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| Part 1 by Castgimp |
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| Working at a ski resort, you see a fair number of broken ankles and brokenlegs. It goes with the territory. People come to Colorado to go skiing.Inevitably, some of them fall down the mountain and go home with their legsin casts. It would be overstating the case to say that I took the job working at theSwiss Chalet in Beaver Creek just to keep tabs on the broken ankles and legsthat the ski mountains produced. I am a ski bum at heart. At the simplestlevel, working at the Swiss Chalet afforded me an opportunity to ski everyday of the week. Ever since my first time down a slope on a pair of skiswhen I was six I'd been hooked. Growing up, I went skiing every opportunityI had. I even picked my college based on its proximity to skiing. As auniversity student I used to ski almost every weekend during most of theschool year, and I spent most of my school vacations skiing. Still, I'dnever had a chance to ski every day for an entire season. That was a goal Ihad set for myself. It was my quest. There wasn't any higher purpose toit. It was just something I wanted to do. Truth be told, it wasn'tsomething I ever thought I would have a chance to do, so I suppose it wasmore like a dream than a goal. Then, just as I was about to graduate fromcollege, two unexpected things happened. The first was that the one and only veterinarian school that I had beenadmitted to wrote to me to say that too many students had accepted theiroffer of admission for the fall, and they wondered if I would be interestedin deferring my admission for another year. As an incentive, they offeredme a scholarship if I would agree to delay my studies until the next fall.The second thing that happened was that my parents decided to put their skicondo on the market. When I was first admitted to the University of Colorado as a freshman, myparents decided to buy a ski condo so that they would have somewhere to staywhen they came out to see me, and so that we could take family ski vacationstogether over the holidays. Now, with my graduation, and my Dad's pendingretirement, they had decided to sell the Colorado condo and buy something inFlorida. The problem was that the economy was in a tailspin and ski condoswere hard to move. Normally, we rented the condo out for most of theseason, reserving the holiday weeks for our family. The realtor convincedmy parents that with interest rates as high as they were and with so manycondos on the market, it would be more difficult to try to show it and sellit with weekly renters in it all winter. They also didn't want to leave itsitting empty until it sold. So when I got my offer to defer my admissionto veterinary school, they asked me if I would be willing to stay inColorado after graduation and live in the condo. All I had to do was keepit clean and be there when the realtor called to say she was bringingsomeone over to look at it. I had a free ski condo at least until it sold,and a scholarship waiting for me if I agreed to defer my admission for ayear. It didn't take a rocket scientist to make that call. All I had to dowas figure out a way to earn enough money to eat and buy my season pass atBeaver Creek. Which is how I ended up working at the Swiss Chalet for the winter. TheChalet was a medium sized hotel and restaurant that catered to thebudget-conscious ski crowd. We had lots of families, and lots of youngpeople without the money to stay in the bigger resorts. It was set up likea European pension. All of your meals were included in one price along withthe room. I worked waiting tables in the dining room. We served familystyle meals three times a day. I worked five days a week, sometimesbreakfast and lunch, and sometimes dinner, but I made sure I had time in myschedule every day for at least a couple hours of skiing. Even when Iworked breakfast and lunch back to back, I could usually be on the slopes by2:30 and ski until 5:00 or 5:30. On the days I worked the dinner shift Iwas up on the first lift in the morning and skied down the mountain for thelast time at 4:00, leaving myself just enough time to shower and get towork. Most nights during the winter the lower slopes were lit for nightskiing, so I could always squeeze another couple of runs in before bed if Iwas desperate. All of which is a long-winded way of explaining of how I came to be spendingthe winter of 1984 skiing and waiting tables in Colorado, and to make mycase that it was the opportunity to ski every day for an entire season, andnot the allure of spending time around guys with brand new casts on theirlegs, that was my primary motivation. Which is not to say that thelikelihood of frequent cast sightings was not appealing. It certainly was.I'd had a thing for guys in leg casts since I was old enough to have anerection-longer probably. I never could figure that out. I just acceptedthe fact that my wiring wasn't quite right, and didn't