How I Really Feel About Sex Work and Disability as a Disabled Client

For the last seven years, I have been a huge proponent of sex work as a viable option for disabled people who want a sexual encounter. I believe that sex work is so important and so vital for disabled people and their sexual experiences. Sex work needs to be decriminalized and made a part of benefit systems so that disabled people can actually access it.

I have worked with my #1 sex worker for six years, and I couldn’t be happier about our friendship and working relationship. Even though we have a great relationship that I wouldn’t trade for anything, I am also very aware that as a disabled client of sex workers, there are a ton of emotions that come with that, and I want to talk about that a little bit.

One of the emotions that I have been feeling with regards to sex work and disability is that sometimes it can be the only option for me to access intimacy and that makes me so depressed. I would LOVE the opportunity to know what it would feel like to have a sexual encounter, and NOT have it be tied to a monetary transaction. If I’m honest, when those happen (and they are rare), I am dealing with their fear and ableism around the issue, and that can be more difficult than just paying the money.

Another emotion that I often contend with when it comes to sex work and disability is dealing with guys who are only in it for the money. That’s fine if they are, but sometimes that can be hard to hear as a disabled person whose body can’t conform to queerness.

I wish that sex work wasn’t the primary way that I access intimacy, even if I am happy that it is available to me. I just wanted to put those feelings somewhere.

Thanks for listening!

Notes From A Queer Cripple - The Feeling of Being A Burden

So many of us with disabilities grapple with this question: “Am I A Burden?” So many of us who are disabled and who are in need of care know this question all too well. We also know the socially acceptable answer from our friends, peers, lovers and colleagues is categorically: “No, of course not.” But, despite how many times people have reassured me I’m not, it can be really hard to shake the feeling of being a burden.

Let me explain a little bit deeper. When you are disabled, especially living with complex disabilities like I do, you need help with pretty much all the things, and you get used to that to a degree. But what I think you never really get ready for is what happens when your disability calls the shots, and you need more help than you anticipated. or expected. Then, care workers or family members might get pulled away from something that they want or need to do; leaving you, the one who needs help, feeling altogether responsible for de-railing their day or taking time away from them. That’s the feeling I am interrogating a lot lately, and try as I might it won’t go away or dissipate.

As I get older, and navigate my disability changing, the feeling of being a burden morphs right along with it. It can be hard to tell people that you didn’t want to go somewhere because, as a disabled person, you have a nagging yet indescribable feeling that you’ll be in the way.

Let me describe this feeling for you, for those of you reading who might not experience disability in this way. For me, this feeling lives right above my breast bone, and every time I think about going out with a new friend, going on a date, traveling, going to a restaurant - really anything that might even slightly might require care from someone - it pangs me. “What if something happens?” “What if you ruin their day, and they realize you were too much after all?”

I have pushed this feeling down a lot, told it to shut the f&@k up, pretended I didn’t feel it, ignored it as best I could, but it was there. It is there. Reminding me that my disability is a problem, even when everyone else around me promises me it isn’t.

Just sharing how that feels, which is something I don’t think we explore enough when we talk about disability. I hope it resonates with you dear readers.

Thanks,

ag

Notes From A Queer Cripple - A Note About Care, Shame and Disability

Lately I have been having a lot of feelings about care and disability. So, I thought what better way to talk about it then to make a post that you can publicly consume. Really, this is just a space for me to unpack my feelings surrounding the truth that as a complexly disabled person, I need help with every little thing; from scratching my nose to grabbing a snack, to taking a shit, I need someone to help me with all those things. And it starting to bother me… a lot.

Now, I have needed help with these things my whole life, so it’s not like this comes as some kind of big, loud revelation that I need to learn from, no. This has been the way I have operated from the very beginning, so you think I’d be used to it. Fuck, I thought I’d be used to it too, by now, if I’m honest. But lately, the more I think about that the angrier and angrier that I get. The anger doesn’t even come from a place of anger per se, but rather, I get upset about how I might be perceived as a disabled person because I need help. Of course, when people see a disabled person needing help, we are of course met with the classics: the stares of pity, the “oh man, it sucks you can’t do that” speech and who could forget the overbearing help speech, “Dude, this is no problem whatsoever” (okay, you have said that 5 times, maybe it is weirder for you than you anticipated).

