I met John at a party. I was sitting down because I’d pulled my Achilles tendon in a skiing accident, so while everyone else was standing around, drinking, dancing and socialising, I was lonely. John came right over and started chatting. He was lovely. He told me that he worked as an occupational therapist, helping those with physical disabilities readjust.
I was instantly smitten with this kind and caring, handsome brown eyed man.
Although he must have assumed that I just had a broken leg or something, I couldn’t help myself — I told John that I had been paralysed in a car accident three months ago. John marvelled that I was already up and about at parties, but otherwise didn’t question my story.
We spent the whole party talking about what I could do to make my home an easier environment. He gave me his phone number and left, telling me to call him so he could come around and do an evaluation. I didn’t want to keep it up, but I didn’t think he was interested in me otherwise, and I was totally love-struck. I was going to have to keep pretending I was a paraplegic.
The next day, the first thing I did was to borrow a wheelchair. It wasn’t one of the new motorised ones, so I didn’t know how convincing it would be for someone who supposedly had a permanent disability. In the back of my mind, I knew that eventually John would probably mention my situation to one of our mutual friends, I just had to hope that I could bring him around — and have a miracle recovery — before that happened.
The first time he came around, I asked him not to mention that he was helping me. I told him that I’d been so devastated after the accident, I’d refused all help from my friends and family, and I didn’t want them to feel I was accepting help from an almost total stranger. John understood, and said that happened a lot. He gave me the numbers of some counsellors, and I promised to call.
The next few weeks followed a similar pattern. Always professional, John would come around and we would discuss how I was coping. He installed special ramps, seats and railings around the house. I was obsessed with getting close to him by then, because I didn’t even care that he was probably destroying my rental property. When he wasn’t there, I cursed the massive special seat that now took up half the shower!
But as time passed, John didn’t seem to want more — not even friendship. Whenever I tried to redirect the conversation away from my despicable lie to talk about him, he would only indulge me briefly, and then we had to talk about my illness again. I began to get desperate and realised I was going to have to up the ante.
One day, when John came around, he found me sprawled on the carpet, in a flood of made up tears. I told him I’d tried to reach for something, and had fallen out of my chair. I cried bitterly about how sick I was of being in a wheelchair. John picked me up and carried me to my bedroom. I doubt very much that he would have done anything — he was far too professional — but obviously I wasn’t half as honourable.
As John placed me on the bed, I reached up and kissed him. No further encouragement was needed. We spent the next two hours fused in passion. I finally got what I wanted.
As I lay awake later, I tried to figure out my next move. Obviously, I couldn’t pretend to be in a wheelchair for the rest of my life. But as it turned out, it didn’t even matter. When John rose to get dressed he seemed flustered and embarrassed. He told me he shouldn’t have slept with a client, and that he wouldn’t be able to see me anymore. I begged him to reconsider, but it was no use. John gave me the numbers for a few other occupational therapists and left.
I tried calling him over the next few days — I even considered telling him the truth — but it was all to no avail. I never heard from John again. I gave back the wheelchair and pulled out all the home “improvements”.
A few months later, I almost ran into John down the street. Panicked, I ducked behind a post box and considered, for the first time, how stupid my actions had been. From the word go, I’d completely blown my chances with John. Now all I could do was hold on to my dignity, and hope he never found out I’d faked a disability to be with him.
Picture: Getty Images. Posed by models.
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