worry too much aboutit. I knew what I liked, even if no one else would ever understand. Iliked men and not women. I liked a man's ass and his back. And I generallylike a man's feet and ankles. And I almost always liked a man pullinghimself along on crutches with his ankle or leg in a cast. Go figure, huh?I had never had a broken bone myself, nor had I had to wear a cast of anysort, but I had certainly thought about it a lot, and I knew I was willingshould the opportunity present itself. I wasn't going to set out to break myleg, but if it happened, I was pretty sure I would enjoy it-at least thecast part. I wasn't too clear in my head about the pain part. I thoughtthat maybe I could live without the pain. So like I said, and you know this is true if you've ever been to oneyourself, ski resorts tend to have more than their fare share of people withcasts and crutches. Sometimes it is inexperienced skiers who break theirleg the first time down the mountain. Other times it's the hotshotexperienced skier pushing himself too fast and too far at the end of a longday of hard skiing. Sometimes it's just a matter of getting your ski caughton a ridge of ice that you never saw coming. God knows I'd come closeenough myself. I'd taken some choice wipeouts in my life, spinning androlling and crashing and flying down the mountain on my back, leaving myskis at the top of the hill. But somehow I'd always managed to come out ofthose spills with my bones intact. Truth was I'd been a little disappointedin the cast-sighting department so far. When I took the job at the Chalet Iremember thinking to myself how cool it was going to be to be around allthese once-a-year skiers as they rolled back into the hotel with new castson their legs. But come the first week of March, by my count, the SwissChalet had only seen two broken wrists, a broken arm, a blown out knee, anda fifteen year old girl with a broken ankle. I'd seen some guys around townwith casts on their legs, but nobody that was staying at the Chalet. Butthat was about to change. It was getting to be spring break time for colleges and the Chalet was fullup with skiers mostly from undergraduate campuses around the country. Mostof our rentals ran from Saturday to Saturday. It was a Monday. I'd beenoff on Sunday, and had spent the whole day skiing. I was scheduled to workbreakfast and lunch Monday and Tuesday, and dinner Wednesday and Thursday.Friday would be my day off, and I was to work breakfast and lunch again forboth days of the weekend. It was a glorious week weather-wise, with greatdeep snow-pack, bright sunshine, and warm temperatures-spring skiing at itsbest. I was dying to get out on the slopes. As I said, we were full-up, andbreakfast had been a busy shift. Everyone wanted to eat early so they couldhead for the lifts. On great weather days like this, lunch was usually veryslow. Guests had the option of ordering a brown bag sacked lunch the nightbefore that they could pick up after breakfast and take skiing with them.Most folks took advantage of that. Some days, we had no one come back tothe Chalet for lunch. On those days, when you worked the breakfast/lunchshift, the manager usually let you go early, sometimes as soon as thebreakfast shift was done. I loved those days, because it meant I could workin an extra couple of hours of skiing. Some days, when there were just afew diners expected for lunch, the manager would let all but one of the waitstaff go early. So, wouldn't you know it, on this particular Mondayeveryone got to leave early except for me. There were only three guests who had not ordered a bagged lunch to take withthem. They might or might not show up for lunch at the Chalet, but I had tohang around until they did, or until 2:00, whichever came first. So it was1:00 and this one old couple who were up enjoying the mountains but had nointention of skiing had already eaten. They were in right at noon. I wasdying to go. I was literally itching to be out on my skis. I could see thesun streaming in through the windows and I could feel the snow running hardand fast under my skis, but I was stuck in the dining room waiting for onelone diner who likely would never show. It seemed like a terribleinjustice. And then he appeared. This great handsome lanky blond boy, clearly acollege student, pulled himself awkwardly into the room on a pair ofcrutches. The entire length of his left leg was encased in what wasobviously a brand new white cast. It ran from his hip, all the way down andover his foot, so that only his long toes were exposed at the end of thecast. He had kind of long, unbrushed, straw-colored hair that hung downunevenly around his face and over the back of his head and neck. He waswearing a big grey sweatshirt that said "Santa Cruz" on the front of it. Hewas wearing red nylon athletic shorts with a "UCSC" logo on the leg. Thebare expanse of skin between the end of his shorts and his shoe revealed amuscled right leg that was covered with fine wiry blond hairs. He