Sex & Dating While Disabled: Three Women Share What It’s Really Like

Article originaly published on Flare on Feb 14, 2017.

Sex and dating with a disability can be pretty f-cking awkward, whether it’s locating an accessible place to meet for a first date, or finding a caregiver who can operate your vibrator for you. Here, three women who have been there share their experiences—bad and good.

Seven years ago, Stephanie Dixon, the 17-time Paralympic medallist who was widely considered to be one of the best female swimmers in the world, appeared on billboards across the country. In the ad, Dixon, then 26, exudes confidence and defiance in a black one-piece suit: her eyebrow is cocked, her arms are crossed, and her biceps look cut as she poses next to a slogan that reads, “She doesn’t want your sympathy. But her opponents might.” Dixon stands tall and elegant against the stark white backdrop, her left leg muscular and shapely. Her right leg is missing, because she was born a congenital amputee. “It looks like I was designed to have one leg, like a mermaid’s body,” she says.

Dixon looks every bit the poised, self-possessed Olympian, and she was—except for one area of her life in which she felt painfully insecure. “People assumed I was very confident in my body, traipsing around in a bathing suit,” says Dixon. “But that’s very different from being considered a sexual being by someone you’re attracted to.”

For years, Dixon was afraid that potential partners would be disgusted by her body. “I wanted to have sex. I just didn’t think anyone would want to have sex with me,” she says. Because she is missing her leg, she also has only half a bum and half a pelvis, and she was worried that her vagina was disfigured—she’d never compared hers to anyone else’s. Growing up in Brampton, Ont., Dixon’s sex education came entirely from friends (and one incident where, at her mom’s insistence, she and her older brother practiced rolling condoms onto bananas). As a swimmer, she’d gotten used to using tampons at an early age. But accessing the world of dating and sex felt terrifying. In high school, Dixon wore her prosthetic leg under jeans every day to fit in, but it wasn’t until she was 15, and began competing in Paralympic competitions—where everyone was contending with some type of challenge—that she felt comfortable getting her flirt on.

Still, that confidence didn’t translate to her day-to-day life outside the pool. By 19, she’d fallen into a pattern of only making out with men when she was drunk. In university, she would panic when someone showed interest in her at a bar. “Say someone wants to take you home—that is an awkward f-cking conversation,” Dixon says. “At what point do you let them know that one leg is going to be coming off?”

Dating and sex are complicated under the best of circumstances. If you’re living with a disability, the obstacles and challenges extend far beyond the “does-he-like-me?” stress that follows a blind date or the “is-she-into-it?” worries that come with a new sexual partner. Imagine revealing a hidden physical disability to a date for the first time. Finding a caregiver who can operate your vibrator for you, or readjust your limbs (and sometimes those of your partner) into the correct positions so you’re comfortable and don’t get pressure sores. Maybe even asking your partner to help you empty your catheter bag before you go to sleep. Any of those scenarios would do a number on your self-esteem. The challenges of dating with a disability don’t begin and end in the bedroom—they start with education, move to dating and accessible spaces and encompass sexual preferences that may change as your disability does.

***

While schools across Canada are still debating what broad information about sex education is appropriate, and when to teach it, specific education about sexual health and disability isn’t even on their radar. For years after Kaleigh Trace, 30, sustained an incomplete spinal cord injury at age 9–which landed her in a wheelchair and affected her mobility, sensation, and bladder control–she received absolutely zero information about sex. “There wasn’t a lot of [sex ed], especially in rural Canada. I guess we had one day when we were brought to the gym [to learn]. But I didn’t attend gym classes,” says Trace, who’s now an educator at Halifax sex shop Venus Envy and author of Hot, Wet, and Shaking: How I Learned to Talk About Sex. Instead, she learned sex education from peers, books or Cosmo—and none of it related to having sex in positions conducive to a wheelchair. “A lot of sex books will say, your vagina will get wet or your clitoris will expand. But definitely lots of vaginas don’t get wet. My sensation is just different. The things some people say will feel good won’t necessarily feel good for me,” says Trace. “So I did what a lot of marginalized people do—I pretended I wasn’t different.”

