Read Traffick for Free Online

lying here with
    a tube hanging out of my dick, leaking
    piss into a plastic bag. That dick,
    by the way, is totally useless for
    anything worth getting excited about.
    Yeah, yeah, Dr. Harrison told me
    ninety percent of men with incomplete
    injuries, T12 and lower, get it up, and some
    higher than that, too. But that’s not the real
    problem, is it? Not like I want to go
    above and beyond, just to whack off.
    How many girls go looking for cripples?”

Half-Sad
    Half-annoyed, that’s how
    he looks now, like he needs
    to dig for words of wisdom
    but the shovel needs sharpening.
    It’s “disabled,” not “crippled,” and
    so you know, there are millions
    of couples living with disability.
    Not only that, but there are plenty
    of perfectly healthy partners who
    don’t have sex regularly. He winks
    conspiratorially. You could ask
    my wife, but she’d probably lie.
    That actually makes me smile,
    and I almost consider rewarding
    him with the behavior he’s seeking.
    But then he has to go and ruin
    the moment. So, do you have
    a girlfriend? Someone special?
    With a stunning burst of memory,
    the face of an angel materializes
    from the ether. “Not anymore.”
    He’s gone too far, and backpedals
    quickly. You don’t know that, do
    you? Have you talked to her?

Are You Out of Your Mind?
    That’s what I want to ask him,
    quite loudly, but yelling is too
    much effort. “Not since before . . .”
    Look, at the very least, let’s work
    on mobility. You don’t have to do
    anything but roll onto your side.
    I’ll handle the heavy lifting, and
    while I do, why don’t you tell me
    about your girl? What’s her name?
    â€œRonnie,” I answer without
    even thinking. “Well, Veronica,
    but everyone calls her Ronnie.”
    Federico rolls me onto my left
    side, begins manipulating my right
    leg. This isn’t new, but I sense more
    movement than before. Ronnie.
    Is she pretty? Bet she is. Bend.
    Lift. Backward. Forward. As
    he continues the routine, I find
    myself describing the girl who
    still possesses my heart. “She’s not
    pretty. She’s beautiful. Her hair
    is the color of obsidian, and shiny
    like it, too. And her body. Man,
    it’s amazing. You’ve never seen . . .”
    I skid to a halt before I mention
    her glorious tits. “But there’s so
    much more to her than that.
    She’s—was—my rock.” My rock,
    when my stepfather, Jack, got sick
    and died. My rock when Cory melted
    all the way down into a puddle
    of booze-inspired anger. My rock.
    And then I went and fucked it all
    up with drugs and gambling and
    financing those by offering myself
    up for sale. Invincible, that’s what
    I believed I was. Untouchable.
    Such conceit! And now, look at me.
    Hard to maintain an air of vanity
    while being posed like a nude mannequin—
    bend, lift, backward, forward, flip,
    and repeat. Federico finishes each
    side by massaging my legs and feet,
    all for the sake of circulation. Too bad
    I can’t feel it. Ronnie used to do that
    for me, and boy, did I love . . .
    Next thing I know, I’m sobbing.

Even Better
    Suddenly, my right foot jerks. Ouch!
    But, wait. Movement? “Hey, what
    was that?” Does that mean more
    brain connection than we supposed?
    The action was involuntary. Federico,
    it seems, missed it. What was what?
    â€œMy foot just twitched. Hurt like
    hell, too. That’s a good sign, right?
    Like, maybe you’re all totally wrong
    and my spine just had to heal more?”
    But Federico shakes his head.
    That’s called spasticity. We’ve been
    wondering if it would affect you.
    It usually doesn’t first occur until
    several weeks post-injury. See,
    your muscles have memories, and
    even without an intact circuit board,
    they try to repeat learned behaviors.
    The bad news is, it can be painful,
    or at the very least, annoying.
    The good