Love it or hate it, this book:

“I didn’t talk much about my missing leg–it wasn’t interesting, really–but I expected it to bring me some respect.  By and large, my lovers came to my house.  My day-to-day leg was basically a metal post down to the foot, certainly not made for intimacy or sleeping, and, whether or not someone was with me, I always took it off when I went to bed.  My bathroom was ten feet away, and I had a zippy hopping path along the furniture.  My shower was one of those old-fashioned tile cubes, and it was easy to balance myself–keeping my arms free for washing and showering–by propping my stump against the wall.  I could have gotten various pull bars installed around the house–my insurance would have paid for them–but things like that just seemed like giving in.  There was a cabinet around the bathroom sink to lean on , a chair rail in the upstairs hall and railings on both sides of the stairs.  Some evenings I took off my prosthesis as soon as I got home, and some weekend days I didn’t put it on at all.  The inner lining of a Bali push-up bra was the best thing I’d found for padding the inside of the prosthesis, but sometimes my stump got sore despite the Bali.  Also, my balance was different without the weight of my fake leg, and I wanted to always be mobile–or potentially mobile–on one leg alone.  In case of fire, in case of disaster, in case of war.  It was logical if you thought about it, but people didn’t.

‘You’re a real fireball,’  a lover might say.  Or:  ‘Nothing slows you down, hunh?’  Or:  ‘Geez, my uncle had just his foot cut off and he went around in a wheelchair.’  Everybody said something, and I didn’t realize how much I needed that praise until Brice was in my bed.

We were relaxing after making love when Brice noticed my spare leg propped in the corner.  ‘What’s that?’

I followed his gaze.  ‘Oh!  That’s my spare.’

Brice said,  ‘It’s a little creepy.’

‘Creepy?’

‘Not creepy, exactly.  Unnerving.  Could you cover it or something?’

Ridiculous.  Half of me wanted to get out of bed and stow the thing in a drawer, just to show lazy Brice how easily I could get around, and half of me thought to hell with him, that leg was part of me.

‘I’m not covering it or something,’  I said in irritation.  ‘That’s my party leg.’

A high-pitched laugh.  ‘Your party leg?  That’s weird.’

‘See the shoe on it?  It’s designed for a two-inch heel.  I wear it if I’m dressing up.  You’ve seen it, at the office Christmas dinners.’

He fell silent.  He was facing me and the party leg was in his view beyond my shoulder, and he pushed himself up in the bed so my breasts would block his sight of it.  Of course I noticed.

‘I’m very proud of that leg,’  I said.  ‘You think you can wear the same leg for flats and high heels?  My regular leg was covered by insurance, but the party leg I had to pay for.’

‘Oh.’

‘You don’t think it helps a woman’s self-respect to wear heels?’

‘I never thought about it.’

‘Well,’  I said, disappointed.  ‘I guess you wouldn’t.”