STUMPSPOTTING

 

S T U M P S P O T T I N G

A tale of exploration by strzeka (09/25)

 

I suppose it was inevitable that my stump would not be everything I hoped for. The main disappointment is its length. Its shortness. The surgeon was pleased with himself and assured me that he had crafted a residual limb most suitable for prosthetic use. I expected something longer, though. Not surprisingly, I regard myself as quite an expert on stumps. Regardless of the surgeon’s self‑congratulation, longer stumps are even better suited for prosthetic use and I think they look better. Better proportions. The other thing is my stump looks too bulky but that could be due to swelling.

 

The accident went exactly as planned and our mechanism worked to perfection. Jack and I had practised our rôles many times and we had a verbal explanation ready for any outsiders who might happen to see us. Basically, we had made a device which was guaranteed to sever a leg after it was triggered by a minor collision between the pick‑up truck and its victim. It damaged the severed limb further and lowered it to the ground to make it thoroughly unsuitable for replanting. After all that effort and pain, it would be awful to wake up only to find yourself still with two legs. Jack drove back home after making certain that an ambulance was on its way and receiving a thumbs up from me. The police were later informed of the accident but took no practical action beyond adding me to their data list of accident victims.

 

Jack and I run a web forum for fans of male amputation, Elevate. We have a large collection of images collated in accordance with the type of amputation. Members can post messages about anything they deem relevant. We have a few genuine amputees including some whose injury was unplanned and accidental. They are among the few who find the experience of owning a healthy stump to be well worth the occasional inconvenience. Most other members are either admirers or wannabes. Recreational stumpspotters. We keep an eye out for stalkers and fantasists who are enamoured of fictional disabled cartoon characters who have gained an unrealistic magical prosthesis. The obsession with amputation is more common than many believe and is still widely disapproved of. We sufferers are called mad and worse. For myself, it is part of psychological make up. I cannot imagine seeing or meeting an amputee without being transported into flights of imagination about what the stump might look like, how it might feel, what the artificial limb was like to use and so on.

 

Both Jack and I intend exploring amputation as a life choice and I drew the short straw to undergo the process first. As mentioned, I wanted a long thigh stump. I had a handsome pair of legs, honed by hiking and cycling. I intend to rehabilitate my new stump well enough to cope with the demands of an artificial leg. I am just as enthusiastic to get a prosthesis as I am about my stump. I know some amputees lean heavily towards one or the other, either not wishing to bother with a prosthesis at all in order to make their stump the star of the show or suffering the surgical process of becoming an amputee solely in order to acquire an artificial limb.

 

It would seem that our limb shredder works as intended. The only disadvantage is that it possibly sliced my thigh higher above my knee than I wanted. I am going to be additionally hindered by my short stump. I will probably have a noticeable limp. But there is nothing for it. It is too early to start thinking about a second amputation but maybe a longer stump could be arranged for my remaining leg in the not too distant future. It would be cool to end up getting around on one single artificial leg with the other short stump tucked away inside a folded trouser leg.

 

Jack assures me that no‑one has made any enquiries about his whereabouts. The limb shredder has been returned to its apparent purpose as a log splitter and would not give reason to doubt its purpose. When he has arranged his affairs, I will return the favour and ensure that Jack loses a limb. We will have to invent a slightly difference circumstance in a different location. It would not do to repeat the same method in the same place. Someone might ask questions.

 

It really is fairly amazing that our lifelong desire for our own stumps has stayed a secret for so long. When we were still at school, we facetiously called ourselves Stumpspotters because we used to seek them out and make note of them like other kids collect locomotive numbers or plane registrations. We never actually stalked amputees but we both paid close attention to mens’ gaits looking for the tell‑tale sign of an artificial leg. Ours is a military town due to the army barracks nearby and fresh amputees made an appearance from time to time. I liked seeing guys swinging themselves along on crutches. Jack’s favourites were arm amputees. He was really into catching sight of a hook, still is. I think his first amputation might be his left hand. His time is approaching now I have my first stump.