But, for me, as a queer disabled person who talks and writes a lot about sexuality, there are deeper undertones to my upset around needing help. If someone that I like sees that I need help, they’ll see me as less independent, which will translate into them seeing me as less sexy, which will preclude them from looking at me as any kind of partner at all, because who wants to f*ck someone who can’t even scratch their own nose, amirite?

I also get angry because I think, if I could take myself pee or change my own clothes, maybe I’d be more confident to try dating. Maybe I’d be more outgoing. Maybe I’d like myself more and that would shine through?

I just wanted to share this note with all of you who need care now, and for all of you who may need some kind of care in the future. I know it is about so much more than just the help. There is an emotional component to being cared for, and it takes its toll.

Thanks,

ag

Re-vamping The Blog - Notes From a Queer Cripple

I haven’t written a blog in ages on this thing, choosing instead to focus my efforts on social media engagement and growth around disability. While I can post little snippets of my disabled experience, I want to use the blog to compliment that, and take longer form looks at my personal experiences surrounding disability, where I am not hindered by a character count.

So, I have decided to bring you “Notes from a Queer Cripple”, where you can see me tackle in long-form big issues around the disability experience that include topics like ableism, disability acceptance, disability and sexuality + so much more!

I think that these conversations are so important and need to be put somewhere — so why not put them here. I hope you enjoy and stick with me.

Thanks,

ag

Working as a Queer Cripple: My Feelings Around Presenting Sex, Disability and Queerness.

Recently, I helped create a piece of theatre around sex, disability and queerness.  It was a tough process where the participants and principal actors were asked to dig into their lives around the intersection of sex, disability and queerness, and share their stories in a theatrical way.   It was a harrowing and difficult month long creation process that brought up a lot of feelings for me.    My arc in the show was talking about the work I do as a Disability Awareness Consultant; namely presenting to audiences about sex, disability and queerness.    In one scene, I am presenting a pretend presentation to the play audience, and as I am talking, I get so frustrated during the presentation that I storm out of the play, leaving the audience to wonder what will happen next.

When we were workshopping this part, the director asked me: “Andrew, what do you feel when you go up there to present about this stuff?”  Initially, when he asked me this, I turned on my professional cadence, and told him that I loved presenting to people, and that it was my calling and what I had chosen to do.  It was what I wanted.   He looked at me, smiled wryly and said, “Okay.  But, how do you feel about it, Andrew?  Honestly.”    I tried again to put this feeling away, and continued to protest that I loved my work, I loved what I had built for myself, and that I got to share a message with people.     As I started saying it a second time, though, I stopped myself.    I looked at the director square in the face, and with a glimmer of tears in my eyes, I said: “I’m tired.”  

That was the first time in over 5 years of being self-employed and self-made as a disabled speaker working in sexuality and disability that I ever admitted that to anyone.   As the words tumbled out of my mouth, I felt ashamed and angry.  Why was I saying this?  Was I saying that I didn’t want to do this anymore?   The words kept coming: “I don’t want to present to able-bodied people anymore, so that they can learn about sex and disability through me.  I don’t want to play up disability for these people who won’t see me as sexy anyway.”  And, sometimes, that’s the truth.

Working in sexuality, disability and queerness is one of the hardest things I have ever done.  While I am proud of the people I have met, the presentations that I have given, and the name I have built for myself in this niche market, there are absolutely days where I can’t do it.  Days where instead of showing you Powerpoint presentations about how great sex, disability and queerness is, I want to scream out to the group and say, “Does anyone find me sexy?!  Would any of you fuck me?  Honestly?!”   There are days where I have finished a talk, smiled at people, networked, and then I go home alone and bawl my eyes out.

It isn’t easy to turn your stories, things that actually happened to you, into slides for people to make notes about.  It isn’t easy to sit there in my wheelchair, staring at all these able-bodied faces of people who probably wouldn’t give me a second look if we met at a bar or on an app.   It isn’t easy advocating for real money to tell your stories, when most places want to pay you nothing for your lived experiences.

I tell you this, not because I am going to stop doing what I am doing, but I am telling you all this so that you can begin to understand that when you hire a disabled person to tell their story of rejection, of pain, of hurt; you are asking them to relive the ableism, asking them to confront their fears around it again and again.  I tell you this because I want you to understand that making a name for yourself as a disabled advocate - is hard - especially for those of us who have decided to share our feelings around sex and disability.    We don’t get paid enough and we certainly don’t get laid enough to do what we do.

