Roll Over, Baby: Disabled Lovers, Perfect Love
By Bella Leach • Dec 21st, 2000 • Category: Sex and DisabilityThis is my Letter to the World.
– Emily Dickinson
The first time David and I made love, I knocked down a curtain rod.
We were in my narrow twin bed, which I’d wedged against the wall to accommodate an overflow of bookcases. I was trying to straddle him while working his cock, hugely erect, into my painfully tightened vagina, all while maintaining a calmly sexy ambiance.
Prior to this June evening in 1993, I’d been celibate for four years. There are various reasons for this protracted celibacy, but mostly I hadn’t met anyone interesting enough to fuck.
At 23, David was a virgin.
I’d never inducted a virgin before, and felt a sort of solemn responsibility to make this a warm, wonderful first time, something he’d remember affectionately once we’d gone our separate ways. That he had muscular dystrophy made me feel even more responsible to make this good for him.
The personal insecurities I’d bring to any new lover — worry over my body, difficulty with intimacy, self-induced pressure to perform — conspired to crate a less than sexy mood on my part. I was so nervous my cunt closed and dried up. My body, limber from years of dance training, refused to organize itself around my eager new boyfriend.
So there we were, him straining upward, me struggling gamely for purchase, then reaching up stupidly to grab my cream-embroidered hippie curtains. The rod and curtain fell, quietly covering us. I gave up all pretense of mood and collapsed atop my not-yet-lover, giggling.
“This never happens in the movies.”
“Nope,” he agreed.
After that, we were able to get our bodies together successfully. David then devoured an enormous snack and drove home at 3 am, looking utterly blissed out.
Eight years later, I cannot pluck sexuality from the fabric of our lives together, holding it up like a particularly colorful thread meant for your examination. In writing about sexuality and disability, other parts of my life — our life — will bleed into my story: how family, friends, the medical community, even strangers can assault your sexuality. The precarious balance between being a caretaker and a mate. How illness can rob you of your self-esteem and your libido. And how in hell you cope.
I do not propose to represent all disabled folk; I write of myself, my life and illness, and my life with David. If you are disabled, or involved with someone who is, I hope my story makes you laugh, cry, disagree, nod with recognition, and feel a little less lonely during the bad days.
If you aren’t disabled, welcome. Come see how two physically imperfect specimens are making life and love together, and how, in the dark, our differences vanish.
This is my letter to the world. May reading it enrich yours.
David has a rare form of Muscular Dystrophy called “Becker Muscular Dystrophy.” It progresses with mindless, genetic brutality. When we met, David walked and drove unassisted. Then his balance began faltering, and my mother bought him a cane. In 1998 he was hired at a Bay Area university, where the everyday exertions many of us take for granted — protracted standing, using the rest room, a meeting across the building — quickly became overwhelming. He now uses a power wheelchair everywhere but in our small apartment, which is set up with his comfort in mind. The furnishings are heavy, immobile handholds. The tables have rounded corners. Grab bars snake along the bathroom walls. We have no glass baubles or throw rugs.
His initial prognosis was poor, predicting death by age fifty. Advances in medicine have altered this, and during our last clinic visit, the doctors said two stunning words to us: old age.
A short list of the things David can do: earn a Ph.D. in American History, work in his field, handle the household finances, listen to heavy metal, be a computer geek, dress, toilet, and feed himself. He is completely sexually functional: MD does not affect the penis. He has a fine one.
I have a collagen disease called Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. EDS has numerous manifestations, unified by hypermobile, easily dislocated joints. My skin is fragile and translucent; when I’m naked, my veins are completely visible, like blue tracery on vellum. During the years I studied dance, if a limb didn’t move one way, I simply twisted it until the desired look was achieved. Teachers and other dancers envied my eerie flexibility. But during my twenties, years of wear and tear began manifesting themselves. A rheumatologist finally diagnosed me, warning me to stop dancing before I crippled myself. Though heartbroken, I didn’t need her admonitions. The agony in various extremities sufficed. Unhappily I stopped dancing and began writing.
So here we are: a guy with limited movement, a woman who moves too much. Makes for a creative sex life.
Last night we made love in one of our favorite positions: sitting up, face to face, our legs crossed behind each other’s backs. David can sit up himself and, cradled in the safety of my legs, he can lean backward if he wishes. The position puts no strain on my painful left knee or hip, allowing me to focus on lovemaking. He leaned far back, his hands lightly resting on my torso, rocking deep inside me. Afterward I dropped backward, my head drooping over the edge of the bed. My hair, which is long and reddish-brown, nearly brushed the floor.
We studied our reflections in the mirrored closet doors. David was still sitting up, his torso and head framed by my thighs. My breasts were just visible in the bedclothes. We analyzed the composition of this sexy tableau, as if a photographer had just sidled into our bedroom. His semen began cooling between my legs.
We were perfect.
Bella Leach >> Bella Leach a pseudonym for high-strung head case with a cat. Her fiction, essays, book reviews, and poetry have appeared in various publications. She lives in the Bay Area with her beloved husband, who exerts a calming influence.
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Bella, I’m new to this site. A few years ago I purchased vibrators, jingle balls, a video, etc. from this site before, but I’ve never explored the other parts other than the retail part. What a pleasant surprise!
I’ve just finished reading your story. I am disabled 10 years now from an auto accident. I have permanent brain and spinal injuries since that day, but I’m totally self-sufficient, live alone, walk with a cane, etc.
My wife at the time left me, she found a lover on the internet and split just when I’d barely gotten out of the hospital after surgery. That was years ago.
Then in 2003 I met somebody. It was a dream come true. I’d never been so happy in all of my life, and we almost got married.
Unfortunately the dream ended after 3.5 years. I am so sad after this. I don’t know if I’ll ever meet somebody like that again. And the sex! The sex was fantastic, like nothing I’d ever experienced before. Whenever I think of her to this day, I get really hard and wet.
Prior to meeting her, getting an erection was near-impossible. Not even Viagra could help. Then we met, and in a loving relationship with a totally hot woman 6.5 years my senior, ED was a thing of the past. Being near her turned me into a teenager again with a constant raging hard-on.
With my situation and being on Social Security, I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever meet somebody so loving, so open-minded sexually and about life in general (a total freak is what she was!) about loving or partnering with a disabled man. I’m not complaining, I just don’t know if the odds are in my favor with my being 42 years old, and it seems that the best people are already married, not interested or totally freaky upon closer examination.
Sigh.
But I’m writing to let you know that reading your story has given me a little bit of inspiration and I wanted to thank you for that. Whatever happens in life is to a large degree out of my hands so I roll with the punches. It’d be nice to have a partner, my soul mate, but if that doesn’t happen, I’ve learned to be content with my own company.
Thanks again, Bella, for making my day.
garrick