 

After a few days, I was able to take a few photos of my stump to post on Elevate. The stitches are ugly but the stump is not as swollen as it was last week and I think that is due to the tight bandaging. The nurse reckons that I will have a shrinker sock very soon and that will help to shape my stump. If it turns into a rounded shape, I will be satisfied. No‑one has said anything about it being too short for an artificial leg so I am guessing that mine actually is the usual type of stump. I intend folding the empty trouser leg in half and pinning it into my waistband. It looks much neater that way and you can never be entirely sure about exactly how long the stump actually is. It will give other Stumpspotters something to wonder about. I love the idea of being the target of someone else’s lust for a leg stump.

 

I got my shrinker and have been wearing it religiously for a week. My rehab has also started. It seems ridiculous to spin my stump in all directions, or try to move it while the rehab guy pushes against it. I wonder if he gets his kicks from seeing stumps. It would drive me insane. He reckons it will be about eight weeks before my stump is healthy enough for my first fitting for an artificial leg. Until then, I will be on crutches, which is ok. I know how to use them, of course. I already have a pair of elbow crutches and long ones at home. I can choose whichever ones I want to use. I am being discharged in a couple of days and the rehab guy is concerned that I might not be able to manage on crutches. I told him not to worry. He asked me if I have a reliable friend who I can turn to if I need help. I suppose he means Jack. Jack is a very reliable friend. After all, it is thanks to Jack that I have a leg stump.

 

I have arranged to resume working in two weeks which gives me time to get to know the new me and to introduce myself to friends and neighbours in my new guise. People are mostly sympathetic, one or two are clearly more interested than is considered polite and I enjoy explaining my situation to them in more detail. I have pinned up all the empty trouser legs on my clothes so I can easily get ready when I want to go out. I prefer using the long aluminium crutches. They are more supportive and do not make my hands and wrists as sore as the elbow crutches. Also, they are silent. Most of the time, I resort to hopping. My leg is muscular and I have a good sense of balance. I think it is good to know I can trust my sound leg in an emergency. And I like the way my half trouser leg flaps about when I hop. I have begun to plan various ways to play with my stump after it has healed enough. Obviously the main thing is to have an artificial leg but there are many ways to adapt the mechanical joints to make walking look more natural or less natural. I want to advertise my amputee status. I see no point in becoming an amputee and then trying to disguise the fact.

 

Jack reckons he has created his own limb shredder in his workshop from a disused lathe. He wants to lose his left hand and says the lathe can generate enough torque to slice through a man’s arm, in this case, Jack’s left arm. He wants me present when he has his accident and I agreed. Of course I did. One good turn deserves another. We decided to wait until I have my artificial leg for the simple reason that it would look too strange to the rescue team if they burst into Jack’s workshop to find one very recent amputee being tended by another one. If I was still present but wearing a pair of trousers in the usual way, it would look much more credible. I am going to have to get a prosthesis even though I do not really want one. I suppose being disabled I am entitled to one or two artificial limbs but no‑one can actually force me to use them. Jack demonstrated the converted lathe and it snapped a broom handle in two. It looks like it could do some serious damage if someone was not careful.

 

I have found a video channel dedicated to one‑leggers on crutches. I think it is such a graceful way to walk. The huge advantage is, of course, that there is no second leg to get in the way like there is if someone has a broken leg or other injury. With a bit of practice, you can move smoothly and equally as fast as anyone with two legs while advertising the fact that you are an amputee, disabled but still mobile. I am going to ask Jack to video me crutching along and upload it to the site. I feel like I can handle my long crutches as well as most of the guys in the videos although there are one or two who make it look as if they are floating on air.

 

I have been booked into a three month course of rehabilitation with prosthetic leg, as the appointment listing describes it. First of all I am going to have a temporary socket made for my stump and I need to become used to wearing it. Then they are going to attach the actual artificial leg component to it and teach me how to move my stump to operate the leg. The idea is to let me have the artificial leg as soon as possible and I must practise the movements I have just been taught at home. I am not supposed to wear the limb all day, which suits me fine. Then a few days later, I go back to learn some new technique. It seems a long‑winded way of going about things but it is not inconvenient.

