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Don Juan in a wheelchair

We were on our way from Albuquerque to Santa Fe when we saw the sign: “Las Vegas 100 miles.” Sex wasn’t what we came for, but attractive strippers and legalized prostitution wouldn’t be a bad way to top off a vacation for an average 22-year-old American male who just happens to be disabled. My friend and I were in New Mexico for the Opera Festival (the equivalent of Woodstock for an opera fan like me). But with my parents thousands of miles away for the first time in my life, who’s to say I couldn’t add a little carnal fun to the mounds of spiritual bliss I was about to experience?

“Shall we go?” I asked Greg. I’d known him since he became my aide during my sophomore year of high school. Being wheelchair-bound due to cerebral palsy, I needed someone to take notes for me, feed me and, yes, even take me to the bathroom. Seven years later, he was the ideal traveling companion.

“Yes, we definitely should,” he said. Years of practice had accustomed him to my barely understandable speech, as well as the perversity of my thoughts.

Alas, it was not to be. Just when it seemed that my endeavors to have sex this one time would finally pay off, God delivered a crushing blow.

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