So the next time someone with a disability presents about sex, disability, queerness, or any facet of their lived experience for you, know this: we’re tired, we’re angry, we’re horny, and it took every ounce of strength for us not to leave the room.  Maybe buy us a drink and flirt with us after...that’d be nice.  And maybe instead of just taking notes, take down my number.  

Queer And Cripple in The 6ix

I wanted to share with you a piece I wrote for a book about how Toronto Got Queer.  I am honoured that my voice was featured in this collection.  After reading this, go buy the book! 

My day begins in Toronto with someone else’s hands all over me. Touching me. Moving me.  

Before you get too flustered and excited, these are unfortunately not the hands of a new lover, at least not usually. They are the hands of my personal care worker helping me get ready for the day. They dress me and help me get into my wheelchair, making sure I look presentable for a lecture, or that I look handsome and devilish enough for a night out on the prowl.  

On the rare occasions when I do make it down to the Village at Church and Wellesley, it’s always an interesting experience. As I get loaded onto the Wheel-Trans bus from my home in the Distillery District, I am full of an indescribable sense of hope and excitement: soon I will be in the iconic rainbow district. Almost every time I go, I am imbued with a giddiness that perhaps this time things will be different. Maybe I will meet someone, and maybe I won’t feel so out of place.    

As I get closer and see the welcoming rainbow flags peeking out of some of the establishments, my excitement around the possibilities grows that much stronger. The chance that maybe I’ll get lucky, along with a mixture of excitement, fear, and trepidation, are some of the thoughts and feelings that race through my mind as I inch toward my destination.  

Once I arrive, though, all that excitement begins to fade.

As I get off the bus and begin to navigate the Village as a wheelchair user, my feelings shift. I pass all the bars, pubs, and kinky clubs with their back rooms, looking at them longingly. I know I can’t get my wheelchair inside these sacred spaces where my community comes (pun intended). I imagine what it would be like if I could enter these long-standing institutions, these palaces of possibility and playfulness. I picture each club with no stairs or tiny doors that I can’t access, and envision myself rolling through the front door with a smile on my face and a good-looking guy on each armrest of my wheelchair. Those images fall away as I continue down the street.

When I glance at all the posters and event pop-ups plastered on signposts along the way, I can see that nearly every type of queer man is represented on these posters: muscle hunks, leathermen, bears, otters, club kids, twinks, drag queens. Each of these iconic staples has a place in our Village. The one figure I don’t see is the Queer Cripple, the Bear in the Chair, the guy in his wheelchair inviting you to sit on his lap. He is nowhere to be found. He has no poster or place among all the rest, for he is invisible. Out of sight and out of mind.  

While that’s a shame, it isn’t at all surprising, nor is it new. I found an archived article from the 1980s in The Body Politic entitled “Blind, Dead or in a Wheelchair – and Gay.” It was both exciting and dismaying to see those who had come before, linking me to my past and my Queer Cripple history. As I read the article, I realized sadly that even some thirty years on, not much had changed. Queer Cripples are still fighting to be seen in our LGBTQ+ communities.  As I read this, I started to cry a little (okay, I blubbered like a baby); knowing we’ll probably never be able to stop fighting broke my heart a little.

As a Disability Awareness Consultant, my role is to ensure that Queers with Disabilities get recognition, attention, and the resources they need when they arrive in this city, alone and not knowing where to turn. Through my brand, DisabilityAfterDark, I shed light on what being a Queer Cripple really feels like. With my work and podcasts, I share, candidly, my experiences hooking up as a Queer Cripple, what it’s like getting intimate with me, and how sex for me carries so much more weight than people likely realize. DisabilityAfterDark allows me to claim my existence and place in Toronto, and to say, “I’m here. I am going to make you notice me, and if you stick around, I guarantee you will like it.”  

My work invites you into my village instead of my having to ask permission to enter yours.

Excerpted from Any Other Way: How Toronto Got Queer" (Coach House Books, 2017), https://chbooks.com/Books/A/Any-Other-Way 

My Quest to Become A Queer Crippled Hero: How My Origin Story Shaped Who I Am as a Queer Disabled Man

Everybody loves a good origin story, right? We love that moment the hero learned who they really were - the struggles that they went to to get where they are today. Somehow, they become more human, and we can connect with their experience that much more and cheer them in their ultimate adventure. I want to share with you part of my origin story, and two people who have helped me connect to become a Queer Cripple. Let me give you a glimpse of where my story started. With these pieces in place, I hope you will begin to understand my identity a little better.

