A BOY AND HIS STUBBIES

 

A BOY AND HIS STUBBIES

The urge to reconfigure a pair of legs

New fiction by strzeka (11/25)

 

ONE

I suppose seeing army veterans was what originally decided me. We would be on parade or whatever, nicely done up in our fresh uniforms and polished boots, standing in a row and being shouted at by whoever was in charge. And then they would invite all the old fucks who had been in the wars from Belfast to Kabul via Cyprus and had lived to tell the tale. They were escorted past us, the first ones walking and raising a hand to salute us, the next lot bundled up in their inevitable tartan blankets to keep them cosy on their annual excursion out. Best of all was the last bunch who rocked up wearing a fuckton of artificial legs and arms. I was careful not to make it too obvious but my eyes followed the good‑looking ones who waddled along in a group on short steel pylons. Legless men who were determined enough and confident enough to appear in public, exhibiting their disabilities and wordlessly bragging about how they had overcome leglessness and taken on the role of national heroes. Hero meant the same as amputee.

 

TWO

Up until then, I had been fascinated with the possibility of losing a hand and replacing it with a hook. When I was a little kid, my mum used to take me to a sweet shop for a treat if she had money left after buying our grocieries. The shopkeeper always wore a white coat for some reason but the other funny thing for me was that his hand was a metal hook. I thought it looked fabulous. I used to fantasise about what it was like to have a hook instead of a hand. There were lots of ways I pretended to be one‑handed when I was playing. It was a fairly normal thing in a normal boyhood. There were enough credible examples to get inspiration from. Long John Silver, and all that. Captain Hook, waving a hand covered in a black ankle sock with the hook from a wooden clothes hanger poked through it.

 

THREE

But at the tender age of twenty‑three, conscription was done with. I was free to make my way in the brave new world, as the radio and tv never ceased telling us. But to be fair, at least their promise to look after the armed forces and disabled vets seemed to be for real. I needed to know if vets would be eligible for treatment regardless of whether their injuries were caused during their service or at some other time. It seemed that vets would get priority treatment free of charge for life under the new government’s edicts. Being unemployed on universal benefit, I began to think of ways to spice up my life in such a way that I could get what I wanted and the government would pay for it. There was no doubt in my mind. I would injure my left hand and mess it up so much that the doctors would have to cut it off. After that I would have the hook I had always lusted after. Instead, fate intervened when I was on an interview for a job at a building site. They had a load of steel sheets and bars and what have you all lined up and I was applying for a job to keep the books up to date. Inventory in and out, that sort of thing. The interviewer seemed impressed by my army service, like it made me more intelligent or more trustworthy or something. And just then, a pressurised steel bottle of nitrogen blew up outside after sitting in the sun for too long. It blew the wall in and knocked the ten metre long rusty steel girders over. One of them caught me across my legs and knocked me onto the floor. I was trapped there by my lower legs until I was rescued ninety minutes later. First the rescuer could not decide the best way to free me and wandered off to discuss it with someone. By the time a mobile crane lifted the girder enough to release me, my feet were goners. No blood supply and suddenly my legs were also gushing blood everywhere. They got me to hospital and I became a double leg amputee by teatime. I was going to have a pair of artificial legs. Not exactly what I had planned for myself, but it was better than nothing. I knew I was going to have some fun being a legless man. My mates would be well chuffed.

 

FOUR

My stumps were about half the length of my shins and they were both casted in thick white plaster of Paris. I had other fractures and injuries as well as the amputations. I thought my new stumps looked really cool. I had never even imagined plaster casts on stumps before and now I had two of them. They went up over my knees and held them straight so I had the first taste of what it was like to have my legs sticking out straight ahead. I loved seeing the ends of the casts without feet. I began to imagine wearing footless plaster casts permanently after I got out of hospital. Maybe they could have rubber heels fitted on the bottom. I would get myself a pair of standard walking sticks and flaunt them as I tottered about the place on two casts.

 

FIVE

Several of my friends turned up during the weeks I was recovering. Some of them were really awkward about it. They could not express themselves. They did not have the words and what did you say to a mate who had lost both legs anyway? But one or two were more direct and cracked corny jokes about saving on beer money when I went out because I was already legless. That sort of thing. I thought it was alright to joke. I was doing OK. I was comfortable in hospital. I was fed, it was warm and I was looked after. I did not miss my legs, really only my feet and ankles, because I did not have to walk around anywhere. One of the jokers, Phil, pointed out that I had it made now. I would have a pension from the army, my universal benefit and maybe some compensation from the building company’s insurance. I would never need to work again. In fact, I could have my hands off next and get a shiny new pair of hooks as well. I was so surprised that my mouth fell open. I stared at him. He nodded at my casted stumps with a knowing look and ran his hand up one of them from the hidden rounded tip to near my balls. It was the most peculiar thing to do and in those moments before he got up to leave, I thought having someone by my side who loved my stumps was the best feeling in the world.

 

 

SIX

My casts were changed three times before I was allowed to switch to open leg braces. The first ones I had were plastic. Thermopoly something or other. They held my legs straight but I could sense that they were flexible and would never prevent my knees from bending in an emergency. I was proved right when one of the nurses slipped and actually grabbed hold of my stump to save himself from falling. The brace bent and split. Fortunately, both of us suffered only minor shock and bruising but my thermobraces were destined for recycling from that moment on. I was carted off to the rehab department and measured for a pair of steel framed braces with leather straps. They would have the added benefit of bendable knees with locks to let me sit without my legs sticking out in front. My braces started up by my balls and two leather cuffs held them onto my thighs. Another broad leather cuff circled my stumps. The tips had the steel frames curving around to meet just under my stumps to protect them. I now looked twice as disabled. My stumps were not only missing feet, they were encased in steel and smart brown leather cuffs making them look like something found at the back of an upholsterer’s repair shop. Phil was instantly in love with them. He had a much better view of my stumps than I did. He suggested that I try walking on the ends of the steel braces when no‑one was about. He wished he could be here to see it.

 

SEVEN

My rehab doctor had bad news. He and his fellow doctors had looked at the results of the biotests on my stumps and all the x‑rays and come to the conclusion that I was not going to be a suitable candidate for standard artificial legs for lower extremity amputees with below knee injuries. They meant my stumps were shit. They suggested that I continue to wear protective leg braces on my stumps which would keep my lower legs aligned properly. My upper shin bones had healed from the fractures but they were much weaker than healthy bones and would not be safe or comfortable to use with the ordinary socket and pylon type of artificial leg and foot. It was most unfortunate, they said. I was discharged in a new wheelchair, narrow enough to fit through ordinary doors. It had extensions from below the seat so I could rest my leather and steel stumps on them and tool around or sit with the knees unlocked so my steely stumps hung in mid air. The wheelchair’s footplates stayed in the cardboard box the chair was delivered in. There would be no need for footplates if I had any say in the matter.

 

EIGHT

Phil’s suggestion turned out to be worth its weight in gold. I had been allocated a new army apartment on the outskirts of town, as they always were. I was on the ground floor of a three storey block of flats. It was not intended for amputees but there were three of us in that building. All ex‑army. One middle‑aged bloke got around on crutches. His right leg had been amputated right up by his balls. The other guy was closer to my age. He was Scottish and I had trouble understanding what he tried to say but he looked a treat wearing a kilt. In addition, he had lost his left arm above his elbow and occasionally wore an artificial arm which dangled from his shoulder. You would not say that he used a prosthesis. Most of the time he wore trousers and looked like a one‑armed man.

 

Those were some of the neighbours I noticed first. I was determined not to be the spaz in a wheelchair in their eyes. So I tried walking in my leg braces. The knee locks were set and I carefully teetered around the living room balancing on the curved steel bases of my braces. I noticed that they felt much more secure if I tightened the straps around my thighs. It was fantastic to walk again after so many months. I loved the sensation of walking with rigid knees and the delicate way the tips of the steel bars kissed the floor below my stumps.

 

NINE

Naturally Phil called and demanded my address. He turned up with two bottles of booze and two walking sticks exactly the same as the ones I already had from the hospital. He was walking with them from the tram stop as if he always had them. You did not often see a bloke of twenty‑five strolling along with two walking sticks. He enjoyed the curious looks he got. You could tell Phil had a thing about appearing special somehow, disabled or otherwise out of the ordinary.

 

Phil was impressed when I showed him that I could totter a few steps on the tips of my leg braces like he had suggested weeks ago when I was still in the hospital.

          – That’s exactly what I thought you were being set up for. You know, the plastic braces were crap so let’s get you a pair you can actually use. What’s the point of them anyway?

          – They said they were to keep my legs aligned.

          – Plaster casts would do that, wouldn’t they? Like the ones you had at first. I liked those. They were well horny.

          – Haha! I thought so too. You’ll never know how horny it feels to have stumps in plaster, Phil. It’s like edging. You know, getting really close to cumming and not being able to.

          – It’s the sort of thing I intend feeling before I’m thirty, mate. I went through army training doing my best to disobey all the safety regulations in the hope of getting a blighty wound.

          – Why’s that?

          – I’ve always wanted to have a stump. Or two. Don’t ask me to explain.

          – No, I won’t. You’re right, though. Having stumps and getting them casted and braced is the horniest thing. You’d never believe it.

          – Oh, I’d believe it alright. I reckon the best way for me is to stick a leg in dry ice until it’s so damaged they have to amputate.

          – Would you really do that?

          – Listen. I’ve wanted a leg stump since I was about five. I’m twenty‑five now. Don’t you think it’s time I did something about it?

 

I didn’t tell Phil that I had always wanted to have a hook instead of a hand. We got drunk that evening and opened up more than might be wise to admit. We were both obsessed with the idea of getting rid of unwanted healthy limbs so we could wear and use horny artificial ones on a daily basis. In the morning, we had sore heads but we had formed a bond beyond friendship. We would support each other to get our amputations done and enjoy the aftermath together with our hooks and wooden legs.

 

TEN

I applied for a bigger flat as soon as it was obvious that Phil and I would be better off together. I had no intention of remaining in a wheelchair for long and Phil said my attempts at walking in my leg braces showed that I could be fitted with old‑fashioned artificial legs with thigh corsets. To all intents and purposes, he said, my lower legs, my stumps, would be bypassed on the way down to my artificial feet which could even be simple footless stumps with rubber bases at the ends of the artificial legs. They appealed to my sense of self. As far as Phil was concerned, I simply notified the housing authority that there would be two males occupying my flat from now on. They replied a few days later that all was in order. Phil brought his clothes round in a huge sports bag. We started out sharing my mattress on the bedroom floor and gradually made our home from there.

 

ELEVEN

In late January, my outlook took a nose dive when my enquiries about having a pair of artificial legs made were rejected by the hospital rehab service. They did not make that design of limb. No‑one had made them for at least thirty years. So if I was unwilling or unable to use the normal socket and pylon type of limb made of standard components, I was out of luck. Phil was certain they were mistaken. He said they were lying, to be honest.

          – I’ve seen guys wearing those exact legs. I’m sure of it. Brand new ones. They must get hold of them from somewhere. So someone knows how to make them.

          – I bet they cost a bundle, though. I couldn’t afford a pair even if we found someone who makes them.

          – Look, don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s take it step by step.

          – Very funny.

Phil and I both set to texting makers of artificial limbs in half the country. It looked at first as if the rehab service had been right. Even if a supplier knew the design of limb I was asking about, they all said they were sorry but they did not have the necessary skills to mould the leatherwork nor the hardware required. Then suddenly it dawned on me. My very own stump braces were made of components very similar to what went into the legs and they could obviously work leather because I was wearing some. So more in desperation than anything else, I sent the technician at rehab a personal email asking if he could help us out or if he knew someone who could.