stood injust inside the dining room, looking slightly bewildered, as he took in theexpanse of empty tables. His shoulders were broad, and his upper arms seemedto be nearly as thick and as muscled as his bare leg, as he teetered on hiscrutches, leaning heavily on the wooden supports under his arms. I wasstanding at the side of the room, near the bar, and was out of his directline of vision. His eyes scanned the empty room and finally lit on me. Heseemed startled to see me, as if he had concluded that the room was actuallycompletely empty. "Hey," he said, somewhat timidly. "I don't...I don't suppose I could stillget some lunch?" I had to find my voice. "Sure," I spit out. "Of course you can. Youcan...you can sit wherever you'd like." I was walking toward him. "Letme...let me give you a hand." I was pulling out a chair for him. "Thanks," he said, easing himself gingerly down into the dining room chair.His long casted leg stuck out from the table awkwardly. If the dining roomwere full he would have been in the way. "Do you need to put that up?" I inquired. I was pulling out the chairacross from him. "Actually, that would be great. Thanks." He reached down an actuallylifted his cast up with both hands as I slid the chair underneath it."Thanks a lot." He hadn't shaved. He looked like he hadn't showered. He looked like he hadjust gotten out of bed, actually. The back of his hair was matted flatagainst his skull. I was in love. Or at least in lust. I was afraid ofsaying something stupid. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. "There's pasta for lunch. With a cheese sauce. It's pretty good. I couldalso get you a hamburger of you would prefer. We also have a vegetablesoup." "The burger would be fine. And the soup." I was trying not to stare at thecast. I could see him flex his toes. "Sure. Anything to drink?" "Just water." And I disappeared into the safety of the kitchen. So here hewas. The man and the cast I had been waiting for all season. Right here inthe dining room. With me. Alone. I was sure I was going to fuck it up.God I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. A man with a cast onhis leg in a ski resort is fair game, I thought. There's nothing wrong withasking him what happened. He was probably sick of people asking him whathappened. But I knew I had to ask him. I couldn't help myself. I stood inthe kitchen doorway staring at the back of his head, at his rumpleddirty-blond hair, and at his broad shoulders. I could see the cast, longand hard and spread out in front of him on the chair. I could even make outhis toes, even from across the room. I brought him his water and his soup. "Am I the only one eating lunch?" heasked, almost sheepishly. He seemed uncomfortable in the big empty diningroom. "Sort of," I replied. "Most people take the sack-lunch with them in themorning. There were two people here who just finished lunch. We werewaiting for you." I smiled, and then immediately regretted it. "You were?" His face reddened noticeably. "Am I late?" "No," I said hastily. "Not at all. We serve lunch until two." "I missed breakfast." "You must be hungry." Again I hated myself for saying something so stupid.He must think I'm a moron, I thought. "Yeah. I am." I took a deep breath. "That cast looks brand new." "Yeah. Yesterday. Last night actually." Four, three, two, one, I counted backwards to myself, then I asked the "big"question. "What happened?" "I fucked up." That was it. He didn't offer any more. I hated myself. What a stupidquestion to ask, I thought. Why hadn't I asked him something more direct?I couldn't think of another question. I wanted to know more. I needed toknow more. "Skiing?" Oh so lame! Duh! Of course skiing. What does it look like?Swimming? How stupid could I get? Now I felt my face getting red. "Yep." It was more of an answer than I deserved. And then I had toretreat. I walked away, leaving him to eat his soup. I was humiliated. Ispent every working day striking up pleasant conversations with strangers,and here was this hunk with a cast on his leg and suddenly I wastongue-tied. What an ass-hole you are, I thought to myself. I returned to the table to clear his soup and bring him his burger. Ididn't ask him any more questions, and he didn't volunteer any moreinformation. It wasn't any of my business. I did see his room key lying onthe table. Room 402. Well at least that was something. I could maybe talkthe front desk clerk into telling me who had rented that room. I hungaround, moping, lurking by the bar, until he was done eating, and watchedfrom across the room as he pulled himself out of the dining room on hiscrutches. With his lunch finished, I was technically free to go skiing.Forty minutes earlier, that had been the only thing on my mind. Now, skiingseemed like the last thing I wanted to do. What I really wanted to do washang around the Chalet to catch another glimpse of this guy and his cast.And how sick is that? You are pretty fucked up, I told myself. Theafternoon was