First, I want you to picture a little boy sitting in his wheelchair, one that is far too big for his tiny disabled body. It is a weekend morning in 1990; maybe a Saturday or Sunday, and the little boy is filled to the brim with an excitement that he almost can’t contain. This time he’s coming, and I can’t even wait, he thinks. He has been waiting for this all week; he has been building up this moment in his young, impressionable mind, holding out hope that this time he’ll follow through with it. The trilling of the phone cuts through the hustle and bustle as he gets ready; packing his toys, his toothbrush and all the disability supplies he needs for the weekend. He hears his mom on the phone - he listens as her voice gets louder, and he can see the hurt in her face. She reluctantly passes the phone to the boy. On the other end of the line is the boy’s father. The boy answers with pure, genuine, unfiltered joy. He listens as his father tells him that he can’t take him this time; that it is too difficult. His father promises him that next time, he’ll be there. The little boy clings to this promise, even though he has heard it so many times before now. He holds the phone close to his ear, sinking deeper and deeper into his chair with every single breath.

The little boy hangs up the receiver and is completely shattered. All of his excitement is gone, and all he is left with is a deep, palpable pain that stays with him. He tries not to let it show - he knows that he must stay strong. He can’t understand why his father isn’t taking him. He feels deep down that it is because he is in this chair. He knows that is the reason. A seed was planted then. The boy learned what disappointment and rejection really felt like.

All of those feelings have followed me into adulthood as I have grown into my Queer Cripple identity. Each and every time a guy breaks plans, doesn’t call me back, ghosts me on app because my disability scared him away or fucks me and disappears without a trace, I am brought back to this moment when my father broke my heart. It is a familiar pang that never gets old, but is strangely comfortable all the same. My father taught me that I was different and that my path to acceptance would be full of this pain. My father taught me to swallow away my pain as a gay disabled man, and to pretend that the rejection didn’t bother me. My father left me with the belief that I am “too much”. Every time I ask a guy how long he can stay before he agrees to hook up, it is the voice of that little boy asking if he is too much, asking if you see him, and if you really want him.

Now, picture that same boy. He had an amazing male role model in his life, too. His Dad (stepfather) was there after every single heart-wrenching phone call to be there with him, and reassured him that everything would be okay. The boy’s Dad made sure that his disability was a part of his experience, and he accepted it without question or hesitation. The boy’s wheelchair didn’t scare or spook him; the boy’s broken body wasn’t too hard for his Dad to work with. They had an unspoken bond that only grew stronger over time. He was there with the boy through surgeries, physiotherapies that hurt, birthdays and bad news. The boy’s Dad was simply there - disability or not.

Each of these vignettes; each of these versions of this little boy in the chair have informed who I am today. I am thankful that part of my story was learning what hurt was at an early age; from a man I desperately wanted to know, and who I wanted to know me, so that when it happened to me later in life, during some of my most intimate moments, I wasn’t really all that surprised. Even though it still still burns when a guy I like runs away (or doesn’t show up at all) because he can’t handle me and he is too scared or proud to just tell me that, I know what to expect, and how that will manifest itself in me. My father, whether he realized it or not, gave me an arsenal of tools on how to deal with rejection as a Queer Crippled man.

I am thankful for my Dad. He taught me that relationships don’t always look as you expect them to. When he joined our family, taking on the responsibility of caring for a disabled child as his own, he showed me that you have to take risks, and you have to try new things without knowing what the outcome will be. This principle has helped me every single time I met with someone, or hooked up with the hot guy who would ultimately disappear on me. He has shown me that you have to take a leap of faith sometimes. He also given me hope that even though it hasn’t happened just yet, there might still be a man who will step into my life unexpectedly who could change everything. Who could really see me, disability and all.

Both of these men have, each in their own way, put me on the path I am now. I wouldn’t be as bold and vulnerable as I am now, and I wouldn’t have the experiences to tell my story with such conviction and truth. They have given me the pain, the power and the privilege to call myself a Queer Cripple; battling against ableism within the LGBTQ+ community, and while I may not wear a cape or a mask (okay, sometimes), or have Marvel or DC Comics executives banging on my door for the movie rights (maybe, though) my quest has just begun.