 

My stump was scanned as I expected. It is normal size and does not require casting as used to be the preferred method. It would have been a short session but the prosthetist guy sat with me for an hour or so and we discussed at length exactly what I expect from my prosthesis. He took it very seriously although I have not given it any great deal of thought. He showed me several different kinds of knee and ankle joint. He showed me samples of the kinds of textile coverings I could have on the leg. The greatest surprise was right at the end when he mentioned that the first prosthesis was going to be a simple rigid pylon attached to the socket I had just been measured for. It would be a plain aluminium pole with a rubber tip and it was to allow me to accustom myself to bearing weight on my stump for the first time without having to manipulate a standard artificial leg. There was no illustration for me to study my all‑time favourite ideal artificial leg. I was going to have my own peg leg!

 

Five days later I returned for the first fitting of the new socket. It was some kind of thick translucent nylon material with a square steel connector attached to the bottom. There was a little give across its width but not its length. I was given a selection of stump socks to test and shown how to vary combinations of socks throughout the day as my stump swelled or contracted. The socket had to fit firmly, which was apparently of paramount importance. I nodded sagely and promised my prosthetist that I understood and would obey. Then he brought out the pylon and I nearly fainted.

 

When I was very young, my father rented a garage in a row of them about two hundred metres from our home. He used to tinker with his third or fourth‑hand car on Saturday mornings and I used to go with him to watch. The next garage along was rented by some other neighbour and there was a sticker on the back of his car which I had seen parked and wondered about. It read no hand signals and I wondered how someone could drive a car if he could not signal. One day my father was busy and I was sitting on one of our car’s front seats which dad had lifted out onto the pavement. A man was walking along the row of garages towards us carrying a bucket of soapy water which splashed his trousers a little as he walked. I could see he had only one leg. His other leg was a long straight peg leg. I had never seen anything like it before and was immediately fascinated. The man spotted me staring at him and put his bucket down quite close by. He greeted me as adults do small boys and fumbled with his keys to open the garage doors. I got up to see his car, which I learned was a Mini, a red one, and there on the back window was the odd white sticker I had seen before. He settled into his car and moments later reversed it out carefully, stopping it just far enough away to be able to close the garage doors. He remained sitting in the car for a moment or two although he had opened the door again. I was curious to see what he was doing. He kept glancing at me and I thought he wanted to tell me something. I went and stood by his door and saw his wooden leg folded zigzag across his lap. The thick black rubber ferrule pointed at me.

          – Are you going to help me wash my car? he asked. I giggled and looked at his peg leg. He twisted around in his seat and poked his peg out the door. He straightened the part with the ferrule until it locked with the middle section. Then he held onto the door frame and climbed out to let his peg leg lock into place. He kicked with it to make sure it was locked and not caught up in his blue jeans. I spent the rest of the morning helping him He let me wash all the shiny chrome bits. My father finished his job and called me back.

          – Don’t annoy the man, son. Come on. Let’s get some dinner.

 

I saw the peg legged man once or twice after that during the following years and I like to think he remembered me too. I realise now that his odd folding peg leg was custom made for a young man, in his early twenties, who drove a Mini. It folded into three sections and rested on his lap, as I mentioned. I fell in love with the idea of being able to fold up a wooden leg like that so it was out of the way. It seemed a wonderful way to walk and I loved to watch the way he swung his peg leg out to one side before it gracefully came to rest on the ground in front of him. He seemed to be floating on air. For me, he was the height of perfection. My first peg was one piece but I began to imagine all kinds of alternatives.

 

My prosthetist screwed the peg into the bottom of my socket and helped me rise from my chair. I was to stand and try putting my weight on my stump and my peg leg. It was an exercise to demonstrate that I could trust the peg leg not to collapse under me. It felt so odd to be held upright by a leg I could not feel. I had no sense of its rigidity or its lack of a foot and how that would impact the way I walked on it. He gripped my upper arm and guided me slowly a few steps to the room’s parallel bars. I practised swinging my peg leg. The prosthetist gradually adjusted it until it was the perfect length. I was limping heavily but even then I could sense that I would never need anything more complex than a peg. I had already been disappointed by my stump, shorter than I expected. The peg leg fit perfectly and transformed my stump into a functioning leg again but this time with the enviable elegance which only a peg leg can bring. I lurched slowly up and down between the bars and saw myself in a variety of public situations where I was the centre of attention. I was allowed to leave rehab wearing the peg leg under my jeans. I wanted to get home quickly to experiment with wearing various pairs of trousers and shorts to show off my new peg. I had to stand on the train although I was offered a seat. I had to decline. There was no room for my peg leg on a rush hour commuter train.

