We sometimes try to have sex at night if it\u2019s early enough. \u201cNo heartburn?\u201d Check. \u201cHow\u2019s your hip?\u201d Check. \u201cDid you take the chicken out of the freezer?\u201d Yup. \u201cWhat time do we have to get up?\u201d Damn. Maybe on Sunday morning.<\/span><\/p>\n Friends joke about their waning sex lives. Kids, jobs, aging parents, conflicts, good books, bad TV, and a growing variety of ailments crowd their way into our bedrooms, but I don\u2019t usually participate in this midlife commiserating. Instead, I give an empathetic nod and check the time on my phone. My bedtime assistant should arrive in 25 minutes. Or is this the night she said she\u2019d be late?<\/span><\/p>\n About a decade ago, Chuck and I were being interviewed by a sociologist who was writing a book about \u201cinter-abled\u201d couples. While talking about the mechanics of preparing to have sex, Chuck said, \u201cI look at it as a sort of striptease.\u201d He described the ritual \u2013 pulling back blankets that I can\u2019t shift, removing pillows, pressing the off button on my ventilator, and even wiping my face as part of our foreplay. This new-to-me idea of focusing on the striptease of it all surprised and delighted me.<\/span><\/p>\n Anyone expecting a \u201czipperless fuck\u201d will always be disappointed, but I wear more than just zippers and had always thought that the task of extricating me from the devices I need was a drudgery we had to endure before we could dive into each other. The number of props and machines has of course grown over time, but now they are part of being a little sexy to me, also.<\/span><\/p>\n \u00a0\u201cHow ya feelin\u2019?\u201d is check-in code for, \u201cDo you still wanna have sex?\u201d At this point Chuck has already optimistically taken his little blue pill. If we are a go, he jumps up to use the bathroom and sets us up.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n We\u2019re relieved to no longer need birth control, but I now regularly argue with my insurance carrier that frequently decides I don\u2019t need the estrogen ring that prevents vaginal pain. Chuck removes my mask and wipes off my drool. We do our bad-breath checks and I have him give me an Altoid. Teeth-brushing is not an independent activity for me and is messy at best when I\u2019m lying down. Chuck carefully removes the folded pillow from under my legs and tosses it along with our extra blankets and a memory foam pad onto the floor. He swings aside the cell phone mounted to an articulated arm that hovers above my face and unplugs the trackball I use to control the phone. I can\u2019t lean my head over the edge to see, but like the idea of our bedding strewn across the floor with reckless abandon. I am rarely reckless.<\/span><\/p>\n Having planned the night before, my knees are already wrapped with protective elastic bandages over right-angled splints to keep my legs from being over-flexed or extended. We quickly make decisions about the remaining blankets, and Chuck disconnects his own thin tube that runs between him and his insulin pump.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Then there\u2019s the cat.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cShould I lock him out?\u201d Many pets are voyeurs, and some think they should be participants. Fortunately, by the time Rex and Nigiri were four, they had an insulting level of disinterest in our sex life. Rex sometimes begrudgingly stared at us, but he usually went to another room. Nigiri staked out a distant corner of our bed with her back to us. They both at least pretended to sleep.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Now we have HighTop, a 3-year-old black and white Maine Coon with a penchant for taking down any prey available. He instinctively targets calves and the Achilles tendon. Toes are also fair game. He doesn\u2019t know and wouldn\u2019t care that my ankles sprain with the stress of small twists. My sock-footed feet flopping in the throes of passion would be irresistible. So, he is banished.<\/span><\/p>\n We have learned to ignore him scratching at the door.<\/span><\/p>\n Our old house has old features. The windows are drafty, and until last year, our heater was a monster encased in a booming metal fortress that heaved deep surges of warmth from a scorching grate embedded into our living room floor. This beast claimed the soles of Chuck Taylors, cat toys, and old pencils, but in exchange it enabled us to cast off cumbersome blankets, avoiding perilous entanglements. Now we contend with a more ecological but less robust wall-mounted heat pump that releases a gentle whisp of warmth that annoys me with its prissy false promises. I have grown fond of our gray Lasko brand space heater that\u2019s always placed at my feet. With the door closed it quickly heats up our room.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n We don\u2019t have children, roommates, or many overnight guests, but our home is still full of people on a schedule. I have a crew, a team, and if I need more than one of them at a time, it\u2019s an entourage focused on doing all the little and big tasks my disabled body can\u2019t do for itself. I don\u2019t need my crew to help with sex, but on occasion, someone shows up early because of a bus, a rainstorm, or a forgotten time-change and they get a glimpse of how it\u2019s done whether they want to or not. And yes, the less-savvy occasionally ask me, \u201cHow do you, um, how does sex work?\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n I secretly roll my eyes and say, \u201cCarefully,\u201d or explain, \u201cIf we ever sleep together, I\u2019ll let you know.\u201d I am kind to and patient with my employees and am always tweaking the tone of our interactions to regulate the boundaries between me and them as we intrude upon each other\u2019s personal lives.<\/span><\/p>\n My all-time favorite response to the idea of me having sex was from my assistant Sonia when her boyfriend dropped her off to work for me at Chuck\u2019s home before we lived together. He asked why she was going to a different place. When she explained that I sometimes slept at my boyfriend\u2019s apartment, he was surprised. He wanted to know if Chuck was in a wheelchair, too, and awkwardly asked if I could \u201cdo it.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Her response, rightly so, was, \u201cHer pussy ain\u2019t broke!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Reaching and touching requires that I ask Chuck to move my limbs. My arm flops over and we laugh. He carefully moves under and beside me, gauging whether a squeak or a sharp intake of breath is pain, pleasure, or both. We laugh again if the lube gets out of hand.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n And then there\u2019s a beep.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIs that you or me?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s just a Facebook alert.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Sometimes it\u2019s my I.V. pump telling me that I miscalculated when my hydration bag would run out. Other times, a sharp tone tells Chuck that his blood sugar is heading one undesirable way or another. The bandage above my right breast sometimes bothers me. \u201cTry the other boob, babe.\u201d Or my catheter gets yanked. Chuck gets a leg cramp from yesterday\u2019s weightlifting, or my assistant texts that they\u2019re going to be late. And of course, twice a year Mom used to phone to play \u201cHappy Birthday\u201d on her harmonica. \u201cI hope I didn\u2019t call too early.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s all good, Mom.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n Through all of this I am reminded of the two promises I keep to myself. One, I will always do the work it takes to have the sex life I want, and two, I will never fake an orgasm. Enthusiasm, our sexiest shared feature, helps me keep my promises.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Alana Theriault<\/strong> (she\/her) is\u00a0a writer and retired disability benefits advocate. Recent publications can be found in\u00a0The DREDF Blog (Disability Rights Education Defense Fund)<\/i>\u00a0and\u00a0Readers Write<\/i>\u00a0(The Sun Magazine, January 2023).\u00a0<\/i>\u00a0Link:\u00a0https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/profile.php?id=100091524864722<\/span><\/a><\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n Support Disability Media and Culture<\/b><\/p>\nAbout<\/strong><\/h3>\n
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