By the time she was ready to be sexually active, Trace was no longer in a wheelchair. But she was using two canes to walk, and still had to contend with bladder and bowel issues. Thanks to her mother, who had always been open and positive about sex, Trace applied at Venus Envy when she was 22 and was hired. Around the same time, she began masturbating more and figuring out what worked for her body. “A little bit late to start figuring out how to have an orgasm, but whatever,” she jokes. While Venus Envy was fielding frequent requests for information about sex and disability, Trace was the only educator on staff who actually had one. So she began to teach herself (and eventually others) about men’s bodies, about how antidepressants can affect libido, about the ways in which people who live with cerebral palsy and other conditions can have sex—and eventually started a blog, The Fucking Facts, to address some of those questions. “Nova Scotia is a really poor province. There’s no funding here to look at sexuality, so it falls on the hands of whoever is comfortable talking about it,” she says. And although there’s more information out there now than when she started at Venus Envy eight years ago, she’s still longing for more pop culture portrayals of disabled people being sexy. “‘We’re always asking each other, who do you read? What do you watch? Where can I find stuff?’” The internet offers up some quality, positive porn featuring differently-abled stars—Lyric Seal, a disabled actor in a wheelchair, does porn for the site CrashPad, and Torontonian Loree Erickson also acts in porn that features her wheelchair, including her 2009 acclaimed film, Want. But these portrayals still exist on the fringes, and finding them is not easy.

***

Pop culture, from which we take so many of our sexual cues, has been sorely lacking when it comes to realistic depictions of sex and disability. In an episode of Sex and the City from 2000, Samantha has sex with a man with dwarfism (though not before callously asking her friends how short one must be to be considered “a little person”). Eight years ago, Friday Night Lights quarterback Jason Street has an affair with (and impregnates) a woman as he explores his post-accident life as a quadriplegic. More recently, Game of Thrones has featured characters with disabilities that range from a spinal cord injury to an amputated hand to dwarfism. And in the fashion world, Jillian Mercado, a model with muscular dystrophy who uses an electric wheelchair, has appeared in campaigns for Diesel and Beyoncé. “I think we’re making huge strides forward,” says Stella Palikarova, 36, an activist and academic who focuses on sex and disability. “People’s awareness levels are different now.”

Palikarova was born with a genetic predisposition for a neurological condition called spinal-muscular atrophy, which impedes development of motor neurons and affects her muscle strength. The condition was triggered when she was eight months old. Growing up, it meant driving a power wheelchair around her hometown of Dartmouth, N.S., and missing out on some of the quintessential partying and hookup experiences of high school. But she received thorough sex ed (her teacher offered the class a literal taste of spermicide, and they practised rolling condoms onto a wooden penis named Woody), and Palikarova grew up feeling like she had a lot to offer a potential partner. In grade 12, she met a man nine years older than she was through a family friend and the pair dated for around five months. There were challenges: Palikarova can’t lift or dress herself, and she was 4″11′ to her boyfriend’s 6″6′. But they’d had fun laughing together and going out on coffee dates, and she felt safe and comfortable with him. Soon, they were going their separate ways—she to university in Toronto, and he to a new job in Connecticut. The day before he moved, he invited her over to say goodbye. There were boxes strewn everywhere, and things quickly turned sexual. Still, it wasn’t perfect: “He was trying to carry me into his bedroom and bumped my head against a wall,” she says. “We were both really nervous. He had a really difficult time staying hard.” She thought it was her fault.

As her 20s went on, online dating became the most straightforward way to meet people, and Palikarova, who’d always felt like a pretty sexual person, was keen to broaden her experiences. She’s had some success on sites like Plenty of Fish and OKCupid, though there are still challenges. “You don’t want to come across as labelling yourself, like, Hi, I’m a 30-year-old woman with one leg. It defines you,” she says. “But then you don’t want to show up on a first date and put your date in an awkward position.” It can also be difficult to find accessible buildings in Toronto to accommodate her wheelchair, whether it’s a hot bar to meet for a drink or a date’s apartment building if things are going well.

Dating with a disability makes issues of trust and consent even more crucial, and Palikarova has encountered a few unsafe situations. “I had consented to have sex with one guy and I told him to put a condom on and he didn’t, and there was nothing I could do,” she says. He had unprotected sex with her anyway. “I didn’t say anything, he dressed me, put me back in my chair and left, and I never talked to him again.” Although she agrees that what happened was a sexual assault, she never reported it to the police. “I blamed myself to some extent. I mean, I’m a disabled woman who invited a guy over to her home that she had never met before, for sex. It wasn’t smart. It never is,” she says. She thought by expressing that she wanted to stop, the situation might get violent, so she didn’t. Now she tries not to think about it.