 

I tried wearing different boots and shoes. I liked the look of a thick‑soled hiking boot paired with the peg. The contrast in weight was impressive too. For everyday use, I chose a white trainer which offered some bounce to my step. Half the time I wore my peg leg and the rest of the time I let my stump get some air and I used crutches. I soon discovered the disadvantages of the rigid peg leg. It more or less forced me to remain standing because the peg leg poked forward when I sat. I had no way to make room for passers‑by. I could understand why my old neighbour had invented his remarkable folding peg so he could squeeze into his driving seat. Six weeks after receiving it, I had the first of many altercations with my prosthetist. He was satisfied with my progress with the peg leg and announced that it was time for my first artificial leg. I announced back that I was not interested in one and that I would prefer a second peg leg with a lockable knee joint to enable me to sit. Its shaft could be heftier than the aluminium pylon I was using and I would like a fatter ferrule more in keeping with a prosthetic leg. My request was apparently most irregular and I should understand that devices of the type I had described were not readily available from the health service.

          – I don’t mind waiting for it, I said. I’m perfectly satisfied to use my existing peg.

          – I really would recommend you to progress to a normal prosthesis, he said. This is the stage of your rehabilitation when you should consider the future.

          – Oh but I have considered the future, I said. I’m going to use a peg leg for the rest of my life. There’s no need for anything more complicated or expensive. Anyway, my stump is too short to wear an artificial leg to its best effect. I know. I’ve been reading up on it.

My prosthetist gave me a dirty look as if I was somehow cheating him out of something. But I knew I was right. He said he needed to discuss my wishes with his colleagues before continuing. I left soon after, watched closely and I gave them a demonstration of a perfectly smooth gait only a dedicated peg leg wearer can achieve with such a short bulky stump as mine. I could only imagine my lurching uneven gait with a standard artificial leg. No. It was not going to happen.

 

I had a couple of hundred images of my stump for possible upload to Elevate. I wanted a second opinion so I summoned Jack with the promise of beers and the intention of getting him to reveal his plans or finally decide on a date for his deed. I also wanted his opinion about my chosen course of using a peg leg as my permanent prosthesis. Jack was the only friend I had who would understand my excitement about my amputation and the future prospect of going further still and gaining a second leg stump. I ordered enough beer to make quite sure that we would not run out and changed into my newly customised Levi’s while I waited for the beer delivery. I had chosen boot‑cut jeans and asked the shopkeeper for the left leg to be cut halfway down the thigh and a new seam sewn around it. My peg would be completely exposed. The black carbon socket looked fine. I wore a white trainer on the other foot and a white T-shirt. It would be difficult to conjure up another outfit which could emphasize my peg leg better. The delivery guy was startled by my appearance but I pretended not to notice his open mouth or his staring eyes.

 

Jack had a surprise of his own. I had just downed my first beer of the afternoon when there was a sharp rap on the door. I knew who it was and opened it to see Jack leaning against the doorframe with his right arm which was wearing a socket and hook attachment. He laughed at my expression, similar to what I had seen on the delivery guy’s face, and slipped inside.

          – Where did you get that? I asked.

          – Aren’t you going to ask how I lost my hand?

          – Of course not. Do you want a beer?

He nodded and I brought two. Neither of us had mentioned my peg leg. In the interim, Jack slipped his MA-1 off to reveal his artificial arm.

          – Where did you get that? It looks good on you.

          – It was on eBuy for two thousand so I snapped it up. It’s just a little tight but I don’t care if my fingers get a bit squished. They’re not going to be there for long.

          – I don’t understand you. You splurged out buying that even though you’re going to amp your arm.

          – I reckon I can sell it for more than two grand, unless you want to buy it.

          – Would it fit me?

          – Only one way to find out.