Harnessing My Sexuality as a Queer Cripple: Becoming My Super, Sexy Self

I think we all have those moments growing up during our sexual development that stop us dead in our tracks - something that stirs a primal emotion within us, and while we may not be able to put that feeling into words, we know that it has left an indelible mark on us.   This moment came for me one night when I was 14 years old and had just entered ninth grade.   I sat in my childhood bedroom secretly, discretely watching gay porn on my old, beat up IBM computer while my dad watched TV in our living room down the hall.  I had the volume down the lowest it would go, just loud enough to hear the performances and immerse myself in this brave new world.    I was flipping through the websites (as quickly as I could on 1998 dial up internet) when I stumbled across one scene where the two performers were wearing harnesses.   I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.  Against their chests were these leather harnesses, with two areas for their pecs and nipples to rest.  I remember thinking that it looked like the armour a super hero might wear to protect themselves against a TV villain.    

I was mesmerized by the way the performers used the harnesses to pull themselves into one another and engage in raw sexuality in a way that I hadn’t really seen before.   Right at that moment, the seeds had been planted and my predilection for harnesses was born.  I devoured as much of that content I could, taking note of all the different types of harnesses available and how each of them was used in a particular scene.   Each man that wore one exuded a type of confidence that I surely didn’t possess.   I was shy, meek, awkward and introspective.  I looked at the sexual characters on the screen with a longing and desire to be just like them - sexy and in control.  Could a harness help me obtain this?

As I grew into my queerness and disability over the years, I tried to fit into whatever scene was popular.  I called myself a jock, muscular, masculine (I have since retired that last one, as I can’t stand those “masc4masc” basics) and whichever combination I thought might elevate me in the eyes of my peers.   In all that time, I never once put on a harness.  While I still loved the way they looked, I never really considered them an option.  All the buckles, belts and clips looked far too complicated for my crippled body to fit into.   How in the hell would I explain to my attendant care worker that I wanted to wear a piece of fetish clothing?  What might they think of me?  No, no, it just wasn’t practical for me.   I was okay in my over-sized shapeless T-shirt and sweatpants that made sitting in my wheelchair tolerable.   I was okay, but I certainly didn’t feel sexy.

One day, a few years ago, my friend called me and said that he was coming over with a surprise.  I prepped the Netflix and afternoon of snacks and gossip.   He walked into my apartment about an hour later with a duffle bag under one arm.  He opened it and pulled out a full leather outfit; a harness, leather chaps, and the customary cap that I had seen so many times in the leather scenes I’d been consuming.  “Well,” he winked, “do you want to try it?” I was excited, but I refused his offer at least six or seven times that afternoon.  “I couldn’t possibly wear this,” I protested.  Finally, he didn’t give me a choice and took each item out of the bag.    As he laid each piece of this new ensemble on my bed, I couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear.   I was having a superhero moment of my very own.  It was like when Peter Parker sees his Spiderman costume for the very first time, or Superman sees his emblematic ‘S’ emblazoned across his chest.   They are seeing the clothing that will accentuate who they really are inside.

We fought with my spastic, crippled, contorted arms and pulled off my clothes that were two sizes too big for me.  Off came the shapeless shirts, the ones I used to hide my disability in.  My bright red track pants that hid the fact I had any genitalia whatsoever, were replaced with form fitting chaps that left my ass completely bare in my chair; a feeling that I so rarely got to experience, if at all.  That being said, they made my bulge look absolutely incredible.

I wheeled myself up to the full length mirror in my bedroom.  My jaw almost dropped to the floor.  The more I looked at myself, tears welled in my eyes.  My chest was pushed up against the harness; it looked puffed out, strong and defined.   My nipples stood erect at attention.  My belly was snug underneath a leather strap.  My arms, two tattoos on either forearm, looked big and inviting. I looked like I was in control of the situation, of who I was and what I wanted.  As I looked at my reflection (after turning bright red), for the first time in what felt like ages, I felt desirable and disabled, all at once.  The harness brought about the sexuality that is always bubbling beneath my surface, but that I am so often scared to truly show.   The harness is my shield, my armour.  I wear it to protect myself from all the ableism that runs rampant when we dare pair sex and disability together.   I wear it to fight off the villains in my head that tell me I’m no good, and that I don’t deserve to be loved by anyone.  I wear it to protect my heart from the boys who just don’t understand, or just don’t want to try.  I also wear it, so you can see me when I bear my soul to you, and use it to pull me into you, so you can find out all you have been missing.