 

Time passed slowly as it does when you are waiting for something. On the third morning, I looked at my emails to check if he had answered. Nothing as yet but there was a message from the Valiant Star insurance company. They wished me to confirm my digital identity through checking my banking credentials in the usual way. I had no idea what it was all about but I used their code and confirmed that I was genuinely me. Another email arrived almost immediately saying that I had been awarded compensation for the accident which had cost me my lower legs. Each leg apparently cost them a quarter of a million, so I had half a mil on the way. They advised me to contact my bank where solicitors would act for me to credit my account with the unexpected compensation.

 

I was overjoyed because now I could afford a new pair of legs with thigh corsets regardless of how much they cost. I was in two minds about whether to tell Phil about the money. I decided to keep it to myself until I knew for sure. I did not know how much Phil had in his bank account, after all. Fair’s fair.

 

TWELVE

Everything went much better than I thought. I hate dealing with officials regardless of whether they are about to give me a shitload of money. I got in touch with my bank and explained what Valiant Star had told me. The bank arranged a meeting with their financial experts and invited me to meet with them at my convenience. Which was two o’clock in the afternoon the next day. So off we went. Me in my wheelchair being accompanied by Phil. I had chosen my army jacket with its meagre row of medals and a pair of black shorts, short shorts which exposed the dark brown leather and steel struts of my stump braces. I was wearing black tights on my stumps so the overall effect was very smart and very unusual. Very horny, in fact.

 

We were escorted into the bank’s conference room by the receptionist. There were three people sitting behind a desk and they stood up with their mouths open in surprise when I appeared. The manager would have invited me to take a seat but as I was already seated, he wordlessly stared at my steely stumps as I wheeled up to his desk. I introduced Phil and explained we were cohabitants and I approved of him knowing what we were about to discuss. The manager regained use of his brain and welcomed us. Ten minutes later, I had half a mil of extra pocket money, a financial plan about how to invest it, become a capitalist in other words, and two new bank accounts were created so I could access a couple of thousand at any time and the rest after going through some official formalities first. My phone beeped during the meeting. I was itching to check it, expecting a reply from the leg maker. But we finished the meeting without interruptions and shook hands with big smiles. Once again, they stood in order to catch another view of my stumps clad in their leather and steel cages.

 

THIRTEEN

Just as I expected, the message was from the man who had made my braces. He remembered them well because he so rarely had the opportunity to practice the ancient arts of leatherwork and metalwork for a patient. All such work was produced independently of what the official channels provided. They occasionally ordered one‑off pieces from him. It was rare for a private citizen to approach him with a request. Having settled all that, he said he would be honoured to manufacture a custom pair of artificial limbs to my exact requirements in his private workshop. In the middle of the fens in a town called March. I think I was even happier to get this news than I had been about the money. After being a legless wheelchair user for ninety‑nine percent of the time, I was finally going to get a set of antique wooden legs under me. I couldn’t wait.

 

There was only one problem. How to get to March. We looked at it on the map and worked out a route from the closest station. It was no good. It was in such an inconvenient place, the only way to get there was in your own vehicle which we didn’t have. It was ironic. In order to get a pair of legs, I would first have to get a car. I knew exactly the sort of thing that would come in handy, though. A two‑seater electric trike with a glass fibre cabin and joystick controls. Phil was approaching the time he was ready to freeze his hands and it would be cool if he could drive the little car afterwards using hooks. I got straight on to the manufacturer and asked if they could make customised shells. They said they made them all the time. So I designed a blue background with a wheelchair symbol in white. Actually, it was the international symbol for ‘disabled’. I wanted both sides of our trike to be obviously for handicapped drivers in an attempt to put thieves off and to warn other road users. Four weeks later, their rep drove the trike to our flat and parked it out the front. I could get in it with Phil’s help. After I slid into the driver’s seat, Phil disassembled my chair and climbed past me into the rear seat holding all the pieces. It was a little inconvenient but with any luck at all, my wheelchair could shortly go for recycling.

 

Neither of us could get enough of the sheer exhilaration of driving our very own invalid carriage. We registered it and insured it for both and either of us. It was completely obvious that the driver was a spaz of some kind. Close to the trike, the big white markings were not so clear but a bit further away, they were obviously the wheelchair symbol. Disabled driver! Beware the spaz! Other traffic gave us generous leeway as if we had aids or covid. We were on our way to meet Mr Geoffrey Rousseau in his private orthopaedic workshop in the middle of nowhere.

 

It was a little unfair to call March the middle of nowhere. It was a charming little town, well preserved by faithful residents for a thousand years, eking a meagre living from the soil which was about all the flat treeless landscape had to offer. There were ponds and rivulets which leaked onto narrow country roads. It was not surprising to learn that the area had never really been invaded and occupied. It was too remote, too swampy, too difficult. Too English. Geoffrey Rousseau was such a man, despite his name.

 

FOURTEEN

We could see the buildings on his property long before we arrived. There was a stone cottage with a grey slate roof and a short way off, a low concrete bunker twice the size of the cottage. Rousseau appeared at the cottage’s front door and stepped into the yard to welcome us. I stepped out carefully, balancing on my braces while Phil fixed my wheelchair.

          – I guessed you would sooner or later discover how to walk in those braces. I tried to make sure the welds at the bottom would hold your weight.

          – They’ve been very reliable. I never get compliments, I’m afraid, but many people are curious about them. Leg braces are unusual enough these days. It’s almost unheard of for a couple of stumps like mine to have braces.

          – Indeed it is. You may be interested to know that you are one of only three gentlemen in the entire country who can boast stump braces such as yours.

          – And you made them?

          – Indeed I did. Come into the workshop and we can chat in comfort.

 

Phil lifted me into my chair and I wheeled across the gravel yard to the concrete bunker. The doors and window frames were painted with a particular deep green rarely seen. It emphasised the sense of mystery which hung about the entire region. I rolled into the workshop followed by Phil and Rousseau who closed the door and flicked the lights on to illuminate the entire interior. The area near the entrance resembled a combined living room and kitchen. There was a sofa and a table with four dining chairs. Over by the wall, there was a fridge and cooker and sink. But beyond lay the workshop. Rousseau guided us into its depths and finally came to a stop.

          – This is where I do the casting. I’m old school. I like to have something physical to work with, some sense of the actual stump if you see what I mean. I could always adopt modern methods and simply scan a patient’s stump like at the rehab centre but the older ways are often more accurate. I assume you have come to order the artificial legs you described, young man. That this is not simply a courtesy visit.

          – No! Of course not. I’d love to have a pair of legs. I was disappointed about my stumps being too weak to bear the stress of walking in artificial legs until I heard about your method.

          – Well, it’s hardly my method, but I will admit that it is the method I use. I will create for you a pair of artificial legs such that your weight will be borne by your thighs. Two broad leather sockets called corsets will envelope your thighs. They are attached to the lower legs and feet by a hinge. You still possess your natural knees. They will help you control the lower legs, although it is also possible to bypass them entirely if necessary. You would then have a set of legs which work identically to a pair made for an above knee bilateral amputee. Is that the kind of limb you would be interested in at this stage?

 

Something about the way he phrased the question stopped my thoughts. What did he mean by ‘at this stage’? Did he assume that whatever design I chose now would sooner or later evolve into his above knee version? Surely he couldn’t assume that I was only halfway to gaining the body I admired and lusted after most of all. I still wanted to experience all the various combinations of artificial legs along the way to short DAK, especially since I could afford any kind of artificial limb or brace or extension. I could even have a hand off and get the hook I had wanked about since I was old enough to wank.

 

We continued our tour of the premises. There was his lathe, invaluable for making stubbies and peg legs. Some amputees requested their lower legs to be mere cylinders of wood rather than carefully sculpted to resemble muscular male legs. Here was the broad table for cutting and shaping leather, several varieties of which hung on rolls behind the table. Familiar colours from the leather used most often for artificial limbs.

 

We finished our brief tour of the workshop with a walk along the wall which was lined with framed photographs of previous customers. The earliest were of teddy boys with high quiffs, leaning on crutches and displaying peg legs. Then a series with the precise style of limb I wanted. Wooden lower legs, steel bracing leading up to leather thigh corsets with lacing all the way up. Then from the Seventies onwards, there were arm amputees with a variety of arms but always terminating with hooks. Phil was fascinated and leaned in close. Rousseau noticed.

          – You are interested, Philip? If I might be candid for a moment, I would presume that you might be a candidate yourself for a prosthetic arm sometime in the not too distant future. Am I right?

          – Er, yes. I suppose so.

          – Oh, don’t be embarrassed, dear boy. I have met and accommodated very many wannabe amputees, as they are now called. I have no interest in whether the amputations I face are due to trauma or through voluntary freezing. I am sure you know what I am talking about.

          – Yes sir.

          – Rest assured that I will be available should you find yourself needing an artificial arm. Or two. Imagine a set of hooks on deep mahogany leather sockets, Philip. If I might say so, you would look spectacular.

Phil blushed with embarrassment at being caught out by someone who recognised all the signs. He had an enormous erection which was even more obvious at my eye height. Rousseau could not have known it, but his offer of a pair of leather sockets was the tipping point which pushed Phil into action.

 

FIFTEEN

Rousseau offered us a meal of pasta Bolognese, defrosted and heated in the small kitchen. We discussed variations on my upcoming artificial legs. The lower legs could be swapped out fairly easily by unscrewing the knee joints. I could have one set of lower legs which looked like a man’s legs with feet. Then there was a version which looked like a man’s legs but the feet were missing. The legs terminated in thick rubber pads. The third version was what I had dreamt about for so long. The lower legs were symmetrical cylindrical tapering peg legs terminating in rubber bungs.

 

Rousseau suggested that since we had already come so far that we get started immediately. He estimated the total price on his spreadsheet after a long discussion about what kind of lower legs I wanted. I was not so enamoured of the footless legs but I suggested that a pair of legs which resembled natural legs would be most welcome. And for the fun of it, a pair of peg legs, painted black.

          – Bear in mind that you can wear a peg on one side and a more natural‑looking leg on the other. That looks more credible than two peg legs, you see. There were a few amputees years ago known as Peg Leg Jim or Pete or whatever, believed by their friends to have lost a leg whereas the truth was that they had lost both of them and wore an artificial leg resembling a natural limb on the other side.

          – That’s exactly the sort of thing I would do.

          – Yes, I thought you might. Shall we begin? The casting will take about two hours if you have the time.

          – Oh yes, we have plenty of time. Let’s get started.

 

Rousseau had a gentle touch. I sat comfortably watching him cover my stumps with plaster bandages, imagining myself wearing casts on my stumps again permanently for shock value. After the plaster dried a bit, he sliced the casts off and set to taking dozens of measurements. We went through a well worn catalogue of artificial lower legs so I could choose the design I wanted. I chose ones which had some bulk but were more tapered than natural ones. No‑one who saw them would mistake them for real legs for long. They would be the odd pink colour of artificial limbs which would contrast well with the dark brown leather, the same material used in my stump braces. Rousseau turned to the back of his catalogue to show me a few designs for peg legs. He made no comment about the wisdom of attempting to walk around on a pair of pegs. It was something I wanted to try and I knew I would definitely use a combination of pink artificial leg and black peg leg.

          – If you are going to wear a peg leg, would you like me to add locks to the knee joints on your legs? You will then be able to keep the entire peg leg rigid.