 

Jack squirmed around until his control straps loosened and he was able to shake the socket off his forearm. I took it in my left hand and tried the socket for size. It was a perfect fit. I had to ball my hand but it fit snugly. I was excited to see a hook in place of my hand for the first time in my life. I felt genuinely disabled by the sudden loss of my hand. It was not a scenario I had thought about in any great detail. I had always been far more keen on leg stumps.

          – Is this what you want?

          – It is.

          –And on your right arm? Isn’t that a bit over the top, Jack, you being right‑handed and everything?

          – I’d hardly be disabled if I lost my left hand, would I? Anyway, I don’t want to be right‑handed. I want to be right‑hooked. I want to be known as the guy with the hook and there’s not much chance of that if I lose my left hand and keep the hook hidden away where no‑one will ever see it. If I lose my right, I’ll still carry on trying to do everything with my right hand except now it will be a hook.

          – How long have you been wearing this one?

          – I’ve had it three weeks. I don’t wear it for work but I’ve been out evenings and to the shops wearing it. Some people notice. Let them stare. I don’t care.

 

Jack advised me how to don the arm properly and I wore it for an hour until I became frustrated. It was an interesting experience but not one that I would wish on myself each and every day. We had another couple of beers and discussed my peg leg.

          – I always thought you’d end up with a peg leg, mate. I remember you talking about the peg‑legged guy with the Mini. It sounded like you were in love with him.

          – I don’t remember telling you that! But yeah. I think I was. He was nice to me.

          – So where are these photos you want me to look at? Let’s have a look while I can still focus my eyes.

We chose twenty‑odd of the best shots which showed how my fresh stump gradually shrank and turned into the masterpiece it is today. Jack wanted to see it in the flesh but I did not wish to remove my peg for him. That is what the photos were for. Sitting with Jack, sipping beer, looking at photos of stumps and talking about stumps was like being ten years younger in our bedrooms at home when our main interest was stumpspotting. Back then we never dared imagine that we would be amputees ourselves, even less amputees by choice, crafting our limbs into stumps so they could wear the artificial limbs we always thought about while wanking. Now my first stump was reaching its final size, shorter than expected but more than adequate for the incredible peg leg. I was a little disappointed by Jack’s lack of interest in it but he had always preferred arm amputations so I suppose it was understandable.

 

He had put the artificial arm back on and spent the rest of the evening using the hook like an old pro. He had obviously been using it at home and I thought he was fairly handy with it. His long term plan became clear after four or five beers.

          – I’m going to learn how to use this hook for everything, see? I’m gonna have a sheath made for my other hand so it just looks like a stump and I’m gonna use this for everything.

          – You mean your proper hook.

          – Yeah. Then when I can do everything with it, I’m gonna chop this hand off and have a pair of hooks.

          – Just like you always liked. Remember that bloke in the bank that time?

          – Yeah. He was fantastic, slapping his hooks around, signing this and that, handling all the papers.

          – And that’s what you want still, even after you know how difficult life would be without your own hands? What will you do when you wake in the night for a glass of water or a pee? You won’t be able to reach your dick. How are you going to wank?

          – Don’t worry about that, mate. I’ve already wanked with this.

          – Ugh! Thanks for telling me.

 

We were both twenty‑seven. We both suffered from the same desire to lose limbs and we both knew how to go about it so we would keep the health service on our side. Our amputations would be free as would our artificial limbs. I had already started the process. Jack was about to commence his change and on that drunken evening when we fell asleep with pictures of our future selves flashing in our imaginations, I agreed to assist him in his rental garage at the end of the month.

 