(Photo Credit: Alejandro Santiago, 2014)

Boys in Chairs: That Time I Couldn't Masturbate By Myself Anymore

In the summer of 2014, I wrote a blog post entitled, “Boys and Girls in Chairs: The ‘Right’ to Get Off”.  In the post, I spoke pretty candidly about my experiences with masturbation and the trials and realities of performing this act when one is as disabled as I am.  It was light and funny with a few quips here and there about “choking the chicken thrown in for brevity”.  Towards the end of that post I asked, “What happens if one can’t do it themselves?”  At the time, I was talking about a hypothetical person.  I never considered -- really considered --  the realities of what it might feel like to not be able to achieve self-pleasure.  I was very happy that I was, in my limited fashion, able to please myself; using only one finger and my thumb I could bring my Queer Crippled self to states of ecstasy independently, and that was indeed a liberation like none I had ever experienced before.

Over the past while, I have noticed that my disability has changed over time.  With my spastic Cerebral Palsy being what it is, my dexterity has decreased while my spasticity and muscular tension has increased (I feel like there might be a sex pun in there somewhere).  By all accounts this is a pretty common occurrence for people who experience my level of disability; what the doctors refer to as “severely disabled”, but what I will refer to as “severely sexy”.   On the one hand, I’m not surprised or stunned by this development, but I have to admit that I am angry and scared of what this means for my sexual health and mental well being overall.  I worry about what this means for me as a disabled person, sexual being and as a queer cripple working in sex and disability.  

I remember when it  first happened a while back.  I wasn’t able to sleep late at night.  I was lying in my bed listening to the sounds of night envelop me; the ticking of my clock, cars revving their engines and people coming home from nights out.   I could see the bright red lights that bathed the city as I stared at my iPhone as it blinked 3 A.M.  The best way to cure this bout of insomnia was to get off, I thought.  I typed in my favorite porn site into my phone, and as the scene was starting I snaked my hand under the covers.  I tried to get my thumb in its familiar position so that I could start enjoying myself.   I immediately noticed a marked difference; my hand wasn’t doing what I wanted it to.  The muscle contractures were too strong, and I couldn’t relax enough to find any rhythm or momentum.   I was doubly annoyed because I could hear the muted, mumbled voices of the porn stars enjoying each other in their scene on my phone.  I bet that they had no clue how much I wanted to rub one out to them.   I was simultaneously angered that I hadn’t heeded the advice of my physiotherapist when I was younger.  I wish I had done those seemingly unimportant finger strengthening exercises then - that mobility would come in handy now (pun definitely intended).  Goddamnit!  I was determined to keep trying.  I contorted my body and hands as best I could, but to no avail.   For a split second, I began laughing uncontrollably thinking, “Maybe God does punish you for masturbating.  Or maybe it’s just the disabled kids?”   I then let out a reserved sigh of anger and frustration, which was wrapped in a huge overwhelming ball of fear and uncertainty that I can’t even really describe in words.  I rolled over in my bed and forced myself to turn off the porn and try to sleep.   The fear churned in my stomach and I started to cry, angry that this was happening, and thinking, “What do I do now?  Why me?”

I had so many questions that were whirling around in my head.  I wondered what my sex life would look like now?  I was worried that people would see me as even less of a sexual being than they already did.  Would guys still want to do me?  Am I still sexually attractive? There was even a small part of me that was concerned with my performance of masculinity as a queer man with disabilities.   Intellectually, I understand and agree that queer men’s obsession with “masc4masc” is rooted in oppression, internalized homophobia and frankly utter bullshit, but I can’t pretend that this recent change in my functionality didnt make me wary of my status as a disabled man.  There’s something very primal, independent and downright masculine about a guy being able to whip his dick out and please himself if he so chooses.   This is his moment to be with himself, it’s all his, and now that sense of bodily autonomy was stripped away from me without warning.  That hurts, there’s no other way to say it.   I also considered my professional persona with my brand DisabilityAfterDark.  I didn’t know if I was even really allowed to call myself a sex educator anymore.  How could I talk about sex if I couldn’t even have it with myself?  

All those feelings kept nagging at me and bothering me, and they haven’t really subsided even now.  Every time I see someone stroking themselves (which, when you are as horny as I am, and work in sex positivity, is a fair bit), I get resentful of their ability and the privilege they are employing that I no longer have access to.  I want to scream at them, “imagine what would happen if you couldn’t do that anymore!  How would you feel?”   I wish they could understand how I feel about this loss.

