— Why Do You Assume That Means I Don’t Have A Sex Life?
As a woman with mild Cerebral Palsy, writer Jennifer McShane has to think outside the box when it comes to navigating sex and dating. In an essay for Vogue, she reflects on misconceptions, the highs and lows of disabled sex, and why a safe space for conversation is essential.
Desire is a complex thing. It’s a potent, almost indescribable force that propels us forward; that aching yearn to be wanted and loved. Almost every great piece of work ever written, not to mention every Adele song, centres on this. Which is why it remains baffling to me how so many think that, because I am a disabled woman, I don’t have any.
I thought endlessly about this aspect of my life recently, when Billie Eilish told an interviewer, “I have never felt desired… And it’s a big thing in my life that I feel I have never been physically desired by somebody.” My throat constricted as I realised her words encapsulated how I’ve felt almost my entire adult life. As a woman with mild Cerebral Palsy (CP), living in a society rooted in ableism, it’s impossible not to notice how the words “sex and disability” are rarely used in the same sentence. It’s assumed I don’t have a sex life, that I don’t want one, that I surely don’t consider myself a sexual being.
Take the nurse who once scoffed away my mention of a cervical smear. “What would you need one for?” she asked, genuinely mystified. Even well-meaning friends’ responses to my raising the topic have hurt. “I didn’t think you were like that, Jen!” they said, wide-eyed and excited, almost gleeful. It was meant kindly and in fun, but afterwards, part of me was angry. Do I not have the right to the same desires as everyone else? Is it too much to ask to be so fiercely wanted by someone there’s room for nothing else in their brain? To want them back so fiercely it might ruin my life (as I’ve heard it can)?
It’s this base assumption from the majority that I do not – could not – need this that makes it hard for me to express something so important, so vital, so natural, to others. Talking about it doesn’t feel natural to me and so, nothing about my pursuit of desire feels natural either. It always feels slightly forced, timid, like I shouldn’t really be doing it (pun intended). Crucially, I can’t remember anyone telling me, ever, as a disabled woman, that I should make my sexual wellbeing a priority.
In my formative years, there was plenty of love but no safe space for that part. No accessible health setting I felt comfortable in, no articles in teen magazines on sex and disability to offer shaky words of wisdom (Dear Sugar would come along too late), nothing on film or TV I could identify with, no guide that wasn’t cold and only vaguely factual in its attempt to address how I should navigate this already complicated terrain. And in our Irish household, you simply didn’t discuss anything like this. So I shut that part of myself away for a long time.
I never felt I could talk about the awkwardness, the feelings of isolation and loneliness. I felt I was infantilised very early; a woman who couldn’t truly grow up, always on the outside of everyone else’s “normal”. It wasn’t until later that I took my body seriously, determined to at least try to find out what might work and what wouldn’t. Because way back when, my biggest fear was, rather dramatically, in the vein of Monica Geller, that I would die a virgin.
Happily that’s no longer a risk, and there have been good moments. Like when an older man I was casually seeing told me I didn’t have to worry about (in what can be exhausting emotional labour and no one’s idea of fun foreplay) my splints, or the fact it might take me so long to get undressed it’d surely be a mood killer, or to try this way or that, because: “I know what you need.” To my surprise, he was one of the few who really did, and I happily lay there. (Albeit lamenting the fact that – to paraphrase Vogue’s dating columnist Annie Lord – he still wouldn’t see fancy mesh underwear after all his efforts, because I regretfully hadn’t bothered to buy any.)
But those moments are, sadly, not all that frequent. Because mostly, it’s hard, and rather soul destroying when they say they can’t do this, that it’s too weird, that they don’t see a future with a disabled woman because they can’t cope with not having a sex life (an early misconception from more than one).
I’m what’s known as a maladaptive daydreamer. My vivid and near constant daydreams are my coping mechanism, a way to check out of reality when it gets tough. In these daydreams, there’s little rejection and lots of the good stuff, but lately I’ve begun to wonder if this is a subconscious crutch I’m using, one that stops me from really living, from putting myself out there. That it will stop anyone else getting near me. It would help if there truly was a safe space for disabled people to have these conversations. I want podcasts, books, films, disabled sex columns – everything we don’t have now. Because if we don’t see ourselves, how are we to break barriers? It’s 2023. We all deserve love, healthy sex lives, and the chance to have our lives ruined, should we desire it.
Complete Article ↪HERE↩!