I have discovered a ninety second film clip from just after the second world war showing an American rehab centre for legless veterans. I have no idea how I have never seen it before. Maybe it was classed as secret and only recently released. Most of the material is cringe‑worthy interviews with overhyped youngsters who think having a wooden leg or two will be swell “cos they can go dancing again with their dames”. The most interesting inserts are demonstrations of the boys trying out their primitive artificial legs for the first time. After more narration, a shot of the same guys a few weeks later being discharged, lurching out the gate with a raised hand of farewell, capsack on shoulders and Lucky Strikes dangling from their lips. The bloke whose image will stick with me forever had lost both legs high up. His left leg was a mass of gnarly flesh curled up by his ballsac, useless for anything except to repel dames, and the other was a roughly sewn stump the same length as mine. He was first shown sitting in a rattan wheelchair receiving a short peg leg about two feet long and handed a pair of shortened armpit crutches. The second part of his segment followed him for seven seconds walking towards the camera on his single short peg leg with a shit‑eating grin on his face. He swung his peg between his crutches like he was born to it. The narrator explained he would soon be fitted with an ordinary artificial leg and might be mistaken for any of the hundreds of one‑legged veterans the facility produced every week. I cannot get his image out of my mind. I could lose my other leg above the knee and be fitted with a single short peg leg just like the old vet. His peg was a temporary thing he could wear for a month or two before he was kitted out with a full length wooden leg. I intend making my short peg my permanent artificial limb for the rest of my life. I will be about five feet tall, if that. I have had a semi‑permanent erection ever since I first saw the film. I must have watched it at least fifty times by now.

 

But there is no time now for daydreaming. Jack has just messaged me that he is at his workshop and everything is ready. He wants me there by seven, so we can go through the final arrangements and get everything ready including having two emergency numbers on two phones all ready and waiting. I changed out of a pair of shorts, put my peg on with an unaltered pair of 501s.

 

Jack was obviously nervous as hell. He had taken some painkillers and was set to take some more but was waiting for my arrival. We ran through the plan one last time. He intended to grasp the lathe’s chuck which had been adapted to slash his forearm. It was my job to make sure he did not fall onto the spinning machinery after the accident. I had ropes and ties to use as tourniquets. At a quarter to eight, Jack started the lathe and took a sturdy stance in front of the machine. I could not see his movements exactly from the rear. I heard the crack of bone and his cry of surprised pain and then, quite unexpectedly, he reached his left hand forward with the same result. He turned to me with wild eyes and held his handless bleeding stumps up in a plain call for help.

 

There was blood everywhere. I tried wrapping nylon cord around his upper arms in a pathetic effort to slow the bleeding. I called for an ambulance urgently and one arrived three minutes later. It must have been on the road already for some reason. The medics saw to Jack and bundled him quickly into the ambulance. One asked if I was going to be OK and I nodded yes. They left. I cleared up the worst of the mess, turned off the lights and went home where I drank myself to sleep.

 

Jack insists that he intended losing only his right hand. The fact that he lost both was due to some kind of instinctual reaction, to reach out in an attempt to somehow rescue the injured limb. I am not sure I believe him. I know his ambition was to eventually use dual hooks so I am not too concerned about his mental well‑being. He is only as disabled as he intended to become, just a few years early. I visited him in hospital one time. He seemed embarrassed by my presence. I suppose he does not want to discuss what happened where other people can hear us. His stumps are shorter than I expected. I have no idea whether Jack intended to lose most of his forearms.

 

I did some research into bilateral upper limb amputation while Jack was recovering. Apparently it is one of the most successful types of amputation, leading only rarely to unpleasant phantom pain. The stumps are usually sturdy enough to use without prosthetic devices if the amputee so wishes. There followed illustrations of above‑elbow amputees drinking from coke cans gripped between their stumps (although I doubt that they had removed the tabs themselves) and a below‑elbow amputee washing his car with a sponge gripped between his long pincer‑like stumps. Jack will not be doing much gripping. His stumps are only two inches of radius bone, if that, covered in flesh for cushioning. Perfectly fine for artificial arms, on the sole condition that they are fitted with mechanical elbows, which I suspect he had not even thought about. He will have no strength or leverage in his tiny forearm stumps to control his sockets with their heavy steel hooks. Jack is not only going to be doubly disabled by having lost both hands, he is going to be additionally disabled by not having use of his elbows either. To all intents and purposes, he might as well have lost both arms above the elbow. His artificial arms would be fairly similar. Jack is not discouraged. He likes seeing his stumps and swears he will master his complicated artificial arms. I have to admit I find it extra horny to see Jack wearing not just one hook like before with his pretender arm but two genuine hooks. Somehow he looks more handsome with his slick black carbon arms which he allows to hang motionless at his side when he walks.