perfect for skiing. And I hadn't missed a day yet. There wasno rational reason to stay. I forced myself out of the building. I wentskiing. But I didn't enjoy it. My heart wasn't in it. I was distracted.My mind, and let's face it, my heart too-they were back at the Chalet,lurking in the dim hallways, waiting for this guy to emerge from his room onhis crutches. The next morning, Tuesday, I was up early, before my alarm went off. Iusually wake up with a hard-on, but that morning, I had one that justwouldn't stop. I couldn't stop thinking about this guy and his cast. Allnight he was in my head, and when I woke up, he was right there, haunting mywaking as he had haunted my sleep. I didn't even know his name. I was in abad way. This guy and his cast were obsessing me. He was all I could thinkof. Standing in the shower I lathered up my hard aching cock and slowlystroked while I pictured his shoulders and arms working his crutches as hewalked out of the dining room, his muscled back and butt-I tried to imaginewhat he'd look like without his clothes on-his thick long hair hanging downover his neck, and then, after I'd reviewed his whole body, I let myselfpicture that cast. I pictured his long leg, bent at slightly at the knee,encased in a long hard cast. I pictured his long toes sticking out of theend of the cast. I tried to picture the top edge of the cast where it endedhigh on his thigh, near his crotch. I tried to imagine what it would feellike to be in bed next to him, and to feel that expanse of hard cast alongmy naked leg. I tried to imagine him naked, from behind, supporting himselfwith his crutches, his white cast the only thing covering any part of hisbody. Then I tried to imagine him crutching toward me, still naked, histoes barely clearing the floor as he swung his casted leg forward, his hardcock bobbing against his flat abdomen. That was the image that pushed meover the edge. Twisting my balls with my left hand and pulling my soapycock with my right hand I shot a huge morning wad all over myself, my watersplattered cum matting itself to the hair on my stomach and legs, and myknees nearly buckling underneath me with the force of the orgasm thatwracked my body. Like any decent American, I cleaned myself up and went to work. Thebreakfast shift was fast and furious, especially during peak weeks like thisone. Almost everyone in the Chalet wanted breakfast, and they wanted itfast. They wanted to hit the slopes as soon as the lifts were open. Theywanted coffee and they wanted tea and they wanted orange juice and theywanted toast and they wanted oatmeal. And they wanted their brown-baggedlunches to take with them on the way out the door. I was busy enough thatmy work almost took my mind off of my young god and his injured leg.Almost. And then, there he was. Somehow is the crush of the crowdedmorning dining room I had failed to see him come in, but come in he had. Heand his three friends were sitting at table four. His buds were dressed forskiing, thermal undershirts on their broad athletic backs and red bandanasaround their necks. And there was that great long cast. He was wearing thesame Santa Cruz sweatshirt and shorts he'd been wearing at lunch the daybefore. His crutches leaned against the wall next to them, and his cast waspropped up on an extra chair they'd pull over from the table next to them.Despite my early morning ejaculation, I found myself getting hard again. Iremember being glad that I was wearing an apron. The bad news was that theyweren't sitting at one of my tables, and there was no way on a crowdedmorning like this that I could interrupt the assignment of tables. So closeand yet so far-there was nothing could do. I whipped around the dining roomfilling coffee cups and bringing baskets of toast, all the while keeping aneye on the boys and their injured handsome comrade. I wanted to find anexcuse to go up to the table, but after my fumbling fawning over him atlunch the day before, I was reluctant to make a fool of myself again. Itried to formulate some helpful sentence in my mind, something I could sayto this man, like, "if there's anything I can do for you today, don'thesitate to let me know," but anything that I could think of sounded evenmore stupid to me than the silly questions I had managed to eke out the daybefore. Suddenly his buds were gone, and he was sitting alone at his table nursinghis coffee. "Now is your chance, ass-hole," I said to myself. I set mycourse across the dining room, fixing my eyes on him, and steeled myself forcontact with him. I strode purposefully. Or at least I tried to. I had noidea what I would say when I got there. Then he looked up. Our eyes met.It was like a scene from a bad movie. My heart stopped, or seemed to, butmy body kept moving toward him. And then, unexpectedly, a wide smile spreadacross his face, a smile of recognition, and, I thought, quite possiblymutual infatuation. "He likes me!" I felt like young Rudolph in thatanimated Christmas show. Or Sally Field at