Access to surrogate workers willing to assist with these types of interactions could help prevent situations like the one Palikarova encountered, or at least make people with disabilities feel more confident in asking what they need from a partner and asserting themselves when necessary. In places like the Netherlands, people living with disabilities are able to claim the costs associated with hiring a sex worker as a medical expense as often as twelve times a year. In Australia, a charity called Touching Base connects sex workers to disabled people through a referral list of disability-friendly sex service providers. In some cases, the sex workers are hired to have sex with their clients. In others, they’re hired to help a client have sex with his or her partner. And in Vancouver, a company called Sensual Solutions employs intimacy coaches who will massage, caress or guide someone through a sexual experience for $225 an hour. But in Toronto, it’s much more difficult to find someone who will help facilitate a sexual experience between two people, particularly if you’re a heterosexual cis woman. As far as Palikarova knows, there’s no one in the city who includes sexual assistance as part of their personal support work, and she’s had difficulty finding caregivers who understand that healthy sexual activity is a right for all, not a privilege for the able-bodied. “When I hire caregivers, I definitely look for people who are comfortable with the fact that I’m sexually active or that I may have overnight guests sometimes,” she says. “I need help getting ready for a date, shaving, grooming, all the prepping that goes into that. What if I want to surprise my date with some sexy lingerie? They have to be okay with those kinds of things.”

So in 2015, Palikarova helped organize Deliciously Disabled, the country’s first disabled sex party. A care worker helped her put on a black bra stitched with multi-coloured Swarovski crystals. Her hair was curled, her big green eyes lined to precision. A lift was mounted to the ceiling of the venue in order to help get people out of their wheelchairs and into beds, and there were private rooms off to the side so participants could fool around or have sex, which some did. “People with disabilities so commonly don’t even have access to their own bodies,” Palikarova says. “You may not even be in a position where you’re able to pleasure yourself or masturbate. That’s a huge issue! It goes on the same list of human rights as being able to eat, or use the washroom. I don’t think you can segregate experiences of being human like that.” While plans for a second party last summer didn’t work out because of lagging ticket sales, Palikarova says she’d love to host another one if the opportunity arose. She also recently launched a new platform, Boundless in the City, to share her experience of living and dating with a disability.

***

In 2014, a British newspaper survey found that 94 percent of people haven’t had sex with a person with a physical disability. More shocking, though, was the 44 percent who said they wouldn’t, which can be a tough realization if you’ve acquired a disability as an adult and have to relearn how to navigate the dating scene. Zoe Vourantoni, who works as a sex therapist at Lucie Bruneau Rehabilitation Facility in Montreal and also runs a private practice, works with many such patients. She focuses less on demonstrating positions to clients who may be newly unfamiliar with their bodies (though there is some of that) and more about the psychology of having sex with someone if your body works differently or if you’ve sustained an injury. “Men will say, I have to watch my wife unload the groceries or shovel the driveway—I don’t feel like a man,” she says. “You have the intimidation of meeting new people, the grief you have losing the sexuality you once had.”

A large part of Vourantoni’s job is working with clients to restore some of the confidence they may have lost since an injury occurred—making them feel desirable again. “You’re looking for what you know and it’s not there,” she says. “The work is going to be a little bit more about the grief of having to take medications, that sexual function has changed, or having trouble with positions and moving around.” She also helps her clients with their communication styles, something many of her able-bodied clients need assistance with too. “One lady I worked with was young, really attractive and had a degenerative disease. After working with me, she got up the courage to go away on a girls’ weekend and got hit on at her hotel. She had a one-night stand and had to wear Depends before and after,” she says. “Her partner didn’t even blink an eye, he was fine with it. The idea is really to talk to your partner about what you’re worried about. You’re going to have some time between ‘hello’ and getting naked to address those fears.”

