the end, there was little to be said about our situations. Felix confirmed that his penis was ten inches long at rest and twelve and a half erect. I confirmed that my stump had recently had its quarter century anniversary, not that I paid the date any attention. Instead of going to the bathroom to wash my stump, Felix asked if he could do it for me and brought some warm water in the washing up bowl and gently rinsed my stump clean. It had been years since I had allowed anyone else to touch my stump. I was shocked to find it so pleasurable. Felix seemed to know exactly what to do and what needed to be done. He lifted my tin leg in my trousers across to a dining chair and sat on the floor next to my stump. He began a kind of massage, pulling my atrophied muscles this way and that, exploring the tautness of my skin and the paucity of hair.
– It’s beautiful, Toby. You’re so lucky to have a stump.
– What? Lucky? What do you mean?
I was taken aback by his words. I had never regarded being disabled as being lucky.
– A stump is so manly. It makes you look like a survivor of a battle—which you are. And you have your fabulous tin leg. I mean, just look at it! Isn’t it a fabulous piece of kit? Just like a piece of armour that knights used to wear for battle. That’s what I mean by lucky.
– Well, I’ve never thought about it that way. And I’ve never heard another person describing a stump as manly. What about if you’re a woman?
– It’s still manly. That’s why amputee women are so terrified they’ll never find a man. Because their stumps look so manly and masculine.
– Wow! I’ve never thought of it that way but I reckon you might be right.
– And there’s something else I ought to tell you, Toby. Just so you know right from the start. I’m jealous of your stump and your tin leg and I would do anything if I could have my own stump and artificial leg. I’d love to lose my leg and have a stump like yours. Are you shocked?
– Well, yeah. Are you sure? How can you know this is how you imagine it to be? It’s not easy, Felix, going through every day having to make sure your artificial leg is not about to fall off or something equally silly. And you’ve seen how I have to bathe my stump specially and keep it clean.
– I know. I’ll do it for you from now on, if you like.
– We’ll see.
Felix left it there. I thought it was the end of the matter. He had admitted that he had an amputee fetish and I thought that was all there was to it.
– Come on. Let’s get to bed.
He helped me up and held my crutches steady. Felix walked behind me, no doubt with his eyes on my stump which jerked with every step as if the rest of the leg was still attached. It always seemed so light without my tin leg.
Felix had no pyjamas with him. Fortunately it was a warm August evening so we were both naked. Felix was on my left so he could reach my stump when I faced him. His penis was semi‑hard. It stood proud of Felix’s washboard tummy when he deliberately forced more blood into it, otherwise it rested on his belly. I had played with dildoes before. The penis was similar to a long dildo. It did not look anything like a genuine penis. It was too exaggerated. Felix urged me to touch it. It was warm and not pliable as I expected. The head was broad and hard. It glinted in the meagre light reflecting into the room from the streetlight outside. I changed my position and succeeded in gripping the base of the shaft with the other hand around the rest of it. But still the head poked out. It was such an odd sensation. Needless to say, my own perfectly average penis was straining with excitement and dripping precum onto the fresh sheets. We did not make love that night. We were both too tired and our rickety makeshift bed was not the best place to explore each other. We snuggled together and slept with Felix’s penis between us.
I explained our situation to my manager over the phone the next day, saying that a young man I could vouch for would appreciate employment if there were any positions available. To my delight, there was a driver’s position going due to an early retirement. I had no idea if Felix had a driver’s licence but thanked my boss and promised to send Felix for a little chat at noon the next day. Saturday.
It all turned out for the best. Felix landed the driver’s job, which entailed both fetching foodstuffs to the store from local farmers and later delivering boxes of produce to our regular customers—old peoples’ homes, sea front restaurants and the like. Felix had an assistant with him but the job was physically demanding and he had to be awake two hours before I needed to get up. Despite the awful hours, he was happy to have a job which earned him seventeen quid a week and a one‑legged lover to come home to. We turned our attention to improving the prefab, to make it into a home which suited both of us. The first thing we bought was a broad double bed. The guest bedroom was cleared of its useless empty boxes and turned into my radio room and Felix’s music studio. He bought a record player and later a top quality tape recorder on the never‑never. We brightened up the living room. I ditched all the dingy old‑fashioned furniture and we repainted the walls, three white and one orange. It was wonderful to have a cheerful bright interior. Best of all, our relationship matured. We both trusted each other with confidential information concerning the company to edge our careers ahead. We were known throughout the neighbourhood as uncle and nephew, backed up by the fact that we both worked in the same trade. We both learned how to satisfy the other sexually and gradually the inhibitions which had started to melt away at the beginning of the Sixties finally disappeared by the end. The furtive old perversions were cast off. After legalisation, homosexuality took on a youthful aspect. It was fun, open and free.