I have always been someone who adapted to things thrown at me.  I often didn’t have a choice.  But, honestly, how the fuck does one adapt to this?  Who do you turn to?  I’ve thought about asking my friends for help here, but this feels like a definite crossing of boundaries that even for me, someone who prides themselves on being a saucy, seated individual and a provocateur with disabilities, this feels somewhat unnerving.   How would that conversation even start?  “Hey man, if you’re not too busy today, do you think you might help me get off?”  You’re not meant to ask your friends these types of questions, and even considering that as an option feels altogether icky and off-putting.

There have been a rare few moments in which I have been genuinely angered by my disability.  I have always considered it an integral part of me.  I still do, of course, but in many ways this feels like bodily betrayal.  I don’t have much else to say, except that I am worried that I will have blue balls or have random emissions without wanting to.   I miss all that which I held (and rubbed) so dearly and hope that I can calibrate my own joystick again soon.     

The Reveal Narrative

I love when I see sex and disability talked about in the media landscape.  Almost all of my professional persona and my job is built on putting these stories out there.   I am hungry to see this stuff – this type of representation is so, so important, and often so lacking.  Every disabled person can almost guarantee that we won’t see ourselves represented unless we choose to be represented in very particular and often damaging ways.

Let me be very clear – I am a fame whore of epic proportions (you all know it’s the truth) and I will take whatever media attention I can, with the express purpose of championing my cause and the work I do, so that those after me have a guide post.   That is my ultimate goal, and I will do what I have to do to achieve that.  But, if I am really honest with you, there is a narrative around disability and sexuality as it is portrayed in the media that is starting to get, well, tired… overdone and overdrawn.  In fact, it is one of the only depictions of disability and sex that is readily available: The Reveal Narrative.

I was scrolling through social media tonight and I saw an article pop up on my Twitter feed that said, “5 People with Disabilities Reveal What Dating is Actually Like”.   The article itself was full of important information centered around the lived experience of dating while disabled.  I felt that this was the meat of the piece, and what the reader should be focused on.   But the idea of “The Reveal Narrative” stayed with me, and has irked me – even as I write this.  

A quick Google Search of past articles on sex and disability highlight that the reveal narrative is alive and well.   I found 9 articles that use the word “reveal” in the title to lead into a sensationalistic discussion of sex and disability.   Other articles used titles like, “What it’s Really Like to Have Sex and Disability”.   I even wrote a piece a few years back, where the editor changed the title to better fit “The Reveal Narrative”.

I find The Reveal Narrative destructive for all the reasons you might expect – its subversively ableist undertones remind us that sex and disability is still shocking and taboo.  It underpins the fact that we, as disabled people, are to be gawked at, and that our sex and sexuality is so secretive and different in scope and practice – that whenever we even deign to talk about it, in any context whatsoever, it must be uncovered or discovered, as if it’s this thing that is shrouded in secrecy.   The magazines and media outlets jump on this salacious and incendiary fact so that they can sell stories, but the embers of that flame, I think, burn people with disabilities in other ways, too.

Thanks to the idea of revealing/uncovering/surprising people with the idea of sex and disability, I have come to use that narrative in how I approach others.  There have been moments where I have seen my sex as overtly taboo or “special” in some way.  I have used disabled sex as some fabled currency to entice a lover over.     I have played with the ideas of sex and disability as being the “sex you never knew you wanted” or quipped that I’d show a guy just how good sex and disability could be.  I’ve joked with guys that I want to be their first cripple, in essence revealing to them the “truth of sex and disability” (whatever the hell that is).  That’s a whole lot of fucking pressure to live up to.   What if it is revealed that I’m bad at it?  What if you discovered that I just want to cuddle?  What might happen then?  

I’d love to see news stories and magazines that are willing to talk about sex and disability, do so in a way that is a little different.   Let the stories inside, told be the people who lived them, speak for themselves.  Those are the narratives that are the most critical and vital in changing the way we look at sex and disability.   If everything we do, see and read about disabled sex/dating is revelatory, how will it ever become mainstream?  How will I ever see myself as anything more than your novelty date, your first queer cripple or the first time you were with a guy in a chair?   Let me be real a minute.   Unlike the media suggests, when you hang out, date or get naked with me, the only big reveal will be that I am awkward, nervous, and fucked up.  Not too surprising, is it?