Vourantoni’s job also involves working to explore parts of the body that can feel unfamiliar after a devastating accident. Research shows, for example, that although people with spinal cord injuries lose feeling in some erogenous zones, brain plasticity can heighten sensitivities in other unexpected places—it’s just about finding them. “I work with one man who gets off when his partner scratches his face,” she says. “For him, since he has no feeling below his neck, during sexual activity that feeling really intensifies.” Nipples, ear lobes, and even the roots of hair are all areas that can take on similar erogenous qualities and help someone reach orgasm.

***

As Stephanie Dixon got older, her insecurity about her body intensified. She was gaining prominence in the swimming community, but she had severe sexual anxiety. “I was devastated. I was a 23-year-old not having sex, then a 24-year-old not having sex, then a 25-year-old not having sex,” she says. “Disability magnifies the doubts anyone has in their minds, not only internally but in society. You don’t see women with disabilities in lingerie commercials.” Her best friend from university was from Whitehorse, and after Dixon retired from swimming three years ago, she decided to take a trip to the Yukon, which turned into a permanent move. A year after that, her mother died and she sought the services of a grief counsellor. But it turned out she didn’t need help with grief, she needed help with sex. “I didn’t want to be a 40-year-old woman not having sex because she’s insecure about her body,” Dixon, now 33, says. “One day I just walked in and said, we need to talk about sex. It was the first time I’d ever talked about it to anyone.”

Initially, the counsellor encouraged Dixon to get comfortable with masturbating. And then, she told her that she should start having sex—a lot of sex. Dixon began to date a guy she knew through friends in town, and they had sex three times, the most consecutive coitus she’d ever had. “That he wanted to do it again after the first time, that felt like a victory for me.” Even tougher than sex itself was getting comfortable with someone going down on her, something that got easier with practice. “My ass is definitely distorted, and because of the emphasis placed on that in sexual culture, I’d even put on clothes before walking to the bathroom.” Being on top of someone? No problem. But having a partner look at her butt was the hardest part.

Over the last three years, Dixon dated a string of men who have helped her work through some of her remaining insecurities and have taken her on some outstanding dates—to walk the Great Wall of China, to look at northern glaciers in a helicopter, to catch lake trout in Atlin, B.C., to surf in Tofino. And, just in January, she got to see, finally, what it feels like to be on the other side of the security equation on a date with a man who hadn’t had a new sexual partner in more than a decade. “We got into bed and he froze. ‘I don’t think I can do this. I’m so afraid I’m going to disappoint you. I don’t know if I remember all the moves’, he told me. We did end up having sex, and it was great.” He has no disability, but insecurity is mental, not physical. “It came full circle,” she says. “I got to validate somebody else.”

Sexual health for people with disabilities focus of new training program

Article by Wallis Snowdon published on March 7th, 2017, on CBC  Edmonton website.

‘They just see the disability, and that’s not who I am. I’m a whole woman. I’m a whole person’

Michelle Bissell had heard it before, even from complete strangers.

“People with disabilities should not have sex.”

The Edmonton woman, who has cerebral palsy, is hoping a new University of Alberta training program for medical professionals will help empower people with disabilities to learn more about their sexual health, and ease some of the stigma that persists in society.

“It’s just awful, because obviously they don’t see me as a whole person. They just see the disability, and that’s not who I am. I’m a whole woman. I’m a whole person,” said Bissell, a longtime advocate for disability awareness.

“In a lot of respects, the medical field glazes over that part, because people with disabilities aren’t thought of in society as a sexual beings.”

‘It is a taboo subject’

The Online Certificate in Sexual Health program was recently launched by the U of A’s faculty of rehabilitation medicine. The course, led by sexual health expert Shaniff Esmail, is intended to train more health-care professionals about the relationship between sexual health and disability, and how to approach it with respect.

Sexual health is a topic everyone struggles with, said Esmail, adding that most doctors feel ill-prepared for these sensitive conversations with their patients.

“The biggest barrier is that sex isn’t talked about. There are very few programs and unfortunately it is a taboo subject,” said Esmail, a professor and associate chair in the U of A’s department of occupational therapy. “I was surprised when I started doing some research that there is very little to no programming for people with disabilities.”

The post-graduate certificate program is the only one of its kind currently in Canada.

The demand for the program was so high that a second round of students was admitted in January 2017, the university said in a statement. Currently, 20 students are making their way through the program.

‘It can be scary’

Statistics Canada reported in 2012 that almost 14 per cent of the Canadian population aged 15 or older reported having a disability that limited their everyday activities.