 

But there is no escaping the fact that Jack is severely disabled. He had outside help during his recovery at home as well as regular visits from nurses and physical trainers. He has renewed everything designed for two healthy hands. He eats his meals with naked hooks after smearing them clean. It is far easier for him and I see no reason why he should complicate his life by using cutlery for the sake of appearances.

 

Once again, my need for disability grew in tandem with my expertise in walking on my various peg legs. I still preferred the completely rigid original, my first peg, and wore it most weekends at home. I had another one, totally black and a lot thicker with a hefty rubber tip which looked superb with my cut‑off 501s. It had a knee mechanism so it folded down when I sat, if I so chose. There are plenty of times when I chose not to and the peg leg makes an unmistakable statement about my presence. I am still enamoured of the legless vet in the rehab film from nearly a century ago. I am quite the expert with armpit crutches and a cut down pair should not present any great problem. If I were to lose my other leg and gain a second matching stump, I would be in the prime position of walking on two stubbies, two artificial legs, sitting in a wheelchair and a whole sleuth of other combinations. But my ideal is going to be a single mid‑length peg leg with the other stump concealed by a tucked up trouser leg. I will swing myself about between two crutches, work permanently from home, travel abroad widely and allow myself to be photographed and videoed for social media. I could even become famous for my single peg leg and my sartorial style.

 

Jack seems to have withdrawn into some kind of hermitage. I need someone’s help to get the limbshredder back onto the front of the pick‑up. Jack is no use. His hooks can handle weights up to about five kilos but he would never be able to manhandle the heavy crusher into position, let alone fix it with it myriad bolts and screws. It does not worry Jack that he is so disabled. He often mentions the joy he feels at the end of the day when he shucks his hooks and allows himself to savour the absence of forearms, natural or otherwise, to wallow in his permanent helplessness. His exceedingly short stumps allow him to experience the same as a man with above elbow amputations, something he admits having thought about for the distant future but which manifested themselves much sooner. Jack knows he has missed out on the adventures associated with having a long pair of phallic forearm stumps, using them at night to grip his tool without it slipping out of reach from between stumps covered in precum. He has not told me how he wanks these days. I suspect the hooks on his full‑length carbon arms are nowhere near good enough to manipulate his cock, especially as he has to control them with his shoulders.

 

I know I could advertise on the forum for a willing assistant but as it happens, two matters which had occupied too much of my thinking time resolved themselves the same week. Jack announced he had a solution for the limbshredder and wanted to introduce a friend of his who had sworn to secrecy. I suggested another beery evening, always a sure way to entice Jack, and the following Friday evening, I took delivery of thirty cans of lager and changed into a light khaki ensemble with my long rigid peg leg.

 

As is his wont, Jack rapped on my door instead of sounding the bell. He had an unusually smug grin on his face, and wordlessly pointed a hook at his companion who seemed far more enthusiastic to see me.

          – My name is Nelson. Very pleased to meet you.

          – Likewise. Come in.

Jack led the way into the lounge and took up his usual place.

          – How do you like the look of my new hooks?

From a slightly greater distance, I could see that Jack’s sleeves had been cut short or tailored to accommodate a pair of arms which had no elbows or lower section. His short stumps were bent in each socket at about eighty degrees and his hooks were attached to the base of the sockets. He would be able to drink from a half litre can after his hooks had crushed it a little to improve his grip. I had never seen such disabling artificial arms before. His hooks were slightly below where his elbows had once been and he had no reach. Even the motion of his upper arms was restricted by the way his sockets were moulded onto his shoulders.

 

We drank beer and exchanged news and opinions. Nelson revealed his artificial legs unexpectedly and also the fact that he had arranged the accident which cost him his feet. He had long below‑knee stumps and prostheses extended by six inches. He stood tall which suited his bulk, generated in gyms over a period of years. Only his lower legs showed signs of atrophy, inevitable in his case. Jack returned the convoluted conversation to the original point of the entire exercise. Nelson was available to undertake the conversion work to turn the truck into what I needed to achieve my second stump. Jack insisted on driving, assuring me that his skill with his hooks was at least the equal to his natural hands. The pick‑up was fitted with several adaptations which Jack was familiar with. We drank more and planned the accident, where it might logically take place, how readily ambulances could access the accident site and so on. It was all blindingly obvious, with the sole difference this time that I would have to be hit from behind. Otherwise the truck would hit my peg leg instead and I would not like that to be damaged. Poor evening light could play its part in the cause of the accident.