the academy awards. Held mygaze, and his broad smile drew me forward, toward him. I will marry thisman, I thought. And then, as if up from the bowels of hell, a hand reachedout and stopped me. It was a fat middle-aged guy with a gut, sitting at atable with five or six kids, and a heavy-set woman who was apparently hiswife. "Waiter." I hate when people call me waiter. "We need hotchocolate. And coffee. We've been sitting here for ten minutes already.And we need more butter." My first impulse was to strike him, hard, acrossthe face, and spit back a heartfelt "fuck you!" But I didn't. I couldn't.I wasn't really an ass-hole. I just wanted to be. So I said "yes sir-rightaway sir," reflexively-unable to respond in any other way. I looked backacross the dining room at my injured god, and his smile had turned to asmirk-at me, or my situation? I shrugged my shoulders at him, trying toconvey some vague sense that my destiny was not my own at the moment. Heresponded with a waive of his broad hand, as if to say, I hoped, "don'tworry about it-we'll catch up next time." Next time. Yeah right. We weresupposed to get married. By the time I got back to the fat peoples' tablewith their butter and coffee and chocolate, he was gone. And then I moped. I felt sorry for myself. I slammed dishes. I hurledcrumbs off dirty tables onto the floor. I knew I would never marry this guynow, and it was all the fat man's fault. I hated fat people. I hated kids.I hated my job. I hated my life. I tried to reconcile myself to my fate.My destiny was to always stand in the shower alone jerking off thinkingabout the guy in the cast, rather than waking up in the morning in bed nextto the guy with the cast. Life was cruel. Fat people sucked. The morningpassed slowly, and my foul mood simmered and bubbled and festered. Andanother slow lunch shift loomed, standing between me and the slopes-standingbetween me and a long happy life with the man of my dreams. The weather was almost perfect, again, and virtually everybody at the hotelhad gone skiing. The old couple that had come for lunch the day before hadalready checked out of the hotel, so there was a distinct possibility thatno one would come to lunch. Still-we had to wait, just in case. There werea number of guests who had not signed up for sac lunches, and sotheoretically they could show up. And then there was my gimpy Adonis.Surely he would have to eat. Surely he would return to the dining room.And that's when I had my brainstorm. I would bring him lunch in his room. Technically, we did not offer room service. But there were circumstancesunder which we would bring a meal to a guestroom. It was easy to pitch inthe kitchen. I simply lied. I said that the guy in 402 with the broken leghad asked if lunch could be brought up to him. I said he'd come down tobreakfast, complaining about how painful it was to be up and out of bed.He'd asked if I could bring him lunch upstairs, to save him from having tocome all the way down on his crutches, swinging that heavy cast. Nobodyquestioned the validity of my story. I loaded a bowl of soup and a burgeronto a tray, covering the dishes with their metal caps. It was the samelunch he had ordered yesterday. I hoped he felt like eating it again. I was taking a huge risk. He might be on his way down to eat now. We mightmiss each other on the elevators. He might throw me out of his room,refusing food he had not ordered. He might call the manager. Hell, Ididn't even know if he was in the hotel. For all I knew he had gone out.Maybe he was at the doctor's office. It was only after I was in theelevator on my way up to his room that I realized how stupid I was being.How would I explain bringing back a full tray of food to the kitchen if hewasn't there. I was thinking with my dick again instead of my head, and Iwas afraid that this time around I was going to get myself in trouble. ThenI started to argue with myself, trying to convince myself that I wasthinking with my heart, and not my dick, and that this was somehow a morenoble form of foolhardiness. And then there I was standing in front of room 402. I could hear the TV. Idecided that was a good sign. It meant he was probably in there. Suckingin my breath and balancing the tray on one hand, I knocked briskly: "Roomservice!" And then as soon as I had said it, I knew I'd made a fool ofmyself again. I had just knocked on the door of a man with a broken leg.Did I suppose I was doing him a favor by making him get up and answer thedoor? So I panicked, and barged into his room uninvited. I tried to coverthe awkwardness of the situation with bluster, running my mouth a mile aminute: "I've brought you some lunch. I hope you don't mind. I thought itmight be easier than having to come all the way downstairs. I mean withyour crutches. And your leg. You know. So I brought you lunch. Soup anda burger. Maybe you would have rather had something else. I'm sorry. Ifyou'd rather I go I can..." |
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