Up to 3.8 million Canadians, if not more, are experiencing sexual health issues, and the demand for better training in the medical community only continues to grow, said Esmail.

However, the sexual health of patients with physical and cognitive limitations is often ignored by those charged with their care and recovery.

“People with disabilities tend to be systematically asexualized,” Esmail said. “They don’t get the opportunities or resources to actually learn about sexuality.

“Whether it’s their parents, teachers, or significant others, sexuality is something that people with disabilities have been isolated from.”

Bissell, who will be lecturing regularly in the new program, wants to ensure others don’t feel the isolation and fear she has experienced.

“I was born with CP so I’ve always been like this, but someone who has been injured who can no longer make love, that can be a lot,” Bissell said.

“People are released from the hospital and they don’t know how to handle things. It can be scary, especially if someone was in an accident mid-life. They need to have those conversations.”

 

 

The love story that wasn’t

This article by Nidhi Goyal was originally published on http://blog.sexualityanddisability.org on February 14th 2017.

I didn’t know that the simple act of cutting a cake for a New Year’s eve party would spark off a new chapter in my life, one that I would hate, love, enjoy, and later cherish. The party was at the house of a college friend of mine, and the cake had been brought by one of her colleagues.

When he realised that I couldn’t see, he started reading out the text on the cake. Some of his friends sniggered, and I sensed his anger at their implicit rudeness about my sight. He shut them up, and our conversations began.

This was nearly a decade ago, and yet it stands out as if it were yesterday. Within a month of meeting up with common friends, and over some cups of hot chocolate, he hinted at, explained and reiterated his attraction – or was it love? – for me. He found me brilliant, intelligent, beautiful, and loving; basically, he felt for me everything that a woman wants her partner to feel for her.

The first time he asked me out was over the phone at 1 am during one of our long conversations. I communicated my first refusal to him through silence. I just didn’t feel like there was enough chemistry between us. So we never dated or became lovers, but he was a friend who coloured my life with experiences that I still remember.

Some of my friends couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t give in to his attraction. After all, this was the first time in my life that a man had ever said that he was interested in me. They just didn’t get why I did not want to be with a so-called perfectly healthy, ‘normal’ man. Their reactions made me feel upset and confused.

I didn’t like talking to him in that way, nor did I feel any desire when I was with him. No matter how much he cared for me, the comfort of his friendship was not the same comfort I wanted from a partner. I didn’t confide in him or seek his support like I would a partner’s.

But wasn’t it better for me to compromise when someone was ready to ‘accept’ me? As a blind girl, did I really have a choice? Would anyone else ever like me again? These were the assumptions – both said and unsaid – that surrounded me. No matter what people said or implied, I guess my strong heart knew the answers.

I assume my refusal hurt him, but either he remained hopeful, or he just didn’t let it colour our friendship. He was happy to hang out with me, he argued with me as an equal, and he was my partner in crime when we sneaked out at midnight for pav bhaji. He didn’t treat me any differently when he discussed his work problems with me, he didn’t treat me any differently when he discussed his spiritual beliefs with me, and he certainly didn’t treat me any differently when I talked to him about my ambitions and plans for the future.

He was a natural at adapting to my disability; he never made it seem like it was a big deal. Once, when we were at a discotheque with friends, I was dancing with complete abandon. I am usually pretty much alone in the middle of the noisy space of a disco despite being with friends, since the visual coordination of steps isn’t possible. But I have a great set of friends who involve me in common dance steps through touch, and that night, so did he. But he also did something that the others had not picked up on – he squeezed my hand every ten minutes or so. I would say this is another way to make eye contact, simply to say ‘I am here.’

He was older, non-disabled, and had an MBA. He was working with an MNC while I was a struggling postgrad student, but he didn’t patronise or infantilise me – not that I would have let him. He liked to spend time with me, and to do different things with me, as he’d do with any other ‘normal’ friend.

One day, he said that he was tired of driving me around, and that it was my turn to drive. I thought he was joking until he pulled me out of my seat and pushed me onto the driver’s seat. Did he seriously want me to take charge of his car – his first love? Before I knew it, he was giving me instructions on the mechanics of driving, and I was following them. The experience of driving without sight, albeit on an empty and straight road, was exhilarating. I screamed with excitement and fear all the way through.

