Never a Hero

What did I do?”
    Jesus, I was crying! I turned away, trying desperately to wipe my eyes. “It’s n-n-n—” And now I was stuttering, too. As if I needed a reason to be more embarrassed. “It’s nothing.”
    “It’s not nothing. Tell me what I did.”
    “I’m fine. I’m s-sorry. Must be s-something in my eye.” God, was that really the best I could do?
    “Owen?”
    I felt his hand on my arm again, sliding downward toward the hideous joint of my elbow, and I pulled away, suddenly horrified. “Please,” I said, holding up my arms to ward him off, but that only served to draw attention to the fact that one was longer than the other. I looked at the stump of my left arm, pointed obscenely in his direction, and hurried to tuck it back down out of sight at my side. I tried to turn away, but I’d gone as far as I could. I was against the wall, and there he was, staring at me, his eyes wide—not with horror, but with compassion and confusion. I wiped furiously at my eyes. I forced my tongue to move without betraying me. “I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be sorry. Just tell me what I did.”
    How could I explain it? Talk of soccer and superheroes had left me raw, and something as simple as his hand on my arm had apparently done me in. “It’s n-not your fault.”
    “But—”
    “Give me a m-minute, okay?”
    “Sure.”
    And he did. He took a step back to give me space. I didn’t have to look at him to know he was still watching me, patiently waiting for me to get my shit together and stop acting like a freak. Waiting for me to get my traitorous tongue under control. I took a couple of deep breaths. I dried my cheeks. My heart had at least stopped racing. I wasn’t as flustered, which meant I could speak clearly. “I’m being stupid. It’s really no big deal—”
    He reached out again and put his hand on my left shoulder, cutting my words short. For half a second I found myself wondering why he kept touching the left side of my body, but then I realized it was obvious—he was right-handed. And unlike most people, his discomfort at my disability didn’t overcome his natural inclination to use his dominant hand.
    “Owen?” he asked again.
    He was so earnest and reassuring, and I blurted out the answer without realizing I was going to do it. “Nobody touches me.”
    He pulled his hand away, looking stricken. “You’re saying you don’t like to be touched?”
    “No.” And suddenly, the absurdity of the situation hit me. I laughed. It felt good, such a normal, healthy release of tension, but it made Nick look even more confused than before. “My arm,” I said, gesturing with my right hand toward it. “People don’t touch it.”
    He blinked at me, processing that, and I saw comprehension dawn.
    Now that the moment had passed, I was left with nothing but embarrassment that I’d overreacted, and in such a dramatic fashion. “I’m being stupid.”
    “It’s not stupid,” he said. He put his hand up again, slower this time, and brushed his fingertips over my upper arm. “Our skin is our largest sensory organ. Humans don’t just want to be touched. We need it. Babies who aren’t touched enough don’t thrive. And neither do adults. Wanting to be touched isn’t stupid. It’s normal.” He stroked my arm again. Not a mere touch this time. It was a caress. “What is our flesh for if not to feel?”
    Suddenly, embarrassment was the last thing on my mind. There wasn’t much space left between us, but he managed to move closer. My mouth went dry. I wondered if he could hear my heart pounding.
    He stroked both of my arms. His smile turned from gentle and soothing to something that made the blood in my veins rush quickly toward my groin. He leaned forward and kissed my jaw, causing my breath to catch in my throat. His lips teased toward my ear. “The question is,” he said, his voice low and husky, “where else haven’t you been touched lately?”
    I whimpered, because it was all I could do. The implication of his words made me dizzy. My cock tried to burst from my jeans. He let go of my arms. His left arm snuck behind me, around my waist. He ran the fingers of his right hand down my stomach. I put my good arm around his neck, moaning as his fingers reached the buttons on my jeans, anticipating where he’d touch me next, aching desperately for it, wondering without alarm if I’d come in my jeans before he got them undone. I didn’t care if I did. All those years of telling myself I could