Felix and I were rarely home together for longer than a couple of hours, apart from the nights. So the nights became our time. I learned to regard my stump as a kind of phallus which Felix enjoyed as much as I enjoyed toying with his enormous penis. My favourite position was sitting on the floor opposite Felix. He kneaded and massaged my stump while I tongued his penis. His glans fit in my mouth perfectly. It cut off my breath and I snorted in order to breath. I could never get used to the fact that I needed both hands to handle his amazing dick. I was always amazed that it was even possible for a penis to grow so large, let alone have one which I could regard as my private property. There was a limited amount which Felix could do with his penis. It was too big to fuck anyone with. He played with my arsehole with his fingers and wished he could fuck me but I was not prepared to play a lesser role. When we made love, I fucked Felix. We always used rubbers. We practised safe sex, as it came to be called. If your partner’s penis is a foot long and proportionally thick, there is little alternative. Despite Felix’s sexual disability, his inability to fuck a living warm arsehole, he enjoyed our playful homosexual sessions as much as I did. We stripped naked. I toyed with his penis, he toyed with my stump.
As if to pay tribute to the past, we made a habit of strolling down to the beach on calm evenings. The sky was clear and the setting sun illuminated clouds in the eastern sky, along the horizon. I dislike walking on sand but Felix was there for me. We wrapped arms around each other’s shoulders for support and walked from one breakwater to the next, negotiating our way around each by returning landward until after a mile or so, we climbed back onto the sandy promenade and up the gentle inclines to the main road at the top of the cliff. For whatever reason, Felix stepped out into the road and was clipped by a silvery E-Type Jaguar which tore him from my arms and flipped him across the road where he landed on his already damaged leg. He screamed in pain and I panicked, not understanding what had happened, not knowing what to do or how to help.
– Call an ambulance, Toby! Run home and call an ambulance.
Somehow I did as might be expected from anyone. I was in shock myself. I was told an ambulance was on its way and ran back to Felix, leaving the door wide open. The driver of the Jag had stopped and administered the first aid I should have had the sense to give Felix. He was distraught with regret. The police arrived to take everyone’s details and made the driver blow into one of the new breath tests. It would show if the driver had been drinking.
To cut to the chase, Felix was faced with a dilemma. It might be possible to reconstruct his leg but it would probably be shorter than his right leg. He would need some kind of built‑up orthopaedic boot on a leg brace to even his gait. Or he could avoid years of reconstructive surgery and undergo a straightforward amputation of his left leg approximately mid‑thigh which would allow him a quick recovery and the opportunity to be walking again on an artificial limb within a matter of months. With his patched leg still exuding fluids, Felix was granted forty‑eight hours to savour the fact that he was going to get his own stump. When we were together in bed, our stumps would be on top of each other. We would be a perfect match. Felix confirmed his decision and the surgeons solemnly agreed that amputation might indeed result in the best possible outcome. However, his career as a driver was over.
I visited him as often as possible. Some nights were awkward after I had been delayed at the store, followed by the awkward journey from Frinton to the hospital. I managed to explain Felix’s plight to the boss, who extended his condolences to the invalid and promised to keep an eye on suitable positions in the company, a nice office job suitable for a one‑legged man. It was so patronising a suggestion that I swear he had forgotten that I too am a one‑legged man. But I said nothing except for thanks and promised to convey his best wishes to the invalid.
Felix was allowed home on crutches after three weeks. The stitches had been removed and the stump heavily bandaged. Someone would call by every morning between ten and midday to change the dressing. Felix actually caught the 4A back rather than accepting a ride in an ambulance. He said he wanted to see what it was like to walk with crutches. Until then, he had only hobbled back and forth in the rehab room. He claimed to enjoy the experience. I dislike using crutches. They always seem to be the wrong length. The tips catch on tiny shards of stone, spoiling the rhythm. And they point out the fact that I am an amputee. I regard it as my private affair. I don’t care to advertise the fact to outsiders. I rather suspect that Felix may be a different kettle of fish.