          – Is it better to have a rigid leg?

          – Oh, beyond a doubt.

          – In that case, I’d like lockable knees, please.

          

Rousseau completed the session by washing my stumps in warm water and towelling them dry. He fitted my braces onto my stumps and stood back, probably admiring his handiwork. I pulled myself into my wheelchair and we returned to rescue Phil from his boredom in the waiting area. Just before we left, Rousseau beckoned Phil to him and murmured a question or two. Phil looked shocked at whatever Rousseau mentioned but nodded vigorously and shook his hand. I did not ask him what Rousseau had asked and Phil did not tell me.

 

SIXTEEN

There was a five week wait before a text arrived announcing that my artificial legs were ready for a trial run and could be collected if they were found to be comfortable. I asked Phil if he wanted to accompany me again for the hours long trek to March and he said he would prefer to stay home this time. It was fine. Not having any personal reason to travel to March, he would be happier on his own for a few hours. We were very rarely apart for long.

 

Phil used the hours before I arrived in March to negotiate details concerning the matter which Rousseau had spoken about briefly. He was reluctant to discuss the matter with me and purposely waited until I was away from home before taking the matter any further. He was afraid that I would either try to talk him out of going ahead with his plan or I would be angry about the arrangements being made behind my back.

 

In a nutshell, Rousseau had mentioned that he could persuade a colleague on the brink of retirement to do a couple of pro bono amputations as repayment for old outstanding debts between the two surgeons. He made no comment about why he had chosen Phil to be the recipient of free stumps but enquired about dates when Phil could travel to Edinburgh for the surgery and a description of the below elbow stumps Phil wished to have. It was a simple enough request. Phil was prepared to travel to the Scottish capital at any time which suited the elderly surgeon to have both his hands amputated.

 

 

SEVENTEEN

Rousseau naturally kept his conversation with Phil a secret from me. I parked the trike near the door and teetered inside on the bases on my braces, swinging my arms to keep balance. Rousseau led me directly into his workshop where my legs stood waiting for me to fire them into life. My stump braces clicked on the polished concrete floor as I waddled towards them.

 

They were beautiful. The leather thigh corsets shone and the rows of white lacing emphasised their colour. The steel framework was mirrored steel and featured drop locks at the knee hinges so the legs could be rigid when I wanted. The lower legs looked stunning. They were hairless, an even colour and shone oddly like skin does not. They were wearing a pair of black socks and a pair of black leather Oxfords, size nine. The openings around the rim were carefully moulded in accordance with the plaster casts so my kneecaps would rest on them, letting me use my weak and damaged stumps to operate the artificial legs. Rousseau placed a kicthen chair at one end of his parallel bars and invited me to sit in it. He carried my legs over and handed me a pair of black nylon tights which would prevent my skin from chafing on the new stiff leather corsets.

 

Rousseau opened the lacing enough for me to slide my stumps into the legs. I was surprised to see that the artificial legs completely covered my stumps. With only a small area around my knees uncovered, I appeared to have full‑length artificial legs although I was actually only missing my feet. I was excited by my appearance and began to become erect as I always did when I saw an amputee. Suddenly I looked extremely disabled, with two completely artificial legs of a type very rarely seen these days.

          – I think you should get yourself a pair of walking sticks, young man. You will find it easier to propel yourself not only when walking but also when you rise from a chair, for example. Bear in mind you no longer have ankles or toes to help you.

          – No, I realise that. My friend who came with me last time is a fan of walking sticks. He has about ten pairs. Maybe he will lend me a pair.

          – Yes, you should ask him. So he is an enthusiast, is he? I thought it unusual to see a man of his youthful stature relying on two walking sticks as he did.

          – He never goes anywhere in public without them. Everyone thinks he is disabled somehow although he walks perfectly normally, just with two sticks.

          – Let’s see how well you can walk. Tie the laces tight along your thighs and pull yourself to your feet.

 

My fingers trembled with excitement. I made two big floppy bows and savoured the sensation of having my thighs completely enclosed by the leather corsets. I leaned over and manually lifted my lower legs into a position so I could balance on the unfeeling feet. I pushed myself up and gripped the bars, swaying slightly to find my centre of gravity and my balance. I felt completely helpless and useless. I tried stepping forward but the artificial leg stayed put. I looked down at it in surprise.

          – It’s harder than you thought, isn’t it? Don’t worry. You used to swing your leg forward from your knee. Unfortunately that method no longer works. You will have to learn to swing your entire leg from your hip first and then perfect the step with you knee so the rigid ankle strikes the ground a suitable distance in front of you. Far enough to generate some propulsion but not so far to make the next step impossible. You may find yourself occasionally stuck, unable to swing from the hip and this is where it will be useful to have a stick or two, you see? Pull that leg closer to you and step over it with the other leg.

 

It was almost impossible to walk wearing the legs. I had expected it to need a few minutes practice before I felt comfortable on them. But this was shocking. How on earth could I be expected to walk when I had no muscle control in my legs, covered in leather and whatever peculiar pasty substance my lower legs were moulded from? It was ridiculous. I lifted myself up with both arms and allowed my legs to straighten under me before lowering myself for another attempt.

 

This continued for over an hour until I began to find some kind of method to take two or three consecutive steps without coming to a halt between them. Rousseau watched intently, pointing wordlessly at my upper thighs or knee joints or rigid ankles. The legs still felt completely alien and awkward. I stopped occasionally to swig water. I had worked up quite a sweat and I suspected that my thighs were sweating in the thick nylon tights. Rousseau made no suggestion about stopping for a break, though. I kept at it for another hour until I began to lose the will to live. Rousseau could see I was becoming despondent and allowed me to relax.

 

          – You’re doing quite well. It is a difficult process, you see. A completely new way of walking for you. Don’t worry. It takes time and a lot of practice but there is no reason why you should not be walking quite comfortable in six months or so if you maintain a regimen of practice and experimentation. Find a support group of bilateral amputees if you can. They will have advice which you may find useful. And do get yourself some walking sticks. I’m sure Philip will advise you on the best way to handle them. Oh! I was forgetting. The peg legs are also ready. They’re in the stockroom. Would you like to test them?

          – No thank you! I don’t believe I could face not being able to walk on peg legs.

          – You can take them with you, anyway. I am satisfied with the technical condition of those legs. How about you? Is anything uncomfortable?

          – No. Everything seems to fit properly.

          – Your knees aren’t sore?

          – No. They’re fine.

          – Good. You’ll soon become used to the feel of those legs and will later recognise any changes in your stumps which require readjustment of the legs. I am prepared to let you take the legs with you if you wish. Will you wear them or shall I wrap them?

          – I think I’d prefer wearing my stump braces on the return journey, if it’s all the same.

Rousseau found a long cardboard box and filled it with two prosthetic limbs and two lower limbs shaped like tapering peg legs. He pointed out the two screw mechanisms which held the lower limbs to the steel framework and said he was sure I would be able to exchange a leg for a peg when the time was ripe. I was not to hurry or become impatient. I nodded and thoughtfully replaced my stump braces. Rousseau carried my large package out to the trike and placed it across the rear seat. I teetered in his wake, taking short steps on the steel arching base which was never intend to be walked on. It was already dark and my return journey was sombre. Most of all I was disappointed that I was not going to be able to throw open the door to our flat and stride in on new legs.

 

EIGHTEEN

Phil shared in my general disappointment. He kindly retrieved the box of prosthetic limbs from the back of the trike for me and stood by eagerly waiting for me to work up enough enthusiasm to open it.

          – Can I open it? I’m dying to see what you’ve got.

          – Go ahead. Two legs, two pegs. Nothing special.

          – Oh man! Look at all that leather! They’re gorgeous. You have tried them on, haven’t you? What are they like to walk in?

          – Yes, I have tried and they are next to impossible. Which is why I came home wearing my braces.

          – Oh. I see. So it’s more difficult than you thought. Well, it makes sense, I suppose. You’ve never used anything like them before so they’re bound to be a bit strange at first.

          – That’s what Rousseau said. And he wants me to use walking sticks while I’m learning. Can I borrow a pair off you?

          – Of course you can. Help yourself. We’ll make quite the statement when we’re out together. Guys our age, both with a pair of walking sticks.

          – He said it would be six months before I’m walking properly.

          – Define ‘properly’.

          – I don’t know. He didn’t say.

          – Well, I don’t want to pressure you but you’d better get practising. I had some interesting news of my own today.

          – What’s that?

          – Rousseau is organising for me to have surgery in Edinburgh in a couple of months. Apparently he can twist the arm of another surgeon who owes him some favours and has offered me the opportunity to become a bilateral below elbow amputee. I’m going to have hooks!

          – That’s amazing. But why? Why did he choose you?

          – I’ve no idea. Perhaps he thinks I’d like to be an amputee. Perhaps he’d like to see two bilaterals living together. Who knows? The main thing is, I’ll have arm stumps at last!

 

It was surprising news but not completely out of character. Phil had already planned on freezing his hands in dry ice in the spring so his freshly healed stumps could be displayed naked in the summer months. I had not known that Phil had been in touch with Rousseau independently but it was his business and by all accounts, it had borne fruit. Of course I was pleased that Phil was getting the hooks he had fetishised all his life without even needing to go through the palaver of freezing his hands first. He would get to choose exactly what his stumps would look like, their length and shape. It occurred to me that Phil’s amputations would not cost him anything, just as mine had not cost me anything. I wondered if that had any bearing on Rousseau’s odd decision.

We had some supper and sat back to relax. Phil suggested I put my new legs on again. He wanted to see them and it would be good for me to get used to the feel of them, he said. He was right, of course. I let him do most of the work, including removing my stump braces. He studied the mechanical logic of my legs and waited until I had rolled the tights over my stumps again. He worked the legs onto my stumps carefully and waited while I pulled the laces tight on the thigh corsets. My legs were transformed again. We both had erections which was a promising sign of things to come for later.

          – How do you change to wearing the peg legs?

          – You undo these screws or bolts or whatever and swap the lower legs over.

          – Have you tried the pegs out yet?

          – No. I was having trouble with two ordinary legs. Rousseau didn’t want to let me play around with the pegs yet.

          – Shall I swap them over for you? Wait a minute. I’ll get a screwdriver.

I could hear him rummaging through the miscellaneous kitchen drawer where we kept our meagre selection of tools. He came back brandishing a broad bladed tool and minutes later, I was wearing a pair of peg legs.

          – Stand up! Do you want me to help you?

          – Yeah. Get behind me in case I fall backward.

 

I was up and automatically tottering back and forth on the tips of the pegs which Rousseau had suggested I leave until much later. Instead, without feet in the way, it seemed only too obvious how to balance, moving my knees to the left and right. Phil came to my side and put a strong arm around me to hold me. I could smell his deodorant. We stepped forward together as if I had always walked on two peg legs. I was stunned at how easy it seemed compared with trying to manoeuvre the artificial legs with their rubber soled shoes. The pegs moved with hardly any effort. I simply stepped forward with my stumps and the tip of each peg hit the ground just right. I was flabbergasted at how easy it was.

 

NINETEEN

I became a man who walked on two peg legs. Occasionally I practised walking on the prosthetic lower legs which stood for most of the time looking forlorn in our bedroom. I felt free as a bird on my pegs and wielded Phil’s walking sticks like an old trooper. I loved the additional disability which holding two walking sticks brought to my life. My hands were not free for any other purpose and in that sense, my peg legs allowed me to experience a taste of Phil’s near future when he gained his arm stumps. The peg legs I had chosen were slender tapering limbs, black as could be. I wore ordinary jeans or three quarter cargo pants when I wanted to show off my pegs. Gradually I weaned myself to only one stick and later still, I was confident enough to go without. It was just as well to regain use of my hands by mastering my peg legs because by then, Phil had lost his hands.

