Deez D's Dance Party Debacle and the Differently Abled Duggie
Hold on to your panties, this blog post is all about SEX. Specifically, crip sex. The kind where people who have some physical disability or other try to smash their genitals together just like every other asshole on the planet.
I have to admit, I had not given this issue much thought, until my FAVE blogger, current ladycrush, and total babe Sam Irby and I spoke briefly about it at her reading in Brooklyn a few weeks ago (and if you are not reading her blog GO TO HERE and get your life together. Seriously, you will not know how you made it this long without her).
I was somewhat surprised and ashamed at myself for not being a fucking expert on this subject, seeing as how I grew up with a sibling who is quadriplegic from Cerebral Palsy. She is nearly 26 years old, and lives with my parents, WHY HAVE I NOT BEEN TALKING TO HER ABOUT THIS? Why don't I know anything about it? She had asked me once, when I was in college and still grappling with my own lack of understanding of sex and human sexuality (not like I have even a remote understanding of it now, but at least I can recognize my own lack of comprehension) what sex was like. I was embarrassed, and eschewed the question, much to my shame. While now I might be inclined to tell her it is a boring but usually short-lived experience that confuses you emotionally, I realize my own experiences might be skewing my unscientifically obtained data. But next time I see her I am going to ask her if she wants to ask again, and then we will look at the INTERNET. Sorry mom, but she should know.
There is indication of how much we marginalize people who are living with disabilities, deformities and their kin in how little research or discussion there is about crip sex. Though sex-positive bloggers and writers often touch on the subject, most of what mycursory glance through of the first 10 google hits deep research revealed was anecdotal. How DOES it work? Is asking that just as offensive as asking a lesbian couple how they manage to bang without a dangger? It seemed obvious to me that I need to be a pioneer on this relatively socially unexplored frontier.
And pioneer I did, though not in the name of research, as the following occurred several years ago in the name of drinking a LOT of whiskey on a worknight. What you are about to read is a completely unembellished recounting of true events which I have named:
DEEZ D'S DANCE PARTY DEBACLE AND THE DIFFERENTLY ABLED DUGGIE
While working on a rigorous but morally fulfilling campaign in Green Bay, Wisconsin, a coworker and I went trolling for him at one of the two gay bars in town. Gay bars are usually a safe place for me to get completely shitfaced because you KNOW ain't no motherfuckers in there trying to get me to go home with them (I have since realized that this applies to EVERY bar, but I digress). I was already a little sauced upon our arrival, but continued to order whiskies because bad decision making is kinda my game. My coworker flitted off like the gay little social butterfly he is, and I stood at the bar watching the chaotic projection of Queen Bey's videos on all 4 walls of the place. I set my drink down and next to the glass on the bar there were what appeared to me to be a pair of nunchucks.
"Those are a little dangerous to have in such a heavily populated facility don't you think?" I asked of the guy sitting next to them, trying to cock an eyebrow but more likely looking constipated.
The dude turned to look at me, looked down at the things I perceived to be ninja weapons, and back at me.
"I wouldn't get very far without them."
I heard a slight slur in his speech that was all too familiar to me, the same one I grew up hearing my sister speak with. Somewhat mortified, I re-assessed the situation. Turns out bro did not have martial arts accessories with him, but rather a pair of crutches with beigy handles, which looked like wood in the light of the flashing techno pop of Beyonce's gyrating booty.
"Oh. The handles of your walking sticks really looked like nunchucks. I bet you hear that all the time though."
"Uh, not really."
"I am drunk and kind of an idiot. What's your name?"
He told me and we chatted a bit, me trying to backtrack and eat shit and try to undo the mistake I made that probably made this poor dude feel REAL WEIRD (add him to the ranks right?). I found out that he worked as a copywriter for a really great non-profit advertising agency, and that he wasn't gay, but also there wingmanning a gay butterfly of his own who had flitted off into the night. He told me he had CP, and I told him ain't no thang, my sister did too.
"So, would you wanna dance with me?" He asked.
I accepted the offer without hesitation. Because why wouldn't I?
When he got up, the guy stood about 5'1, or, at perfect eye level with my boobs, which fill out a DD with little room to spare.
"This is a good arrangement for you." I said with a smirk. Oh, oh how I spoke too soon.
You see friends, it is known amongst my most intimate circles that I love to dance. I will dance anywhere, anytime, given the proper catalyst (whiskey, Whitney Houston, any kind of twerkin trap music or any combination of these things). When dancing I like to thrust various sections of my body out into the world and suck them back in rapidly, trying to emulate this:
But generally look like this:
This night, I really felt like I had it going ON. Despite the facts that I was wearing a shirt that earlier in the day someone had confused me for a pregnant lady in, my hair was reacting poorly to the day's humidity, and I could not concisely recall the last time I bathed. Something in the magic of the reverberating bass made me feel as though I was the BEST dancer in the room.
