Bruno's limbs are shaking. Not just a shiver, but violently. His legs - as straight and hard as planks - are vibrating like a thin sheet of tin. It looks bizarre; the other people in the room (myself, the photographer and Bruno's friend, the pouty cable TV presenter Shirley) instinctively turn away. But Bruno is enjoying himself. "At least my limbs are alive!" he cheers, watching, but unable to influence his galloping knees. After a minute or more, the spasms stop, Bruno's crumpled body slumps, and we turn back towards him.

This violent shaking is just one symptom of Bruno de Stabenrath's shattered spine, caused by his car inexplicably skidding and rolling over one Sunday in March 1996, when he was 35. He could take Lioresal, a drug that reduces the ferocity of the attacks. But Bruno likes his limbs thrusting out in front of him, vibrating wildly. It looks strange, but why should we mind if he doesn't? Bruno isn't interested in becoming our image of a passive victim, confined to a wheelchair. And this is the reason his book, Cavalcade, a defiant story of the aftermath of his accident, has already aroused huge interest in Bruno's native France and all over Europe (the English version is published tomorrow). For in Cavalcade, Bruno is not only a survivor, but a very, very sexually active one.

If the book had a subtitle, it would be Everything You Wanted to Know About Breaking your Back, But Were Afraid to Ask. We are treated to long descriptions of sex both before and after, but it is the after that, with a lot of voyeurism and not a little prurience, most people are really interested in. Where else could you learn that a Cavergex injection (costing €15) into the upper part of the penis, combined with a Handjoy vibrator (€40) made an erection and even ejaculation physically possible for Bruno with his broken back, even if his feelings were all cerebral.

He describes using his teeth and tongue - some of the few places he can still move - when making love. This is a taboo area, even among those with similar injuries. Edward Guiton, who has a spinal injury and writes a column for this newspaper, says: "Something I noticed in the spinal unit, full of young people who had suffered accidents, is that no one talks of sexuality. The young lads watch Channel Five and roar their approval without any acknowledgment of their loss."

More recently, Bruno has started to use Viagra, which he describes as a wonder drug. Rather than having to go to his live-in helper for an injection before he can make love - "not a very sexy moment" - he just pops a pill. And sex isn't the only intimate, unmentionable area that de Stabenrath is prepared to bare. He writes about the indignities of catheterisation, "an intimate, tricky, painful ritual which you perform, like a heroin addict shooting up, in a quiet corner". He still has to do this five times a day.

De Stabenrath, now 44, lives in small Paris apartment decorated with photos of 50s pin-ups, Varga prints and plaster models of Betty Page, and littered with glossy copies of Surfer's Journal. In his bedroom, there's a hoist strung above the bed, to help him get up, and his old surfboard propped up in the corner. He was a beach boy. He surfed in Biarritz every year, won a small part in a Truffaut film, and cut a few records. He made a basic living by playing his guitar and keyboard. He clearly longed to be a rock star, and most of all a member of the Beach Boys, whom he idolises. Although he is good-looking, his untidy, slightly long hair, his faded denim jacket calculatedly ripped at the elbows, his shell necklace and beige loafers are all a little sad on a man in his mid-40s, wheelchair or no wheelchair.

When he had his accident, the beach boy died. For 14 months he lay flat on his back; at first he couldn't even speak. "Before the car crash, I was full of desires - making music, going to night clubs, surfing in Biarritz, making love. After my car crash, all these things disappeared. When I looked in the mirror, it wasn't me. It was the death of my soul." For a year, nothing moved. He communicated by clicking his tongue. Then, one day, his penis rose. "It was life!" says Bruno. "It was a feeling like ..." and he makes the sound of a trumpet fanfare.

It was another three years before he could support his head and regained some movement in his arms, although he still cannot - and never will be able to - use his clawed fingers. He has no sensation at all below the middle of his chest. The only way he can move his legs is by grasping an ankle between two wrists and placing his sole back on the footplate. He does this several times throughout our conversation when his legs slip out of the spot he has carefully arranged them in.

For parties, he hires an electric chair so he can mingle easily. Often, he invites a young woman to perch on his lap. "They call me the living sofa," he jokes, "because I move around the room with someone sitting on me."

Those with spinal injuries are not only more readily forgiven, but often regarded as sages. Unlike other disabled people, who are born that way, they have a "before" and an "after", so they can compare our world with theirs. Bruno says total strangers often approach him at parties, snuggle up next to him as he's propped up on the sofa, and ask for advice. "I call them quadriplegics of the brain. They may be having problems with their marriage, they may be unhappy with their work, they don't want to live any more, but they think I know how to sort it out," he says. "They think I know all about suffering, and have lived through it, so I will be able to help them live through theirs."

Stephen Duckworth of Disability Matters, who broke his neck in a sporting accident and only has the use of one arm, says: "The loss of physicality - particularly from a man's point of view - means that you've got to listen more, you've got to observe more, you've got to think more. It shows how the arrival of a significant impairment can cause a degree of thought that can actually improve the quality your life."

Bruno describes his own life not as worse or better, but simply different. He has just bought an electronic keyboard, which he is learning to play with one finger. He still misses his music: "It's like someone who so loves, but can't kiss any more. To see my guitar and my keyboard, and not play ..." On Saturday mornings, he hosts a radio show playing surfers' music. He is learning to compose on the keyboard by using computer programs. He has even started surfing again, dodging the lifeguards on Biarritz beach who try to dissuade him from going into the water. They have never seen someone being carried down to the ocean before. "When I swim, I'm all alone, with no one to hold or help me. That's very important to me. It's the only place I can just be me."

For De Stabenrath, there is a before and there is an after, but there is also a Bruno who persists through out - the failed rock star, the would-be playboy, the teller of corny sexist jokes. And the fame that he sought but never found as a rock star is now coming in another guise. The movie of Cavalcade will be released next year, with renowned French comic actor Titoff playing Bruno. The movie poster is a body seen from the waist down - a pair of impossibly long female legs in fishnets and high black patent heels, sitting in a wheelchair.

At the end of my visit, he asks the lovely Shirley to put on his favourite record. Fleetwood Mac sing out ... Don't stop thinking about tomorrow. Yesterday's gone. Yesterday's gone. "It takes a long time to come back after the accident," he says, humming along. It'll be better, better than before. "But today, I am happy in life.'

· Cavalcade by Bruno de Stabenrath is published tomorrow by Little, Brown, price £12.99.