He was fitted with a standard health service artificial limb made of the lightweight pink composite material with a mechanical knee. The lower leg was cast in one single piece. It would be easy to distinguish that Felix was walking on an artificial leg by the halting motion caused by the inflexible ankle and foot. It was possible to buy more advanced mechanical components but they were expensive and I regarded them as experimental. I trusted my own rigid aluminium lower leg and ankle. My foot component was a wooden foot‑shaped extension. It had no toes. It was just a piece of gleaming honey‑coloured wood, size nine.
The driver of the E‑type settled out of court. He offered two hundred thou in compensation to be paid into Felix’s bank account immediately. Felix and I regarded it as a generous sum and Felix was satisfied. He notified the man and mentioned that he currently had no bank account. The man went out of his way to accommodate Felix’s needs. He arrived to collect Felix in another Jaguar, more sedate than the E‑type. He drove to Colchester, where he had an appointment with his bank manager. Within the hour, Felix had a checking account and his first ever cheque book and a savings account which held two hundred thousand pounds and was earning interest every day. Felix learned that his ‘benefactor’ was a manager for five up and coming bands. This explained his wealth and generosity. Several years later, the same man was imprisoned for embezzlement. The musical talent he had promoted were left with nothing.
Felix rarely wore his artificial leg for more than a couple of hours. He wore it when we went into town together and I occasionally persuaded him to wear it on our long strolls along the beach. He wore it when he cooked and when he did housework. Felix preferred to stay home to run the household completely rather than return to work, especially to an office job for a grocer. Here was a man who had been at the heart of the youth revolution not even five years ago. He had achieved some of his ambitions. He had a lover. He had more money than he knew what to do with. He had a stump. He could choose whether to wear his artificial leg or to leave it off and rely on sleek wooden crutches. He walked far better on crutches than I did. I loved to see his fluid stride on his single leg.
He gradually made his disability part of his character. He was no longer a handsome man who had been disabled in a tragic traffic accident. He was now a confident one‑legged man who paid no attention to his disability. He was equally capable on crutches or with his primitive artificial leg which gave an almost imperceptible hitch to his gait. I felt enormous pride in his recovery and I felt the same pride when we meandered down the shallow steps on cool bright evenings to watch the stars come up over the horizon where the Galaxy had once anchored.
It seemed to me that post‑amputation, Felix became calmer and more fulfilled. He had not had an easy time of it during the previous ten years. The Big L years were fraught with uncertainty and it was really only his teenage indiscretion which led him to attract my attention. Who knows where he would otherwise be? But we were a fabulous couple, secure at last in our sexuality and love for each other despite the twenty year age gap. We both admired each other’s mastery of life with an artificial leg. Felix never entirely lost his fetishistic association for amputation. We often sat together on the edge of our bed in the morning, donning stumps socks and pushing our stumps into our sockets. Felix’s penis was turgid with blood during the process, a half‑ready erection. It was longer than his stump. Felix’s favourite way of starting a session of masturbation was to rub the glans against the rigid surface of his socket. The contrast between the two were possibly what fascinated him. His penis was a healthy deep red and purple, firm but pliable. The socket was an unnatural pink, slightly rough, rigid and hard. Even the sound it emitted when Felix playfully rapped on it with his knuckles was enough to start an erection. I have to admit though that I did not find the same erotic satisfaction in my own tin leg. I had worn it, or something very similar, most of my life and it was too familiar to me to maintain my interest.
Best of all were our impromptu love‑making sessions. When I initiated one, we made love naked. Felix concentrated on my stump and genitals as his foreplay. He was unable to copulate with his enormous penis but used it to push and poke at my penis and scrotum. In turn, I could use mine to poke along the length of Felix’s penis. One of our favourite things was when Felix was able to pull my penis next to his glans so his foreskin covered my penis almost completely. It looked as if the gigantic penis was mine, which never ceased to excite me. Felix twisted around and I entered his manhole for our mutual pleasure. I could just reach Felix’s prostate, enough so to cause him to orgasm. He always warned me a few seconds beforehand because I loved to watch the process. His scrotum contracted and outlined his enormous balls, bigger than hen’s eggs. The tight skin squirmed and Felix gasped as the orgasm gathered force. His erection was at its ultimate maximum, the only time when it genuinely rose erect, balancing in the air like an impossible truncheon. Then he threw his head back in a rictus of ecstasy and an amazing amount of ejaculate flew at force, pumped by powerful contractions which flowed along his penis.