 

TWENTY

There was an early spring. Heavy rain washed the winter’s dust from the streets and gave the parks and grassland a good soaking. The new fresh greenery signified a new start for both of us. There was a feeling of expectancy in the flat. I was walking again at last and the wheelchair would soon be disassembled and stashed away somewhere. I began to be more brash about displaying my pegs in public and had two pairs of jeans neatly altered to show off the entirety of my black wooden pegs. Phil was becoming more excited and more impatient about his trip to Edinburgh and his meeting with Dr Angus MacNamara. He would fly there but we were still uncertain about his return journey. It might be only a question of days before he was deemed fit to travel. His unhealed arm stumps would make life difficult for a few weeks until they recovered. Phil was going to experience the erotic ecstasy of total helplessness and looked forward to a future with shortened arms and no hands. For the last time, he walked out of our flat brandishing his favourite pair of walking sticks, hip high thick sticks with derby handles. He had underwear and T‑shirts in a small backpack. I promised to collect him within twenty‑four hours of being notified.

 

TWENTY-ONE

MacNamara was delighted to meet his patient in person at last. He was a tall, stout figure with a handsome van Dyke beard and bald head. Phil had been told what procedure to expect. He would stay overnight in the facility’s guestroom and breakfast on a glass of water, nothing more. The amputations would be done under partial anaesthetic, so he would be aware of what was happening but in a reassuring fug.

 

Surgeon and patient dined together that evening. Phil learned that he would probably never carry a pair of walking sticks again if he insisted on the mechanical body‑operated hooks which he had spoken of. Specially adapted crutches might be available if there was a genuine need for physical support. MacNamara queried the wisdom of Phil’s choice of stump length. Phil had sent diagrams of a male forearm bisected halfway along its length. MacNamara explained that such a length was unusual in elective amputations. Most such patients desired long forearms stumps which could be useful even without prosthetic arms. These were the patients who were most enamoured of the appearance of stumps. The second most popular choice was a globular nub below the elbow, enough to allow some movement. Such stumps could be used without prosthetic arms, for example, in holding a glass or gripping a fork. Their brevity worked in their favour. Unfortunately, artificial arms for such patients were more demanding than one‑piece forearm sockets with hooks. They entailed additional training and practice to accustom the patient to operating both his hooks and his elbows by stretching his shoulders. Operating the artificial arms was a lifetime of strenuous movement calling for precision. Users wearing such equipment were easily distinguishable by their continual unnatural upper body and shoulder movements and the obviously unnatural mechanical movement of their terminal devices, their hooks or artificial hands. Phil was enraptured with the idea of having demanding artificial arms after a lifetime of imagining a pair of hooks on long forearm stumps. The novelty of the idea was attractive. He was quite familiar with the appearance of full‑length artificial arms extending over the shoulders, linked around the back onto a sturdy harness to keep the heavy arms in place.

          – So are you saying that I would be more accomplished at mastering a pair of long prostheses?

          – Why yes, my boy. And if I may make so bold, a fine handsome man of your age making your way through life with a pair of gleaming hooks at your side would make you admired by many and envied by a few. You know to what I refer, I am sure.

          – I do know. Might it be possible at this late stage to revise our plans, then? Instead of amputating halfway down my forearms, could you amputate above my elbows?

          – Oh, you wish to forgo your elbows too? Perfectly possible, my boy. In fact, it makes my job easier. Only one bone to saw through and less chance of complication for you in future. So it is decided. Bilateral symmetrical humeral amputation it is.

 

TWENTY-TWO

The surgery went well. MacNamara had performed thousands of amputations during his fifty year career. He had not expected to perform a bilateral as his last ever surgery but was pleased with the way he had persuaded the boy to opt for short stumps. He had just won a wager, quite separate from the old business with Rousseau. The patient seemed knowledgeable enough about his bilateral amputations to realise what he was getting himself into. MacNamara knew many such patients over the years who had gone on to forge successful lives, marrying, becoming a parent, creating a business, all with the most demanding artificial limbs. As an elective wannabe, his patient would probably have watched hundreds of videohours of arm amputees learning to operate their new limbs.

 

Phil was allowed to drift off to sleep after the operations. His stumps were heavily bandaged and the weeping sutures would require them to be changed before nightfall. Phil dreamed a drugged dream of himself wearing a kilt and playing a game of cricket. His stumps were fitted with cricket bats. The audience roared with admiration at his every move. He awoke with a ferocious thirst and a rumbling stomach craving food. A male nurse held a mug of sweet tea for him and fed him porridge.

 

The same nurse used Phil’s phone to send brief messages saying all had gone as requested and all was well. I had the impression that my lover had lost his hands and would boast a handsome pair of forearm stumps. Nothing prepared me for the shock of seeing Phil for the first time. Phil stood wearing a T‑shirt from which his bandaged stumps protruded. Too short!

          – Where are your arms? What’s happened?

          – A slight change of plan, mate.

          – Did you ask for those?

          – Yup. I hope you approve.

          – Well, of course I do but it’s not what you wanted, is it?

It was not. Phil was already beginning to suffer from buyer’s remorse. ‘Possession decreases the perception of value immediately’. Now that he had no chance of ever experiencing becoming a masterful hook user, he regretted his short stumps. He suspected he had been doubly disabled and realised too late that he was not mentally ready. The erotic attraction of two artificial arms as described by an over‑enthusiastic surgeon had been too much for him. Now he was afraid he had acted rashly. But it was too late. 

 

TWENTY-THREE

We had agreed that Phil’s return home would be most easily undertaken by rail. I gently guided Phil’s stumps into his jacket sleeves and picked up his over‑long walking sticks. Phil carried his own rucksackful of dirty laundry. We ordered an uber to the station and sat for two fraught hours waiting for the intercity. Out in public for the first time as a double amputee was stressful for Phil and I felt sorry for him. You feel that you stick out like a sore thumb and everyone is staring at you as if you are some kind of monster. In truth, few people notice anything amiss and most of those don’t care. I had accompanied the new amputee while strutting along in a pair of shorts, supported by two giant walking sticks. To tell the truth, I had never realised before how pleasant they were to hold. I liked the additional height they caused my arms to adopt. I was about to ask Phil if I could have them now that he could no longer use them but caught myself in time. I would wait for a better moment.

 

After a couple of days, it became obvious that Phil’s increasing depression was not so much caused by his disability, more severe than expected, but by a lingering doubt that I was somehow angry at him, that I disapproved of what he had allowed to happen. I tried to find the words to calm his mind but the truth of the matter was that I was shocked and disappointed that I was not going to feel my lover’s long forearm stumps making love to me nor watch him deftly going about his daily business with a pair of hooks, using them as easily as his flesh hands. He was going to be almost robotic and would be restricted from doing many of the things he would have been capable of if he had only kept his elbows. But it was too late now. His bandages were off and the ruddy scars of his amputations were both visible, peeking from the short sleeves of his T. I felt sorry for him. I looked at the sadness and regret in his beautiful eyes and moved awkwardly to hug him. We wept for lost opportunities, for wrong decisions, and the loss of mutual trust. The appalling scene continued until we were out of tears. I cleaned our faces. It was the start of Phil’s recovery.

 

TWENTY-FOUR

Rousseau had already learned that the materials and mechanisms he had mentally assembled for Phil’s new arms were not going to be of any use to him after all. MacNamara had delighted in revealing the extent of his patient’s disability.

          – Do you mean to say that he is bilateral above elbow?

          – He is indeed, my friend.

          – Did you not suggest he keep an elbow?

          – I did not. You know as well as I how susceptible these wannabes are to the promise of additional effort and skill required to operate their artificial limbs, such as they are. Instead of considering anything remotely bionic, they insist on the most primitive possible adaptive equipment. My patient’s lover arrived to collect him wearing a pair of peg legs, if you please. Can you imagine?

          – Really? He was not wearing standard prostheses?

          – He was walking very well on two peg legs, my friend. A sight rarely seen.

          – How extraordinary. I wish I could have seen him. I have known men use bilateral pegs when nothing more sophisticated was available. But in this day and age!

 

Rousseau revised his plans. He knew what leather he would use and with perfect timing, a pair of above elbow artificial arms made seventy years previously had just been refurbished and returned to a condition rivalling perfection. Rousseau intended reusing its metallic mechanisms in Philip’s arms. They would look spectacular.

 

I removed my legs for the long drive up to March. It was far more comfortable to sit in the trike wearing my stump braces. I knew Rousseau would not be surprised to see me teetering on them. Phil was comfortable settled in the rear, gesticulating with his twelve centimetre stumps at anything which caught his attention. He was relieved that his stumps had healed so soon and cleanly. They were smooth and inoffensive, meaning simply that the flesh was even and a similar shape to the tip of a finger. Nicely rounded short stumps at the shoulder. Not what we had expected, but that was what we had to work with. As always, Rousseau was waiting in his yard for us and his face dropped when Phil climbed out of the trike.

          – Good grief! I heard that you had chosen above elbow amputations, young man, but I had no idea your stumps were so short. Well, it is no matter. We’ll have you kitted out and ready to fly in no time.

He gave me a look of what I thought was almost parental disapproval and pointed at my stump braces. He shook his head but smiled.

          – Let’s go in and sit down.

 

TWENTY-FIVE

Over a late afternoon snack of cinnamon buns and dark roast coffee, we spoke of what had been and what could have been. Phil admitted for the first time that he had been persuaded too easily by MacNamara to opt for something more severe. He had wanted to lose his hands and to use a pair of hooks on ordinary sockets. He had never considered losing his elbows before but seemingly in the space of an hour or two he had been persuaded that he would find a more fulfilling life with a set of complicated artificial arms operated by simple shrugs and a variety of jerks.

          – Let us hope that you find it rewarding, Philip. There is no reason why you should not operate your new arms to the best of their abilities, although I do warn you that you will find much of it awkward and you will also appear awkward to onlookers. But, as I suspect, if you are as open to a spot of extroversion now and then as your friend with peg legs here, I see no reason why you should regret opting for full‑length prosthetic arms like the pair I intend manufacturing for you.

          – So I’ll be able to use them as well as if I still had elbows?

          – Philip, no. You will not. Your artificial elbows will articulate in one direction only, like the hinge on a door. It is one of the restrictions you will have to learn to overcome. The alternative is to not learn it, in which case you will be additionally disabled. To make it clearer, you are trying to replace the functions of your elbows, wrists, hands and fingers with shrugs of your shoulders. Everything you do from the moment you receive your new arms will be due to the shrugs of your shoulders. Does that sound disabled enough for you? Yes? Then let us get you equipped with your new arms.

 

Phil experienced that same loving care as Rousseau cast his stumps and shoulders. I had begun to appreciate how the shortness of Phil’s stumps exaggerated the width of his shoulders. I thought he looked really manly and horny with short stumps at his shoulders. He was going to look extremely disabled when he received his arms, regardless of how well they were made. I was sure Rousseau would produce something to be proud of. I had no idea though of what he had in mind.

 

TWENTY-SIX

Rousseau washed Phil’s stumps clean of plaster dust and described the various work phases. He did not believe it necessary for Phil to return for a prosthetic fitting before receiving his arms, which might be in six weeks. Rousseau suggested a courier delivery, much to my surprise.

