Guest blog: My disabled body’s ‘what the fuck’ moments

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

Sex is rarely ever predictable, especially with a new partner. Although we’re taught that there are certain ‘scripts’ that we should follow when it comes to sex, there are many different factors that make those scripts useless or sometimes even harmful. The individual quirks of our own bodies are definitely key factors here! So I’m excited to welcome Anna (@AnnaDdottir) to the guest blog slot today, with a fabulous and funny piece on the ‘what the fuck’ moments that her disabled body sometimes throws into the mix. Enjoy the guest blog, and check out Anna’s blog here!

My disabled body’s ‘what the fuck’ moments

I’m not the gambling type. But there is one thing I will wager on with a 99% certainty – at one point in your life or another you have looked at your body and said ‘what the fuck.’

Whether it’s that stray hair on the side of your neck that’s suddenly three inches long. Or when you eat a piece of dry toast and it gives you heartburn. Or when you trip over your own feet while walking on level ground. The only appropriate reaction is ‘what the fuck.’

But my ‘what the fucks’ happen more frequently than most.

Because my body, what was supposed to be standard issue equipment, has some manufacturing defects.

One day I can be an absolute pack mule, being able to move house by myself. ‘Oh, it’s a four story walk-up. No worries. I got it,’ I say as I hoist a sofa off the truck. Other days, the weight of a t-shirt against my skin is too painful.

One day I can feel every little breeze against my skin so acutely I feel like a walking weathervane. Other days, it takes me a minute to realize that the bloody footprint on the floor is mine, and that the shattered bits of a pint glass I dropped days earlier were coming back with a vengeance.

So, over the years, you just learn to live with the unpredictable. On Monday a few of your fingers decide not to work, and you’re left to go about the day with T-rex hands. On Tuesday you wake up feeling great but when you go to put on your shoes you realize you can’t bend down that far, and reach for the slip-ons. Wednesday brings you nausea when even thinking about food, and Thursday slides in with a migraine so bad it changes how your tongue feels in your mouth.

And so it goes.

You adapt to each thing as it rears its head. Like how you can never own a manual transmission car. Or only owning plastic drinkware. Or having slip-on shoes at the ready.

And I’ve gotten used to that unpredictability. That unknowable ‘roll with the punches’ necessity of existing in the day-to-day. My body has a hell of a lot of quirks and ‘what the fucks’ that I’ve grown accustomed to.

But that whole dynamic changes when introducing all of these quirks to a partner. There is no manual to tell you what to do in the event some part of my body stops working like it ought to. There aren’t even those illustration only Ikea-type instructions. There is only what I can tell my partner. And most days, I don’t have a fucking clue either.

And there’s most definitely a different timeline when it comes to fucking with a disabled body. While my pussy would like to amazing steamy car sex with the hottie making eyes at me across the bar, the rest of my body looks on with derisive laughter.

Because there’s a whole lot of understanding and patience that needs to happen that is completely absent from the would-be ‘fuck ‘em and leave ‘em before the sun’s up’ situation.

There’s a lot of understanding that needs to happen when I’m sucking cock and his stomach tightens and I know he is about to absolutely unload every last drop, but I have to stop because my jaw is seizing up. Or when – surprise! – even cuddlefucks aren’t going to happen because my hips can’t open wide enough to let someone inside me. Oh, that touch that got me so soaking wet yesterday? That’s physically painful today. Please ignore the visible wince. And, while I do love the enthusiasm, sometimes no amount of clit play will get my pussy walls to unclench enough to even let a finger inside. So snuggles and a T-rex-handed fist bump will have to suffice. Sorry.

Unsurprisingly, those understanding, compassionate, infinitely patient souls are few and far between. And not found in the man making eyes at me at the bar. Because that dude is sure as hell not sticking around for the mega turn-on of me needing to lean against the bathroom counter while I’m brushing my teeth so my legs don’t give out.

But there are a few intrepid souls that do stick around through the bullshit. And they, too, learn to roll with the ‘what the fucks.’ With them, there’s something more that’s built between us. It’s more than the usual trust between partners. More than the usual ‘I trust you to not take advantage of me or kill me when I’m at my most vulnerable.’

With a disabled body there’s something even more intangible, but infinitely stronger. It’s about learning not only the touches that excite, but also the little ones that can do unintentional harm. It’s about quite literally putting your body in someone else’s hands. Not only with trust and intimacy, but entrusting that their touch won’t inadvertently send you to hospital. Trusting them to touch you with a softer touch than what you may want or ask for. Trusting them to be open to alternatives when your body doesn’t do what you want it to. And trusting them to be open to having to reassess what works for the both of you, which may not be what worked yesterday, or what will work tomorrow.

Intrepid souls, indeed.


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