Our friendship grew and matured with time. Perhaps his love for me became intense. But as the days passed, contrary to what he’d assumed, it was clear that I didn’t want him as a partner. Something of his persistence must have shown at his home, because his mother was furious about our growing friendship.

He shared her displeasure with me, and instead of feeling hurt or uncomfortable, I was smiling with joy. This might have been cheesy of me, but this was the first ever time that the mother of a man thought that her son could fall for me, instead of just assuming that I was the angelic, genderless and harmless disabled best friend.

By then, his family had decided it was time for him to choose a life partner. Despite my refusal, he named me as the woman he wanted to be with. What followed was perhaps expected, and yet so painful that even though I didn’t love him, I was hurt. It hurt that his parents dismissed me because of my disability, even though they liked me, and I was otherwise whatever they wanted their daughter-in-law to be. But as far as they were concerned, the idea of him marrying me was absolutely out of the question because I was disabled. They didn’t want their son to be shackled with permanent caregiving responsibilities, because they assumed that I’d be a burden.

Their refusal didn’t matter, because I’d refused too, but what still shattered me as a 24-year-old woman were the reasons they gave for doing so. I had always been aware of the stigma surrounding marriage and disability, but this time it was my reality, and this reality was clawing at my skin.

Perhaps what hurt the most was that he didn’t persist in his efforts to be with me. He persisted when I said no, but not when his parents made unfair assumptions about me. This made me wonder just how equally he really treated me in the end.

Seven years have passed since this incident, and we are still in touch. Over cups of hot chocolate, we still remember those days, sometimes with fondness, and sometimes with discomfort. But we both know now that we would never have made sense together. My initial assessment of my feelings was right, and thank god I wasn’t consumed by any pressure to be with him.

As for him, after seeing me grow up into the stronger woman that I am today, he is sure that we wouldn’t have been compatible with each other. But it is hard for me to forget my first lesson in rejection, not because the man in question didn’t like me, but because assumptions about my disability superseded everything else.

Why We Need Disabled, Queer Male Porn Performers

This text was published in april 2016 in the Huffington Post by Andrew Morrison-Gurza Founder/Co-Director, Deliciously Disabled Consulting .

Like so many of us out there in the male-seeking-male community, I have quite an active relationship with pornography (if I am honest, my relationship might be a little too active).  I can remember the very first time I ever watched a gay porn scene.   I was about 13 years old, and I was home alone on my dad’s old dial up Internet connection. (So you can imagine just how fast it actually was, right?)  I stumbled onto this website of these two college aged “runners” in a scene where they exchanged oral and some pretty vigorous fucking.

As I watched, while I became completely intoxicated by this scene, because it cemented that I definitely had a predilection for the peen, something else was happening to me too — something deeper and more affecting than I understood at the time.  I was learning about our culture.  I was learning about the performance of masculinity, and that to be a real gay man you had to look and act a certain way in order to be accepted.

As I watched these two men switch positions with ease and comfort, as if it were nothing to do this, barely saying anything to one another, but totally understanding what was to happen next, I understood that my body wasn’t good enough.  I understood that as a disabled man, this would never be my experience (I know, many of you are reading that last part and lamenting that even though you are able-bodied, it will never be your experience either).  This first foray into the fantasy of porn, and the feelings that I had back then of exclusion in this arena, have continued to linger even now, and I think it’s time that we start talking about why having porn stars with disabilities in MSM entertainment is important, necessary and long overdue.

While it is happening slowly (much too slowly for my liking, tbh), we are beginning to see some slight changes in the types of male performers that have entered, and are being accepted, into the mainstream porn industry.  I am starting to see more men of color represented in scenes without being overtly fetishized. I have also watched scenes where men of different body types, in particular, “bears” or “cubs,” or those who don’t fall into the traditional male porn typography, are gaining wider recognition.   I think that we still have a long way to go in this respect, but that seeing these images that break certain molds is important.

The one body that we have yet to come across in mainstream gay male porn is the disabled male body — in fact, it is non-existent.  This sends a really loud and clear message to queer crippled men that their sexuality is not valued or valid in the LGBTQ+ community.   The lack of representation in this arena speaks volumes, as it suggests that we aren’t even considered as part of anyone’s fantasy (and I know there are so many of you that want to get a hand or two on my joystick).