          – I’m sure you will have no trouble between the two of you adjusting the prostheses to fit properly. Bear in mind that everything needs to be as tight as possible. How about you, young man? I don’t like to see you misusing your stump braces like that. Would you not prefer a pair of stubbies if you insist on going footless?

          – You mean covers for my stumps which I can walk on?

          – I mean exactly that. They would be patella weight‑bearing but I’m sure you would be more comfortable.

          – They’d be like shorter versions of my peg legs, would they?

          – They would.

          – Alright. I’ll take a pair of those.

          – I’ll use the moulds I made for your legs. Your stumps can’t have changed much in the interim. It’s only been a few months, after all. Would you prefer cylindrical or tapering?

          – Make them cylindrical this time, if you would. I’m curious to see what they look like and how they feel.

          – Very well. I shall send them with Philip’s arm prostheses. The address is still the same, I assume.

Phil and I glanced at each other and laughed.

          – Yes, still the same address.

 

TWENTY-SEVEN

The package arrived ahead of time. I opened the door to the courier wearing only my peg legs and underpants with my face covered in foam and a razor in my hand. He handed over the long cardboard box containing our future selves.

 

Rousseau had gone a lot further with our equipment than he had described. My stubbies were nestled neatly in tissue paper on top and they did not look at all like the tapering stubbies I had imagined. Instead, Rousseau had let his imagination fly and concocted a pair of broad stubbies which concealed my pathetic withered stumps and then shrank to short thick pylons terminating in thick rubber ferrules. They looked very much like shortened traditional peg legs and I fell in love with them immediately. I whipped my pegs off as quickly as possible and squeezed the new stubbie pegs onto my stumps. With full use of my knees, I was able to hop up onto the tips of my new pegs, much narrower than the pair I was used to. I teetered about for a moment or two, discovering my new centre of balance. I glanced down at my legs and laughed at how extremely disabled I looked. I had peg legs like a disabled workman from two centuries past except that mine were short. They looked shocking.

 

Phil had come to see what I was laughing about and saw the package waiting with his arms in on the table. He waved his stumps in excitement. He bent closer and attempted to remove packing material but his stumps were incapable of anything practical. He was a very disabled man but with luck, the contents of the package would set him on the road to discovery.

 

TWENTY-EIGHT

The first fitting was what both of us had been waiting impatiently for. I had been feeding and washing my lover and turned much of his intimate care into an erotic game. At Phil’s suggestion, I stopped shaving him and his short dark beard already looked impressive, rising high on his cheeks to emphasise his beautiful eyes. I opened a packet of soft cotton stump socks and held each one steady as Phil leaned forward and pushed his stumps into them. Rousseau had already attached both arms to the black canvas harness. They looked superb. Both upper and lower sections were of the same deep maroon leather, expertly moulded and sewn with sturdy black thread. The metalwork of the artificial elbows and wrists were hemispherical and the chrome surfaces glinted. Two standard issue hooks were screwed into each wrist and needed only the control cables to be attached. I picked the arms up by their upper edges and stood behind Phil, holding each arm firmly while he inserted each stump. The upper sockets reached up and over each shoulder, reducing the weight on the stumps themselves and allowing them some slight degree of movement. Phil looked from left to right and back again at the new arms hanging from his shoulders.

 

The forearms were not what either of us had expected. They were simple cylinders, eight centimetres in diameter and twenty centimetres long. They were a little shorter than Phil’s natural forearms but the hooks would lend their own length as soon as I worked out how to attach the cables. One cable was already attached at the elbow. That was to lift the forearm, I assumed. The other must pass through the divot halfway along the forearm cylinder and clip onto the top of the prong on the hook.

 

There was a short letter from Rousseau in the bottom of the box, hidden by tissue paper. He hoped his handiwork would meet with Phil’s approval and suggested that we watch a training video on how to fit a pair of bilateral above‑elbow prostheses. A second video included useful physical exercises for new bilateral amputees. They both turned out to be army training films made in the early sixties showing in excruciatingly slow detail the routes each cable should take, the movements required to operate each component. We watched both on tv sped up by fifty percent, both of us still nursing erections and dribbling precum from the novelty of seeing such significant prosthetic apparatus dominating Phil’s body. His arms were suddenly as completely artificial as my legs wearing my long prostheses.

 

It took many increasingly frustrating attempts at adjusting both forearm cables and hook cables before Phil said both of them felt taut but not tight, that he could tolerate the weight of his new arms and that his range of motion, such as it was, seemed to be optimal. The arms were ready, the amputee was ready. Now all he had to do was learn to use them.

 

I insisted that Phil wear his arms at all times and attempt to do everything for himself. At first, I stood by as he made his painfully slow attempts at doing things for himself. Later I waited until he called for me before I went to help him. He was severely challenged by needing to control the arms with a couple of gestures and the inevitable jerking movement which locked the elbows in place. It was painful to watch. But Phil never complained. I think it was my presence, the fact that he loved me and did not want to disappoint me, that he continued attempting things which I must admit would have driven me up the wall. Scratches appeared on the burnished leather forearm cylinders. One thing he had to practise was altering the angle of the hooks. I was usually nearby when he called for help. He knew in theory how to twist the hooks in their connectors to point the way he needed but found it next to impossible to perform the action himself.

 

TWENTY-NINE

It took three months, but suddenly Phil realised that he was not having to plan his movements so much beforehand. He had begun to automatically shrug and jerk to move his elbow and shrug again to operate the hook, before jerking again and shrugging to move the forearm out of the way. Suddenly it began to feel natural. His demanding prostheses began to feel like his own arms.

 

I still helped him with a few things during the day. We were in no hurry, there was no timetable or deadline. My wealth saw to that. For example, I fitted his arms in the morning, moments after waking and removed them last thing at night. I kept the leather looking succulent after finding suitable leather polish and polished the chrome and steel. The arms were immediate eye‑catchers when we were out in public, even more than my peg legs which I usually hid under long jeans. It was possible to put the arms on without another person’s help but for the time being, Phil was content to rely on me.

 

As summer approached, our original plans of wearing summerwear and baring our stumps and artificial limbs in public were slightly revised. Any sun tan would leave white streaks across Phil’s back where his harness had covered him and my peg legs allowed no sun to reach my stumps in any case. We both ventured out in the trike to local beauty spots wearing identical shorts and T‑shirts printed with the text some assembly required. Phil relearned how to drive the trike with hooks and we altered the insurance policy to included operation by a double arm amputee, One sign of Phil’s growing confidence and recovering independence was his suggestion that we travel further afield, maybe even abroad, for a week or so to experience life without constant access to our home with its endless supply of skin care products for our stumps, an automatic washing machine for our stump socks and all the other safeguards which our artificial limbs required at regular intervals. Phil could be crippled by a snapped cable. I would be crippled by a blister. Despite the risks, we chose a domestic city break and spent five nights from Thursday to Tuesday in Manchester.

 

THIRTY

Phil’s determined success at learning to operate his hooks made me consider my options for the future. My weak stumps were annoying and I was disapppointed with the meagre choices I had for walking. I could use the long legs with the thigh corsets and the broad cylindrical peg legs or the short shapely peg legs which slid onto my leg stumps up to my knees. I wanted something more demanding, as demanding as Phil’s arms. I still preferred peg legs but I began to consider how I could become more disabled by losing my knees and yet still get around using pegs. I had no interest in new‑fangled microchip legs which needed recharging every few hours. I wanted wooden peg legs which needed a coat of paint once a year.

 

The problem was, obviously, how to get my stumps amputated. MacNamara, the old sadist, had retired and disappeared into oblivion. Rousseau claimed he did not know another surgeon who would perform elective amputations on demand. I contacted people claiming to be elective amputees on web forums, never receiving a reply until an Australian man recommended contacting the Thai surgeon who had made him into a legless man with short thigh stumps. We sent messages to each other for a couple of weeks and he included a selfie in his last message showing him standing on the horniest stubbies I have ever seen. There was only one thing for it. I was off to Thailand.

 

Phil insisted he could manage alone for the month or so I expected to be gone. If he got really desperate, any of his friends might call round to help out. It would simply mean waiting for assistance. I was fairly sure Phil could manage more or less everything except replacing a snapped cable on his arms. It called for the sort of dexterity which was difficult for me, let alone a man with only shoulders.

 

THIRTY‑ONE

I called my surgeon Dr Pan. His Thai surname was impossibly long. Fortunately he was a well‑meaning and good‑natured man with excellent English. I explained the problems with my existing stumps caused by the multiple fractures in my accident. I explained I knew that longer stumps lead to better results when the amputee tries walking on artificial legs but I was different. I wanted stubbies instead of long artificial legs. I wanted two cylinders I could slip over my thigh stumps and go about my day. I did not mention that I had the intention of having Rousseau make me a variety of stubbies and short peg legs. Maybe I could even walk on peg legs which would raise me to my original height again. I was fairly sure I could manage long pegs, maybe with the help of those hip‑high walking sticks I liked, now hidden at the back of our closet.

 

We negotiated the price and I arranged for half the amount to be transferred to Dr Pan’s account before the operation. I was escorted to a comfortable room where I could recuperate my strength after the amputations. I asked Dr Pan if he also performed arm amputations and he nodded slowly in confirmation. I had the idea of recovering from my leg amputations first and then having my lower arms off before returning home but I realised that I would then be too disabled for too long. It was unfair to Phil to place him in a situation where he had to take care of me while he himself was still readjusting. It was no problem. I would lose my legs this autumn and my hands the next. Maybe Phil could come with me next time. It was a beautiful city and the people were lovely.

 

Dr Pan amputated higher than I had requested. I was kept in coma for three days until my sutures showed definite signs of closing. I was the new owner of globular stumps which extended only a short distance from my balls before disappearing. I was not sure I was going to be able to wear the sort of stubbies I imagined but Dr Pan reassured me that my stumps were long enough to wear liners with the pin system. I could wear peg legs or stubbies as long or as short as I wanted. And I would have the added benefit of very short stumps for things like hand‑walking and playing sports in a monocoque, like ice hockey. Being almost legless was such an advantage for speed and skill. There was no denying the man. He had deliberately given me the stumps he liked to see instead of the stumps I had paid for but there was little point in arguing. Thai law was almost a hundred per cent on the side of Thai citizens. I could hardly complain to Thai authorities about an elective amputation gone wrong. Actually the short stumps looked OK. They would give me the opportunity to try out many different kinds of artificial legs. And it was simply cool to be so nearly completely legless.

 

I was pampered for the next five weeks. Every evening at eight, I spoke with Phil who was enjoying a cup of coffee he had brewed himself. He always said he missed me and wanted me back soon. He knew my operation had also gone wrong but since I had been legless to begin with, I said there was little damage done. The clinic sold me the wheelchair I had been using and I returned home six weeks to the day after leaving. I looked almost the same as I did before I started using peg legs with the exception that there was now more room on the seat.

 

THIRTY‑TWO

Rousseau was intrigued to learn of my reconfigured legs. He regretted the fact that I would no longer be using the old‑style limbs he had lovingly crafted for me but assured me that he would be at my service and do his best to manufacture the prosthetic devices I wished to use. I had the idea that Rousseau was not such a sadist as his friend MacNamara but he had an unhealthy interest in recommending unlikely artificial limbs to the gullible. My own legs were a brilliant example. They were beautiful and practical. What more could an amputee ask for?