It was different when Felix initiated a session. It took a while before Felix felt confident enough to suggest such a thing. Quite apart from the age difference, I was the senior partner in the relationship until Felix received his compensation. The fact that he could afford to buy an opulent flat anywhere he liked but stayed with me in my postwar prefab instead proved his dedication and allowed him to suggest variations on our lovemaking which I might not have thought of myself. The main difference was that Felix’s style required both of us to wear our artificial legs for the duration. He spent a considerable amount of time tantalising both of us by various manipulations of our sockets. Needless to say, lying in bed or sitting facing each other, our artificial legs were next to useless. They served only as visual stimulation for Felix. He arranged his penis into a position where we could both access it. Often it rested on the rigid ankle section of his or my artificial limb. Felix loved the involved process of climbing on top of me. He loved the sounds of our artificial limbs striking each other, creaking and squeaking from the unusual positions we were demanding of them. This was the height of nirvana for Felix. Seeing an amputee, being an amputee, experiencing the inconvenience of disability with the knowledge that after climaxing while wearing his artificial leg, he could remove it and climax again with me making love to his stump with the enormous penis always present, insistent in its demand for attention.
I fear our last session may have been more than my trusty old tin leg could take. It was seventeen years old and had served me well. I had two alterations made to it over the years but now the knee joint seemed to have twisted the riveted section where it attached to my lower leg and refused to straighten. I dared not attempt walking on it and if my judgment was anything to go by, I would need a new artificial leg. Unfortunately, tin legs were no longer manufactured. Felix and I would have matching artificial legs for the first time. I would have to rely on crutches for a few weeks. I was quite out of practice but Felix was nothing less than supportive. He took his jeans off and removed his artificial leg before putting a pair of cut‑offs on and retrieving his crutches from the wardrobe.
– Come on, old man. Change your trousers. Put on the ones with the fitted stump. We’re going for a walk. You need the exercise and I want you to get some practice in with your crutches. I don’t want you fumbling about in the store like some decrepit old invalid.
– Is that the way you think of me?
– Is it the way you think of yourself?
– It is not.
I changed my trousers and found the slacks which emphasised my stump rather than hiding it. It was Sunday morning when it would have been wonderful to laze about until elevenses.
– Where are we going, anyway?
– Down to the jetty.
– Oh! Any special reason.
– For old time’s sake. Because that’s where we met, time and time again. No matter how rough the sea was, I always looked forward to seeing you standing there, knowing that you had once again made the effort for Big L and all of us onboard. I loved you even then.
– Despite everything.
It was a brisk day. We wore windcheaters but our silhouettes spoke of maimed masculinity. I soon found the sweet spot and my crutches no longer seemed as maladjusted as usual. Felix and I soon found a mutual rhythm. It felt good for us two one‑legged men to crutch without effort or exertion. Passers‑by glanced at us. We were an unusual sight, I suppose. Felix took the lead down the narrow cliff path until we reached the lower promenade. The tide was coming in and the sections of sandy beach between the breakwaters were flooded. The wind blew against us, making it difficult to balance but Felix took the lead and headed out along the immense concrete pier. I had my doubts.
– Felix! Let’s not bother. I don’t like this wind.
He could barely hear me but stopped and looked around.
– You’re right. What shall we do? Do you fancy a meal out instead of cooking? My treat.
– Oh good! Yeah, let’s wait for a bus. We’ll get on whichever comes first.
– Frinton or Clacton.
– Yup.
It was more effort to stroll up to the main road against the wind but worth it in the end. The Clacton bus came first and we paid a visit to our favourite fish n chips restaurant. We seemed to caused some commotion among the staff, none of whom, it transpired, had known that we were amputees.
Felix ignored his artificial leg for the seven weeks it took for my new artificial leg to be delivered. It looked different and felt different. It was lighter and it attached in a different manner from what I was used to. By that time, Felix was reluctant to return to using his own limb. He was more comfortable with his stump and penis enclosed together inside a sewn‑up half trouser leg. He could dress more quickly and the nightly ritual of cleansing his stump was not such a necessity, although he always accompanied me while I attended to my stump. I have reconciled myself to the fact that Felix wanted to be an amputee and dislikes disguising his amputee status. My lover is immediately identifiable as a disabled man, one who has perfected the motion required from a man who will always rely on a single leg and crutches. In turn, I will always be content to limp along beside him.
“Big L time is three o’clock and Radio London is now closing down.”
August 14, 1967
A WALK ON THE BEACH