 

Jack insisted that he was perfectly capable of driving and had all the official papers and insurance deeds to prove his new status as a bilateral upper limb amputee driver. Currently he looked utterly disabled with two sockets and hooks poking out of his shoulders. Somehow he lifted a can to his mouth and tilted back to drink. I checked my calendar and found a three week gap with little work booked. Nelson promised to set to work immediately converting the log cutter back into my limbshredder and fitting it to front of the truck.

 

Almost as if to cock a snook at the medical profession, we chose a blind corner near Richmond Park within a stone’s throw of London’s specialist hospital for amputees. We anticipated quick service and would love to see the rescuers’ faces so we bought new dashcams and set them all to record from a single button on the dash. They would be answering a seemingly minor incident involving two disabled thirty‑something males, one of whom had tragically lost his sole remaining leg. It had been additionally pulped and damaged by being dragged before the truck stopped and was unfortunately quite unsuitable for replanting. The victim was going to be a bilateral above‑knee amputee and reliant on a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

 

Ha! My peg leg survived the ordeal with nary a scratch. The claws of the limbshredder caught my leg at the same height as the tip of my stump with the result that the new healing stump is a lot shorter but a comfortable bulk nonetheless. As I had hoped, it is not really suitable for prosthetic use. It is too short and the wrong shape. I love its perfect curves. I want it to stay as wholesome and muscular as it is right now but I know it will atrophy, fairly soon. It really is too bad.

 

My surgeon tells me that I may go home at any time between now and Sunday evening. My rehab specialist tells me that he can lend me a pair of axillary crutches if I promise to return them within the fortnight. I insisted to everyone who fussed over me that I am perfectly capable on a peg leg so I left Roehampton balancing onto a new set of aluminium axillaries. My rubber ferrule pointed the way delicately along the pathway to where Nelson stood waiting beside the truck, watching my three point approach. He drove me home and made sure I had everything I needed close by. 

 

Life on a single peg leg is not practical or easy. It is however erotic and fascinating. I am proud of my skill in directing the tip of my peg in the direction I wish to go, knowing my crutch tips will follow. I am having all my trousers adapted for use by a one‑legged man. The other trouser leg is removed and sewn closed to emphasise the dome of flesh which remains of my leg. Some of my jeans have the other leg sliced off at or above the knee to display my peg leg, some of them have kept the trouser leg intact.

 

To some extent I have adapted my home to suit my new legless configuration. I admit that quite often it is easier for me to get around on my backside, swinging along on my hands. I can imagine visiting a beach or a park without my peg or wheelchair, relying solely on my arms. It should be possible for me to use some kind of monocoque shaped with a curved base to contain and protect my stumps. I intend looking into their cost.

 

Nelson tells me that Jack is writing a book about his lifelong admiration of amputees and his compulsion to convert his strong healthy hands into a pair of steel hooks. He knows he literally bit off more than he could chew and it took a long time before he fully accepted his situation. Nelson assures me that my friend can manage his daily routine without complaint and is proud of the way he has adapted. Jack still toys with increased helplessness, as he demonstrates with his one‑piece hooks at elbow height fixed directly to his upper arm sockets. He even wears them in public, according to Nelson. There may be more to Jack than I knew. I hope his book is more credible than the other attempt from the other bilateral guy. Jack probably got inspiration from it but wants to reveal what the unbelievable craving to become an amputee is genuinely like. Nelson says Jack is actually typing his book on a laptop with his hooks, relying on AI to correct punctuation and spelling errors.

 

I wonder if I should write my own story. I too chose to lose two handsome athletic limbs in favour of my stumps. One short, the other even shorter. I can choose my height by wearing either my original long peg which shows no sign of wearing out, or the short thick peg on which I love to clump around on in public because it allows me the erotic pleasure of sitting on my stumps with a single primitive peg leg poking out in front of me.

 

S T U M P S P O T T I N G