 

He agreed that the pin system might work but it might prove uncomfortable. There were other alternatives available for men with so little stump. The word osseointegration was mentioned and discarded. After several hours contemplation, I decided that my first stubbies would be miniature peg legs. They would have sockets to completely cover my short stumps and clip onto my liners. I described short pegs about fifteen centimetres long with fat rubber tips. Rousseau scribbled my description in his notebook and sketched a quick impression of what he understood. It was perfect. The next pair would have pegs twice as long and I placed an order. My third stubbies would be little more than stump covers with rubber bases, hardly longer than my short stumps. Rousseau said he understood and would produce a pair with exceptionally thick rubber bases which could be whittled away to produce the most comfortable way for me to stump around in them. I was impressed by Rousseau’s use of the word ‘walking’ to refer to the way I wanted to waddle in such crippling short stubbies.

 

THIRTY-THREE

A strange calm descended on our lives. Neither of us had achieved our ideal body images but despite that, we were enthusiastic about our future prospects. Phil was already becoming accustomed to the regular physical movements his artificial arms required and found using hooks less frustrating after he accepted the simple fact that switching from moving his elbow to opening his hook took an extra second. There was no hurry. He found a comfortable rhythm. For my part, I was always impressed to see him working the handsome leather prostheses, as artificial and startling a sight as any amputee could hope to wear.

 

I was content with my extra short stumps. Sitting in a wheelchair, I seemed not to have stumps at all. I thought it looked incredibly erotic. I was intrigued to discover that I could spread my stumps out to the sides much further than I could do with my previous stumps. I usually toppled forwards pretty quickly but it was amusing to become so utterly legless. I wondered if it was possible to have body sockets made which would cover my lower body and leg stumps, something like the sporty monocoque for ice‑hockey Dr Pan had mentioned. I was not sure at the time if he was serious or not. It seemed odd for a hockey player to undergo the removal of both legs because he wanted to slide into a monocoque, but stranger things have happened. I could imagine myself scooting around in a protective leather casing, flashing my tiny stumps. Or why not get Rousseau to shape the socket so it looked like I had leg stumps? That would look incredible in a wheelchair, wearing shorts, with two black leather stumps poking out. I had quite an erection again thinking about my missing legs. Rousseau was taking his time with my new peg legs. I hoped they would be worth the wait.

 

THIRTY-FOUR

I was not disappointed. A text arrived at four on Friday afternoon inviting me for a fitting of two pairs of peg legs and a pair of short stubbies. I shot back a reply saying I could not wait until Monday and asking if Rousseau would wait for me to collect them this evening. He agreed so I thrust my body stump out to our trike and set off through the rush hour crush.

 

Rousseau was happy to welcome me, a little surprised that I handwalked rather than use a wheelchair. I told him not for the first time that I despised using a chair and that the entire purpose of crafting a pair of sturdy stumps after suffering the inconveniences associated with my previous ones was simply to make myself mobile on the most shocking artificial legs possible. He laughed at my assertiveness, which I did not usually allow to affect my communication with professionals. He turned and indicated the three waiting pairs of exactly the kind of shocking artificial legs I meant.

 

It was obvious I was going to have trouble with the liner and pin system. My stumps were simply too short. For the purposes of testing the sockets of the stubbies and pegs, the liners Rousseau had ready would be good enough but he recommended liners like a pair of shorts and I agreed straight away. First I tried the stubbies. They looked like a couple of buckets children play with at the seaside. The bases were thick rubber pads. The intention was to allow them to wear into a pattern which could later be repeated deliberately, making future stubbies uniquely suitable to the way I walked in them. Again the word ‘walk’. Fun as they were to wear and perfectly suitable, I was more interested in the next two pairs of pegs. They were both somehow derived from the age-old traditional peg leg shape. The socket was a cylinder terminating in a half globe with a pylon extending from it. Rousseau had craftily made the upper sockets longer than my stumps on both pairs. One pair had fifteen centimetre long pegs including the rubber tips and the second pair seemed impossibly long. The pegs measured over thirty centimetres. They would look fantastic in a pair of shorts but might take some getting used to. Before I could even get started, Rousseau produced a pair of cut‑off armpit crutches which I could adjust according to which peg legs I was wearing.

          – I suggest you get used to using crutches, my friend. Especially when you are wearing peg legs. You have no base to speak of with peg legs and a walking stick is often tiring to use for any length of time.

          – I know. I don’t like crutches any more than I like wheelchairs but I understand your point and will use crutches until I’m more confident on my stumps.

          – Ha! Good man. Now, how many pairs of liner trunks shall I order?

 

I did not waste more of Rousseau’s time. He had a home to go to, I assume. He carried my stash to the trike and admired the way I flipped my stump up into the driving seat. We wished each other a good weekend and I enjoyed the ride home against the tail end of the evening rush. I had chosen wisely when we bought the trike. It had always been completely hand‑operated without pedals. Even a man as disabled as Phil was able to drive it, although it was strenuous and not recommended for journeys over a mile or two. We were banned from driving the trike on a motorway which was a pity because the long straight roads were ideal for a man equipped with two hooks and shoulders.

 

THIRTY-FIVE

It was impossible to know which legs I liked most. The stubbies were so clunky, fat unnatural extensions of my tiny stumps. I had to rock my body from side to side to get started and keep it up. The stubbies let me take steps about ten centimetres at a time. I waggled my arse and swung my arms and took my underpants off so my erection was not so uncomfortable. It too swung in tandem with my stumps. The thick rubber bases gripped the floor and I felt like I was almost held upright by the friction. The stubbies were about long enough for me to wear them with my short shorts. Next I tried the short peg legs.

 

Now I could see why Rousseau wanted me on crutches. Not having my knees, I had to lean my body to lift each peg leg in turn and it would have been much easier with a pair of cut‑off crutches. I held on to the furniture and tottered as best I could from chair to sofa and back. Phil sat watching me, leaning forward and gesticulating with lifeless arms in encouragement. The tips of the peg legs were a different rubber and they squeaked on the parquet floor. I tried to feel a sense of what I looked like to an outsider. I hoped I was a shocking sight. I staggered back to where the long peg legs waited for their christening run. The long pegs were erotic. They were as thick as the male member and seemed to come from the same place. The rubber tips were the same as on the shorter pair. The main difference was that these could take much longer strides and I would definitely need a pair of crutches or maybe cut‑off walking sticks until I was used to being so tall again. These would definitely stop traffic.

 

I had never seen anyone wearing pegs like these. I would be unique and at last, I allowed myself to topple back against a chair onto the floor where I released a pent‑up amount of jizz in celebration. For the first time, Phil succeeded in applauding, shrugging in such a way that his cylindrical forearms, set at ninety degrees, struck one hook against the other without entangling. We must have been quite a sight. I was impatient for my liner pants when I could replace my thighs with black carbon fibre sockets forever.

 

THIRTY‑SIX

Through no fault of his own, it took eight weeks for Rousseau’s order to arrive. In the meantime, I had already placed an order for two sets of monocoque stump protectors, and been casted once more, this time to take account of my short stumps. Rousseau inspected them closely but did not pass judgment. I suspect he was wondering why I had wanted such impossibly demanding stumps. They were difficult to fit with prosthetic devices. Legs were out of the question unless the user was extraordinarily determined and possessed of a superhuman sense of balance. There were men whose legs were missing from the hip who walked with crutches on two artificial legs. I could have copied them and joined their ranks except for my dislike of crutches. Ever since I first lost my legs, I had wanted to replace them with the artificial equivalent. Later when I became more disabled, it was enough to use anything which let me be mobile. Much to my surprise, I found myself appreciating the physical sensations of leglessness, of the mere fact of not having legs and enjoying the erotic permanence of well‑formed leg stumps. They looked phallic and in my case, their closeness to my balls meant that any sensation they felt was erotic. If anyone had offered me the chance to have my legs back now that I knew what being almost totally legless meant for my libido, I would refuse. I would have refused anyway. I had always wanted at least one stump. In a sense, I had only one now. My body stump. It was easy to ignore my leg stumps and imagine they did not exist. It was not difficult at all.

 

THIRTY‑SEVEN

Rousseau announced the arrival of my liner underpants and the chance to take delivery of my first monocoque. This time Phil wanted to come and insisted on driving. I sat in the rear, which meant that I did not have to listen to him complaining about the lack of leg room.

 

The socket which he had made first was the version with fake stumps. It was covered in black leather except for a small area on the base which is where my weight would rest when I hand‑walked in it. The splayed stumps were set further apart than I expected to make room for an impressive leather bulge to contain my balls and tackle. The front of it lifted off so I had access to my genitals without climbing out of the monocoque. Phil twitched with growing horniness waiting to see me fitted out with black leather stumps. They would definitely look stunning when I sat in a wheelchair with the rounded tips of the stumps poking out of my shorts. They would look magnificent. People would assume they concealed the flesh equivalent, two leg stumps longer than half a man’s thighs, carefully protected inside a shield of hard moulded leather. Nothing could be farther from the truth. My tiny stumps were relaxing up near my pelvis.

 

It was not difficult to insert my stump, as I had begun to think of my lower body, into the monocoque. It was strong and rigid and felt more like carbon fibre than leather but it was all natural. The fake stumps tormented me. I wanted to bring them closer together, to stop them pointing in different directions and strained for a moment or two, trying to persuade my missing legs to co‑operate. Of course, nothing happened except for an increase in how horny I felt. I leaned forward and took my first steps wearing the coque. Rousseau had given the base a gentle curve which made rocking forward much easier and more comfortable. I was pleased to sense the protection the coque offered my stumps and balls. I would be much more active in the coque than I had been wearing only a pair of cut‑off jeans on my broad stump.

 

Phil took the bag containing my liner shorts from Rousseau and we all departed together. The old man estimated another two weeks before my other coque was ready.

 

I was naked inside my new coque and I was erect all the way home. The interior was soaked with precum. It was unavoidable. It was no surprise that Rousseau had included a detachable window in the front so I could wipe my spunk up. I wore the coque until bedtime, pleased with the novelty of possessing leg stumps again. I found out how good it felt to sit relaxed in the coque, resting my hands on the leather stumps. They felt just right. It had been an excellent choice after all, or perhaps I should admit that Dr Pan understood more about me than I did myself. The two pairs of peg legs standing in a corner of our bedroom would have to wait for the morning before I was ready to test them. I considered sleeping in my coque but Phil was impatient to service my cock so I extricated myself and let him explore my torso stump.

 

THIRTY‑EIGHT

First thing after breakfast, I tried on the two pairs of heavily elasticated trunks which enclosed my stump completely. Two pins extended from where my femurs were severed. I tried walking in the stubbies first. My initial impression was that I had legs again. I could feel that my leg nubs had extensions. I hopped up and balanced on the bases and rotated myself slowly, trying to find my centre of balance. There did not seem to be one. I tried rocking slightly from side to side and the stubbies obediently rose from the floor and let me twist my hips forward to take a step. The rubber bases gripped the floor securely. It was obvious that I was going to have to put in a lot of effort to get walking on the stubbies, although I assumed it would be easier outside on a different surface.