Let’s consider what having a porn star with disabilities would look like, and why they would enhance gay male pornography.

1. Different Scenes and Styles: How many of us have watched a porn scene between two male performers and the same things happen: two minutes of making out, a blow job scene, fucking and then the money shot.   Having a performer with disabilities wouldn’t necessarily mean that this formula would have to change drastically, but it would mean that the scene would get to focus more on the experience of disability.   We’ve all watched scenes where the performers undress one another as part of the foreplay, and I think these scenes can be incredibly hot.   The disabled performer could be undressed by their scene partner, but the scene could focus on how that is done, and have shots that establish the disabled body being sexualized, and the chemistry that comes with that.  The partners may also have to negotiate getting into bed, with lifts/slings/etc. This might change the stylistic way the porn is shot, providing for a much deeper, intimate and honest portrayal that would add a whole new level to the scene itself. Given that so many scenes are shot in stereotypical queer male spaces — locker rooms, the shower, etc. — adding a disabled porn performer would allow us to look at what accessibility issues impede sexuality for queer crippled men.  A shower scene wouldn’t work unless it was big enough for a commode chair, the locker room scene might show a special transfer device that could be sexualized by the performers.   Of course, if one of the performers was a wheelchair user, their scene partner could climb up on it and use that as well.    There are so many opportunities that can be expanded on when disability is considered here.

2. Different Positions and Different Blocking: I have long said in the work I do, that I will never be able to “fuck you like a porn star,” but, what if I could?  One of my signature sex positions is “the dead turtle” (okay, okay, this is where I just lay on my back and my partner comes up and meets my body); I call it that because I am flat on back unable to move, much like a turtle, and I think it would be important to see how these positions look on camera.   It would mean that the camera would capture something completely new and different, allowing for the viewing audience to get something fresh in their fantasy.

3. The Messaging about Maleness: Having a disabled male porn performer in the mainstream arena allows for us to deconstruct what we consider to be the epitome of the gay male porn star.  A disabled performer could rely on certain tropes still, but it does open up things for a more nuanced look at the portrayal of masculinity in these scenes.   The viewer might get to see how the disabled performer has had to adapt their masculinity in certain spaces, and this could create a really sexy, intimate feel to the scene as a whole.

4. To Queer Men With Disabilities: Seeing ourselves on film in this regard would act as a powerful and potent reminder that we have sexual agency and sexual capital while seated.  It would show young, queer crippled kids who may be struggling that they can be sexual, and it would give them guideposts when navigating what they want their sexuality to look like.

5.      To the Larger MSM Community:  Seeing a disabled male porn performer would send the message to the community as a whole that disability is sexy, and that it is okay to sexualize queer crippled men.  It would allow them to answer so many questions about the disabled body for themselves, and it would help them to become less uncomfortable when thinking about sex and disability.

Ultimately, having a porn star with a disability in male-on-male porn would be an important step in diversifying the dude on dude landscape.  It would change the game entirely.   So, if any porn performers or studios want to see the possibilities of hiring or working with a PwD (Porn Star with Disabilities), take a chance, take a risk, understand that the marketability of a scene like this is in the message.  Give me a call (Colby Keller and Cockyboys have first dibs); who knows what magical, majestic and altogether never before “scene” work this queer cripple might help create.

Price of Intimacy: The Time I Hired a Sex Worker

This is a repost from Out magazine. Article by Andrew Gurza. Illustration  by Emiliano Ponzi.

I’d never considered the price of intimacy until I hired a sex worker. Though I’d been learning to embrace my life in a wheelchair—a result of cerebral palsy—going without touch, or even access to my own body, was taking a toll. Even so, I didn’t come to my decision lightly. I was worried about shame, stigma, and fear, and concerned I’d pay for time and still not get what I needed. I spent weeks quieting the voices in my head telling me that using the services of a sex worker was not a good idea. Would this be the only way I could find intimacy? Would someone even want to do this with me, or would he only view it as a charitable opportunity to help a cripple? Despite all these questions, I sat in my apartment reflecting on my nearly year-long celibacy. It was time to take care of myself.

