When you think about good sex you picture how hot and steamy two people together can be. Your mind wanders to that place where you and your partner (real or imaginary--we've all had that John Stamos moment when he feeds you Greek yogurt and sings you the theme from Full House) in the throes of passion, in every possible position. You picture the intimacy, the magnetism, the spontaneity driving the moment forward.
When I think about sex as a gay male with disabilities--a wheelchair-user, a man living with spastic quadriplegic cerebral palsy that causes my muscles to twist, turn, and contort in on themselves--the fantasy only lasts a second before reality hits. Then I start to think about all that has to be done in preparation of that moment. I must convince my lover of my sexual viability, making sure that he is fully comfortable with all that entails. I must tell my personal care attendant a story to explain why I'm having my "friend" over at this hour. I must take off my leg bag. The list continues and before I can even consider enjoying myself, I feel a pressure to meticulously plan, to make sure that everything falls perfectly into place. With all this worrying, it's nearly impossible to remember the whole point of sex: to have fun.
All of this pre-coital planning has made me long for sex that doesn't conform to any script or standard that is ultimately unattainable. I want sex that isn't based on a presumption that I "must be a bottom" because I don't have the ability to thrust like a top "should." I want the kind of sex that doesn't start with risk analysis and signed waivers. I want to be taken out of my chair, ravaged and reveled in. The only worry that I want to have in my head is whether or not I'm waking the neighbors. The desire for deliciously dirty, spontaneous sexual encounters is a deep-seeded one for me as a queer man with a disability.
The standards, rules, and regulations we have written for gay sex are inaccessible. I will never be a "100% top" because I am physically unable to, nor will I be a bottom because my spastic ass might castrate someone. When I open up to a guy about this, they always tend to look at me with this stunned, baffled, and bewildered stare. I even had one guy suggest that I hadn't yet had real sex, that I was still a virgin. My disability has given me the ability to see how dangerously divisive and narrow the top/bottom dichotomy is in queer culture, but I am excited I get to challenge it. In fact, the best sex I ever had broke all the rules--even my own.
I consider it the best sex because there was no convincing or capitulating about my disability. Not once did I have to sell my sexiness to this person, I didn't have to prove my sexual worth, he simply saw that it was there. From the start he showed interest in me, allowing me to relax into the moment. I could finally take a breath and enjoy this, instead of wondering what might make him leave. When it came time to get out of my chair, I was ready with my lecture on proper lifts and was waiting to field any fearful questions he had. Before I could even say anything, he had lifted me up and firmly placed me on the bed--no questions asked. For once, I didn't have to nervously direct this awkward dance. I could just do it.
I remember that I was becoming increasingly concerned with what role I should play, still worried that he would come to the realization that I wasn't his power top and stop the fun. To preempt this, I started going over the gritty logistics at the worst possible time. He stopped me in mid-stutter with a hard kiss on the mouth and soothingly told me whatever happens, happens. In that moment I was freed. My queer and crippled identities came together and I was no longer bound to the sexual edicts forcing me to pick a position to play. He knew sex with me could not conform to what he had expected--and that was what made it one of the hottest sexual experiences I've ever had. My crippled comforts were desired just as they were--no conditions applied.
About Andrew Morrison-Gurza
Photo by Johann Louw
Andrew Morrison-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).