 

Next up were the short peg legs. They were a nice shape, deceiving to the eye. They had longish rounded top bits which I clipped my liner pins into and the lower part was a short peg with a rubber tip. This time, they responded to the movement of my nubs. I could force one peg in front of the other and by waving my arms about for dear life, I managed to take three or four steps before I became unbalanced. But I felt that when I had my short crutches, I would easily stride around on the short pegs, although I suspected that they would do little for me except give me a little height and stop me dragging my arse around on the floor. The long pegs gave me quite a surprise. They felt balanced even as I clipped them on. The rubber tips were beyond where my knees would be. I heaved myself up and hung on to the chair for balance. I was not used to being suddenly so tall. The pegs were thicker than on the short pair. They made me look extremely crippled and I had an enormous erection yet again. I held on to the chair and practised swinging each peg around in small circles in front of me. I wanted to walk but I dared not, not without some support. I wish I had listened when Rousseau recommended shortened walking sticks. I must admit a pair would have been handy.

 

The pegs would have to wait for their first outing. In the meantime, I handwalked back to the bedroom, climbed into my coque and pulled myself up into my wheelchair. I wanted to see what sort of an impression I gave with black stumps poking out of my shorts. They looked fantastic and once again I tried to urge them closer together but they stubbornly remained splayed out to each side. My cock chafed along the inner surface of the leather bulge which hid it and it erupted in the best orgasm since losing my legs.

 

THIRTY‑NINE

Phil said he loved seeing my fake stumps, either when I hand-walked or used my chair. I must admit that the coque was probably my permanent home. I loved the way it let me scoot about and I loved to see the stumps point skyward as I propelled myself along. One on each side. They looked unnatural. They looked almost as unnatural in the wheelchair. No‑one with a pair of short stumps would sit with them spread out like my fake stumps did. At home, I did not wear shorts and let Phil enjoy seeing the leather bulge between my legs. I have answered the door to food deliveries ‘naked’. There is more room for a couple of pizzas on top of my fake stumps than Phil had on his bent arms.

 

Rousseau sent the text I had been eagerly awaiting. My crutches were ready, as were three pairs of wooden Health Service walking sticks. And best of all, my second coque was ready, made from carbon fibre but covered with the same deep maroon leather as on Phil’s arms. I decided I would wear my coque despite it being a little inconvenient to have to change out of it but I wanted to assure Rouusseau that his hard work was much appreciated.

 

The new coque was stunning. It was identical to the one I was wearing with the exceptions of no fake stumps and the colour. The front panel allowed access to my privates and the base was covered in a rubber sole.

          – I’ll enjoy wearing this, I’m sure, but I have to tell you how much I like this coque with the stumps. It has given me back my legs in more ways that one. Without it, I wouldn’t be nearly as active as I am.

          – That’s good to hear and I hope the new monocoque is as useful. You may regard it more as a shield against the risk of injury than a method of mobility but it is entirely up to you how you choose to benefit from it. Do you mind if I inspect your black monocoque?

          – No, of course not. Please go ahead.

Rousseau seemed to be most interested in the amount of wear he could deduce by inspecting the rubberised base. The leather had a few dents and dings in it but they were easy to disguise with boot polish.

          – Now, I wanted to talk to you about crutches. I know that you relied on peg legs when you still had your knees. But now you have very little stump. Now you must use crutches with your peg legs because you will be unable to correct yourself in time to prevent a fall. You simply cannot generate enough power with your short stumps to move the peg leg’s pylon in time to save yourself. Do you understand?

          – Yes, of course. I have to admit that I have tried out the longer peg legs and discovered the same thing you have just warned me about.

          – Good. I am sure that as a man who wishes to use peg legs, you will not deny the necessity to rely on crutches. They are as much a part of your disabled identity as the peg legs themselves.

          – I understand. I am prepared to rely on crutches which are comfortable and exactly the correct length. I dislike having to adapt my stance to fit the crutches rather than the other way around.

          – As you should. I want to see you in the new monocoque and you could test the shortest walking sticks at the same time. You may not be able to lift yourself along in the same way as you do with your arms but the walking sticks will allow you to balance upright in the legless monocoque.

 

As so often when discussing my nubs and now two coques, I had a raging erection nestled comfortably inside the bulge at the front of my black coque. I lay back on the floor and gradually edged my stump out of the coque. The weight of its fake stumps pulled it upright and it span slowly around its centre of balance. I rearranged my penis and worked my stump into my new maroon coque. I pushed myself erect and immediately noticed the lack of fake stumps. I now needed to balance on a central spot immediately under my stump. I put both arms out to the side and tried lifting myself. The coque left the ground and I moved a few centimetres. I had to concentrate on staying upright.

          – Will you pass me those short sticks, please?

The sticks were parodies of walking aids. They were so short, they looked almost disabled themselves. Curved handles and rubber tips with about twenty centimetres of stick in between. I held them and found a comfortable tripod position. It genuinely felt very comfortable and I felt quite accomplished at mastering my new coque so quickly.

 

          – I think you should try the crutches too. You may be able to step along with them.

Rousseau handed them to me and I spread them out to each side to regain my balance. It was no use. Crutches were of no use to me while wearing either of my coques. But I could sense that I would be able to jump around on my short peg legs far better with crutches. Not to mention strolling along with the crutches adjusted in length to match my longer peg legs. They were the pegs I intended wearing when I was out of my coque with fake stumps.

 

Rousseau allowed me to wear my new coque on the way back, saying that any fault with its manufacture would be immediately obvious and I had made no mention of any such fault. He wrapped three pairs of walking sticks of different lengths and the crutches with brown paper and placed them with my black coque into the trike.

 

          – Don’t hesitate to get in touch if you need anything, young man. Remember I’m always here for you.

I thanked him and on the return journey, I tried to imagine some prosthetic solution I might yet try. I could imagine only a long pair of cosmetic legs I could wear when sitting in my chair. It might be amusing to disguise my real self like that in some unusual circumstance. Otherwise I was content with my two coques, two pairs of peg legs and the short fat stubbies. The shortest walking sticks were obviously intended for use with the stubbies. Why had I not realised?

 

FORTY

I tried the stubbies and sticks combination as soon as Phil carried my new trophies into the flat. Although I had gone through the palaver of having my old stumps amputated specifically so I could wear stubbies, I found myself using them far less often than I had expected. They were comfortable but walking anywhere was slow and sometimes tedious. I tried walking with the new short walking sticks and immediately noticed the improvement. I could get more power behind the movement I made by twisting my pelvis and kicking my nubs in turn. The stubbies lifted a little higher and moved forward a little further. Best of all, I was able to maintain my balance better and I could easily imagine appearing in public with the short pair of sticks.

 

          – Why don’t you try your long pegs with the crutches? You still haven’t tried them.

          – OK, I will. Can you fetch them for me? I seem to be a little disabled at the moment. Bring my liner shorts too, Phil!

As facetious as it sounded, it was true. The walking sticks meant that I had lost the use of my hands for everything else except holding the walking sticks. It would be the same situation with crutches. I would be completely disabled. My erection began to return as I contemplated myself equipped with crutches and peg legs. Phil dropped a liner next to me and returned to the bedroom to find the long pegs.

 

I squirmed around on the floor squeezing my stump into the liner. Getting the pins in a practical position took some effort but I was gradually learning the best way to put my liner on. Phil stood by watching helplessly. His artificial arms hung by his side not moving. It was Phil’s unconscious gesture to indicate that he was helpless. His hooks pointed in random directions.

 

It was easier to put my peg legs on sitting on the floor and letting Phil help me up than to do it on the sofa. The pegs looked amazingly long and extremely erotic. I tried moving them but my nubs were not powerful enough to move a heavy peg leg. I ordered Phil to hand me my crutches and I adjusted their length to approximately what the pegs would need. I bumwalked backwards towards the sofa and pulled my arse onto the seat. My pegs hung off my nubs, immovable. Phil came and stood in front of me, his legs splayed over my peg legs. I reached up to fold my hands around his neck, and as he straightened himself, I rose to the rubber tips of my pegs, holding on around his waist while he hooked my crutches within reach. Their length was more or less correct. Phil stepped back and let me take my weight onto the crutches. My peg legs still pointed in nondescript directions, but I heaved myself up a little and the pegs immediately straightened, supporting my stump. I inched the crutches forward and leaned on four points, testing my weight and balance, enjoying the sensation of being so tall although I could feel my leglessness next to my erection.

 

FORTY‑ONE

I stood there for several minutes, savouring the rush of new sensations and trying to fathom what they meant. My goal on that first evening with pegs and crutches was simply to cross the room without stopping. To cut a long story short, it was still light out when I started and pitch black when I called it a night. By that time, I was not only walking across the room, I was curving about, swinging my peg legs together between my crutches, which I had also began to like the feel of, much to my surprise. I loved the way my hands gripped the crossbar at exactly the right height and how reassuring it felt to lift my weight knowing I could not topple. The peg legs would catch me and I could correct myself with the rubber crutch tips. This was the most erotic way of walking I had ever experienced and it was well worth the unusually long delay before it was even possible. If I had known how perfect pegs and crutches would be beforehand, I would have been distraught by having to wait so long.

 

FORTY‑TWO

The next day, and for many days after, I concentrated on methods of lifting myself onto my pegs without Phil’s assistance. He always stood by ready to help but I wanted to be completely independent and asked him to wait until I summoned him before he offered assistance. I changed my outfit many times, checking what the peg legs looked like with various shorts and cargo pants and cut‑off jeans. I had several coats, most of which were longer than my peg legs allowed. I was reluctant to discard them. I would simply have to get longer peg legs. The idea seemed utopian. I was not actually controlling my pegs myself with my nubs. I was at the mercy of gravity. When I came to a stop after walking, I always lifted myself slightly to make sure my pegs straightened neatly under my stump. That way, I could lean forward slightly, taking the weight onto my arm pits to use my hands for whatever I needed to.

 

Phil suggested a daring method of walking which he had wanted to see but had not dared mention until I was competent at crutch pegging.

          – You know what would look really horny? Only one peg leg, mate. One peg leg and crutches and a pair of three‑quarter cargoes with one leg tied up by your nub. That’s what I’d really like to see. And I reckon when you get your full‑length pegs, you could wear only one at a time and crutch around like that.

 

Without ever having experienced a leg injury of any kind, Phil had inadvertently come up with the combination which became my trademark after I became mobile enough to re‑enter public life after two years, almost three, of seclusion as I transformed into the stump I am today. Once again, I tested the appearance of a wide variety of my trousers with a longer short peg and a little later with a full‑length peg leg which saw me standing a hundred and ninety centimetres tall, balancing on matching glossy black axillary crutches. I found it more comfortable to wear my peg leg on the right nub, so I removed the pin from the left leg of my liners. I had a climbing frame contraption attached to the wall of our bedroom which allowed me to dress in my prostheses and pull myself up by my arms to come to rest on any of my several peg legs. I began to wear only one peg which forced me to rely on crutches. Like it or not, they were an indispensable part of my persona but fortunately, I did enjoy walking with them. I loved glancing down to see my peg leg swing forward as my crutches disappeared behind me. In all the years to come, I never compromised by using a peg leg with a knee hinge in it. All my pegs have been rigid from my stump to the floor.

 

FORTY‑THREE

Phil watched my renewed success in the public’s eye with wistfulness and a touch of regret. He was perfectly capable of managing his demanding arm prostheses but realised that his unavoidable contortions were not the stuff popular notoriety was founded on. He felt trapped at home, watching my notoriety grow as a returning hero with a single solitary peg.

Eventually the temptation grew too much for him. Peer pressure and the existence of my original wooden legs at the back of our closet nurtured the idea that all he need do to find his old popularity was emulate me.

 

          – Do you think you’ll ever use your old wooden legs, mate?

          – No. Why?

          – Could I have them?

          – I suppose so. What are you going to do with them?

          – Wear them. I want to wear your old wooden legs. I want my legs off below the knee so I can use your old legs.