After scouring site after site with rows and rows of horny men holding their hard-ons, I found David. His smile was warm, inviting, and intriguingly devious all at once. He was older than me, in his mid-40s, and his photos showed off a powerful body, a strong charisma, and an undeniable charm. I’d often felt physically invisible within the mainstream LGBT community, but David possessed everything I longed for.

I sent David a cursory email, telling him that I was interested in using his services, but that I had never done this before, that I was nervous. I also casually explained as best I could that I lived with a disability and used a chair. He emailed back some hours later, letting me know that he had experience working with clients with disabilities. David wrote bluntly: “If I’m unsure of something, I’ll just ask.” It was a refreshing change from all the guys who tripped and tumbled over their discomfort.

We ironed out the logistics—a time, a location, a fee. Knowing that my sexuality would be broken down into a succinct session was daunting, and it took away from the fantasy and spontaneity I had dreamed of. But this, perhaps, was the cost of getting what I wanted, what I needed. David gently reminded me that I was paying for his time, and whatever happened happened. On our very last exchange, just a day before we’d meet, he called and asked me a simple question, though one I have never been asked before: “What do you want?”

Shyly and nervously I outlined my likes and dislikes as well as my abilities. I wanted kissing. I craved body contact. I couldn’t bottom for him because of my spasticity and tight muscles. I’d need help undressing and being put in bed. I paused, smiled. My needs were at the forefront.

On a rainy, blustery Saturday afternoon, my iPhone blinked with the message that David was in my lobby. I looked at myself in the mirror: a long-sleeve shirt, cozy winter sweats, a baseball cap. I headed downstairs in the elevator. When the door opened, I recognized him immediately. “Hey there! How are you?” he said, giving me a big hug as if we were long-lost friends. I kept watching him, in part because I still couldn’t believe this was happening, and because he looked really good in those tight blue jeans and that leather jacket.

A sexy man was in my house. We made small talk, waiting for someone to strike. He led himself into my bedroom and asked me about the transfer device I use to get into bed. I told him he would have to lift my legs while I held on to two gymnastic rings fastened to a hydraulic lift in my ceiling. I continued babbling, watching him get closer to me, taking off his coat, revealing a tank top and thick, muscled arms. He then straddled my chair, bent down, and kissed me. As I reached and pawed at him—my limbs flailing, not wanting to miss an inch—he stopped me. He looked into my eyes, past the rejection and pain caused by other lovers, and spoke with a firm honesty. “It’s OK.”

David drank in my disability and I dared not stop him. He lifted me out of my chair and held me in his arms. He grabbed me, cradled me, and kissed me. I curled up into him so he could feel the scars, curves, rods, and contractures that inform my disability. I felt sexy. He took off my shirt, and together we revealed my skin. As he moved down my body, and took off my pants and shoes, I worried what he would do when he saw my leg bag and my toes, which curled into each other. But David made this act of care exciting and real for me. When I was finally naked with him on the bed—my body going into spastic fits as a result of CP—I started to tense even more as I neared climax. In a piercing moment of release, I felt my two identities collide: queer and crippled came together in a surge of pure, uncomplicated pleasure.

The afterglow was setting in as David lay beside me. He held me tight and kissed my forehead. He told me that I was handsome, and as I looked at his arms wrapped around my spindly legs, I felt he meant it. Moments passed and he placed me in my chair, planting one last soft kiss on my lips before ending our session and saying goodbye. As I sat alone, my adrenaline became diluted by a calming bliss. I could not shame this experience because it marked a passage greater than a fleeting carnal exchange. It was the start of my own physical assertion. I would not settle for an affectionless existence, and I had to strive to honor what I wanted as a seated, but sexually alive, man. I finally had someone see me, and regardless of the cost, I finally showed myself to someone else.

About the author…

Andrew Gurza is the Founder/Co-Director of Deliciously Disabled Consulting, where he strives to make disability accessible to everyone within pop culture and intersectional communities. In the LGBT community, Andrew works to deconstruct our homo-normative, body-beautiful ideals, and show that queers with disabilities deserve representation.  His goal is to welcome everyone into the conversation of disability. His written work has been highlighted in The Advocate, Huffington Post, and The Good Men Project, where he candidly discusses the realities of sex and disability as a queer cripple. You can reach out to him on Twitter (@deliciouslydrew) and via email (andrew@deliciouslydisabled.org).