          – Wow! This is a bit of a shock. Are you sure, Phil? Are you going to manage a pair of leg stumps with your hooks?

          – Well, that’s what I’ve been thinking about. I reckon that the stumps would be just as quick to take care of as our other stumps.

          – I suppose they would. And you wouldn’t mind being a quad?

          – Why should I mind? I’m already a severely disabled cripple. I don’t see what difference a pair of wooden legs would make.

          – Alright. Are you thinking of Thailand?

          – I thought so.

          – Would you like me to come with you?

          – For such a long time? It might be two months.

          – It’s alright. Let’s go during their winter. It’ll be easier on us both.

 

FORTY‑FOUR

Dr Pan had strict instructions to produce identical stumps to the ones he had amputated three years previously from my body. In reality, they were mere wishes. No‑one could control his future stumpage while under anaesthesia in the hands of Dr Pan. But Pan understood Phil’s request. The patient had a pair of wooden legs waiting for him in England which he wished to inherit from his friend and lover. As if to show his respect for two faithful frequent customers, he produced perfect below‑knee stumps, too short to generate much torque to kick a pair of leg prostheses about but ideal to insert into the gap at the tops of the wooden legs. It goes without saying that the length of the legs was completely irrelevant. Phil had been a little taller than me. He would lose a handsbreadth of height when he was not walking on his knees.

 

Phil flew out alone. I joined him shortly after receiving his text mentioning Dr Pan’s recommended departure date five weeks later. I found him recuperating in the same rented accommodation where I had myself stayed, nursed by the same three familiar faces. They were impressed, I imagined, to see me strutting in to be with my friend. The intense black crutches and the single black peg leg which had caused so much pathetic concern amongst the airline staff. I simply detached it at back of the plane, handed it and my crutches to a steward and handwalked to my seat, the most unpopular and cheapest seat on the aircraft due to its cruel lack of leg space. It did have however a generously centrally positioned window and the seat was supremely accommodating of my stump.

 

So Phil became a legless hook user with a pair of wooden legs waiting for him back home. It was almost certain that his stumps would fit into the lower legs and the thigh corsets would definitely fit around his thighs. There was only one person who could tighten the lacing—me. It would be repayment for the years that Phil had spent by my side while I learned and relearned to use my various stumps.

 

Our lack of limbs and the extent of our combined disablement became vividly apparent when it was time to leave Thailand for our return. I was incapable of pushing Phil’s wheelchair, having to manoeuvre my peg leg from a taxi (peg off) to the airport metro (peg on and balancing). Phil was next to useless with his arm prostheses, having neither the strength nor the range to propel himself. We hung around looking helpless and relied on the kindness of strangers. As we had known, the good people of Thailand helped us at every stage along the way until the responsibility for our well‑being was taken over by the airline.

 

FORTY‑FIVE

Phil was more impatient than anyone I had seen previously or after. He was trapped in a wheelchair, unable to move. His artificial arms would not bend enough to engage the push rims on his wheelchair’s wheels and even if they had bent enough, he had such useless stumps that he would have never been able to propel his weight and the chair with them. I was also useless to his needs. I was completely happy to tool around on my peg leg, leaning on crutches when I needed to free up my hands, but under no circumstances could I have ever been able to push Phil’s chair. I doubt anyone has ever been so anxious to wear a pair of wooden legs.

 

Several weeks later, we paid a new visit to Rousseau. Phil’s fresh stumps were healing well and had shrunk enough that it was time for his first fitting for artificial legs. I stuffed them into a back pack and pegged out to the trike. Phil sat in the rear and discovered how much roomier it seemed without the inconvenience of legs. I removed my peg, laid it on the floor with my crutches and we set off along the B-roads and byways to Rousseau’s clinic.

Rousseau welcomed us in his usual fashion, waiting patiently as I assembled myself, using the trike’s frame to haul myself onto my peg leg. Phil pushed my crutches out to me using his hooks and stepped out carefully on his knees, using his artificial arms as crutches to keep his balance.

          – It’s good to see you again. Let me take that rucksack. I assume the legs are in it.

          – Yes, they are. I hope you can adapt the shape of the knee opening for Phil.

          – I’m sure it will be possible. Philip, would you be more comfortable in a wheelchair?

Phil shook his head with a smile, hardly visible these days behind his magnificent black beard. Rousseau led us inside and the familiar process of casting stumps began anew.

 

It was clear that the upper edge of the wooden legs needed remodelling to suit Phil’s stumps. Fortunately, Rousseau assured us that he would simply remove material in order to accommodate Phil’s stumps which were slightly broader than mine. He was sure the wooden legs would be a comfortable fit. There was enough girth in the thigh corsets to cover Phil’s legs. All that remained was the problem of how he would handle the essential task of lacing his corsets as tightly as possible. And we had already decided that it was my job. We left soon after the new moulds were drying on Rousseau’s workbench and wished him good luck with his task.

 

FORTY‑SIX

A week later, Phil was summoned back for his first official fitting. We went together again, partly because I did not want such a severely disabled man in sole control of an electric vehicle. If anything went wrong, he would be in quite a pickle. Rousseau welcomed us with the warning that it was going to be a long day. He wanted to ensure that Phil’s wooden legs were optimised for him and he intended to take his time.

 

Phil assured us that his stumps fit perfectly into the tops of the legs. Rousseau was relieved to hear it but reminded Phil that this was all new to him and what seemed adequate now might become uncomfortable after a few hours, especially as Phil had already stated his intention of wearing the legs from morning until night every day. Rousseau recommended against it but saw Phil’s point when he lifted his hooks and said he was unable to hold walking sticks any longer, sad to say. He had to learn to tolerate minor aches and pains caused by the wooden legs. He sounded very stoical, said Rousseau.

          – You have a good attitude, Philip. It will serve you well as you learn to control your new legs but please remember that this is not a competition. You will not win a prize if you suffer for hours every day because something is not fitting properly. Your stumps will continue to change shape for many months and I have to remind you that you should contact me at any time of you think your legs need some adjustment.

Phil waggled his short leg stumps and rested his hooks on his naked thighs.

 

For the first time in his life, Phil had the wooden legs fitted to his stumps and the thigh corset cinched tight. He lifted his thighs and tried kicking his lower leg stumps enough to move the wooden feet in the direction he wanted. He looked intensely disabled. Armless, with artificial legs he could not control. That was about to change. Following Rousseau’s instructions, I moved away from my lover to give him room as Rousseau guided him, half carrying him, to the onset of the parallel bars which I remembered having used years previously when I tested the very same pair of wooden legs.

 

Now, as then, Rousseau was a demanding tutor. The first hour was occupied by his fastidious attention to strike angles and reach of gait or whatever they need to measure to get a pair of wooden legs honed well enough to actually walk on. The legs were wearing the old pair of Oxford brogues which showed nary a sign of wear, since I had rarely worn such classically elegant footwear before my amputations. I was not going to start now. During the time I wore the legs, the feet bore classic red Converse sneakers and attracted the attention of aficionados who recognised them.

 

It was time for Phil to get serious and show what he was made of. The only sound in the room was the continual clatter of Phil’s hooks against the steel bars and the odd creak now and then from either the wooden legs themselves or his leather corsets. It was fascinating to see the legs, so familiar to me, being worn by someone else. It gave me greater insight into how disabled I had appeared to outsiders. It was a pleasure to know that my wooden legs, which I had loved more than my flesh and blood versions., would serve my friend and that I would be seeing them in use every day for the foreseeable future.

 

Under Rousseau’s strict but empathetic directions, Phil altered his posture, attempted to hold back on moving his knees and put more power into swinging his hips, all while keeping his head up and looking ahead while his every instinct screamed at him to look down to check what his unfeeling artificial feet and legs were doing. In doing so, his balance changed and he often stubbed his toe. He fell to the floor only twice but tripped several times, catching himself with his arm prostheses.

 

By the end of the day, six hours later, Rousseau declared that Phil seemed to understand in principle everything he needed to remember to be a proficient user of wooden legs. We were free to go. Phil was insanely grateful at not only being allowed to leave but for the beautifully refurbished pair of wooden legs which had now passed to their third owner. At least the third. It was possible that the man who walked on them before me was not the original owner. Phil lifted a hook onto my shoulder for a little support as I pegged my way out to the trike. This time, I removed my peg with relief and allowed Phil to drive. It took several minutes for him to settle himself and his legs into the driver’s seat but the familiar controls were all well within reach of his hooks and we were soon tooling back home through the darkness of an autumn evening.

 

FORTY‑SEVEN

Phil practised religiously. I insisted that he wore the legs for a maximum of six hours at a time in order to prevent chafing and a slew of other threats. I thought his gait was pretty good but I was prejudiced, preferring to see a pair of prosthetic legs in use rather than miss noticing a pair simply because the user was too adept to allow it to be obvious. I rather thought that Phil was not going to master his wooden limbs so well that people would not notice at least something strange was going on with the man’s legs.

 

We were quite a well‑matched pair. As Phil gained confidence on his wooden legs, we resumed our old habits. There were several venues we had favoured, some of which were still open and functioning well. Others were shadows of their former selves, rather like us in a way. Having some kind of fame or notoriety, we were often recognised but seldom approached. I assume we were quite simply too shocking in appearance, especially when compared with our former selves six or seven years ago when we never seemed to be rid of interviewers and photographers. I occasionally appeared from time to time on page ninety‑something of a glossy magazine crutching along, thrusting my peg leg ahead. Phil was relegated to the shadows. Perhaps his steel hooks were too disturbing for the kind of clientele the paparazzi served. Few people suspected that he was on artificial legs.

 

We were fêted on special days, frequently commemorating military achievements. Our greatest achievement so far has been to host the award presentation ceremony where I announced the recipients and their histories, leaning precariously on my crutches and my single shocking peg leg while Phil, wearing smart black shorts to match his tuxedo, displayed his wooden legs which came as some surprise to a large number of fans, and manipulated his awkward artificial arms and hooks to present the nominees with their medals. This time we really basked in the publicity and for several weeks, we had the opportunity to flaunt our artificial limbs for our fan base and the general public.

 

FORTY‑EIGHT

But all good things come to an end. Our fifteen minutes of fame had come and gone five years ago and the novelty of seeing us transformed was at the most of minor interest for the majority. But for a select minority, the elite, the devotees and wannabes whose lives revolve around fantasies of amputation, Phil and I represent the pinnacle of limb loss. I shall probably never experience using a hook to replace one of my hands after all. It was my first great desire. I am too reliant on my crutches for mobility and a hook is simply inadequate for the purpose.

 

Phil has progressed well beyond the basics. He is now wearing his third set of artificial arms. They are equipped with rotational devices and articulating wrist joints. He is still slowed by the unavoidable need to switch from operating his elbows to operating his hooks with the same shoulder gestures but he has become ‘fluent’. His movements are assured and accomplished. There is a slow but flowing rhythm to Phil’s artificial arms. He has mastered them beyond my expectations. He has also become quite the expert on the wooden legs which have served him well. He has enough power in his below‑knee stumps to operate the legs better than I could with my ruined stumps and has developed a regular gait which seems to emphasise his rigid feet and ankles, advertising the fact that here is a skillful amputee with primitive wooden legs.

 

For my part, I have a variety of peg legs, most of them finished in black enamel but I have two with a natural wood finish, elegant pegs which I wear to official functions. But at home, when Phil and I are alone together, I slide my legless torso into my coque to enjoy the psychological comfort of artificial leg stumps.

A BOY AND HIS STUBBIES