I began to sway to the music with this dude and waited for the beat to drop and when it did I POPPED my shit like I was being electrocuted. I thrusted my boobs so forcefully at this guy as though this were Step Up 2 Tha Streets The Sequel and it was up to me to be the best popper or we would lose our grant to teach homeless youth the power of top rockin. The force was such that it knocked the dude to the ground. Down, down he went like a sack of lead nunchucks.
I scrambled to help him up. The thing about people immobile with CP is that their limbs are deadweight and in this instance seemed to be affected my gravity more that usual. I could.not. find an easy way to help a brother up. Because of the lack of muscle function in his legs he couldn't use me for balance and stand up on his own. Nor could I scoop him under the armpits as I do my sister, nor hoist him up by his hands. We tried several different arrangements, all while the people around us continued to dance and pop their booties and crotches in our faces. Finally the method of him clinging to my arm while I squatted down and then rapidly standing up got him on his feet (it took several tries and fails).
"Sorry about that, I got really excited there..." I trailed off.
"Can we dance over by the stage? I can lean on it, it will be easier," he said, almost apologetically.
I agreed of course, and we danced for a few more songs (ok well, I danced ON HIM and he leaned on the stage). After about 15 minutes, he tapped me on the shoulder.
"Can I kiss you?" He asked.
Now normally I would not take such a request into consideration from a dude I have known for five minutes. 'Can I take you to dinner, can I watch while you shop for jeggins, can I change your oil,' are examples of requests I would be more amenable to considering. But this night, I wanted to kiss this guy. Not out of pity or apology for being a total asshole around him twice in 20 minutes, but because I thought he deserved it. Because he had to be more brave than most to ask it. So I did.
I made out with him for a solid few minutes. I got a text from my coworker saying it was late and we should go. I told my new friend that I had to leave, and while he was clearly disappointed he said,
"I will never forget this."
Neither will I sir.
This website is the best resource I have found for helping people with disabilities retain their sexuality:
http://www.sexualityanddisability.org/default.aspx
I have to admit, I had not given this issue much thought, until my FAVE blogger, current ladycrush, and total babe Sam Irby and I spoke briefly about it at her reading in Brooklyn a few weeks ago (and if you are not reading her blog GO TO HERE and get your life together. Seriously, you will not know how you made it this long without her).
I was somewhat surprised and ashamed at myself for not being a fucking expert on this subject, seeing as how I grew up with a sibling who is quadriplegic from Cerebral Palsy. She is nearly 26 years old, and lives with my parents, WHY HAVE I NOT BEEN TALKING TO HER ABOUT THIS? Why don't I know anything about it? She had asked me once, when I was in college and still grappling with my own lack of understanding of sex and human sexuality (not like I have even a remote understanding of it now, but at least I can recognize my own lack of comprehension) what sex was like. I was embarrassed, and eschewed the question, much to my shame. While now I might be inclined to tell her it is a boring but usually short-lived experience that confuses you emotionally, I realize my own experiences might be skewing my unscientifically obtained data. But next time I see her I am going to ask her if she wants to ask again, and then we will look at the INTERNET. Sorry mom, but she should know.
There is indication of how much we marginalize people who are living with disabilities, deformities and their kin in how little research or discussion there is about crip sex. Though sex-positive bloggers and writers often touch on the subject, most of what my
And pioneer I did, though not in the name of research, as the following occurred several years ago in the name of drinking a LOT of whiskey on a worknight. What you are about to read is a completely unembellished recounting of true events which I have named:
DEEZ D'S DANCE PARTY DEBACLE AND THE DIFFERENTLY ABLED DUGGIE
While working on a rigorous but morally fulfilling campaign in Green Bay, Wisconsin, a coworker and I went trolling for him at one of the two gay bars in town. Gay bars are usually a safe place for me to get completely shitfaced because you KNOW ain't no motherfuckers in there trying to get me to go home with them (I have since realized that this applies to EVERY bar, but I digress). I was already a little sauced upon our arrival, but continued to order whiskies because bad decision making is kinda my game. My coworker flitted off like the gay little social butterfly he is, and I stood at the bar watching the chaotic projection of Queen Bey's videos on all 4 walls of the place. I set my drink down and next to the glass on the bar there were what appeared to me to be a pair of nunchucks.
"Those are a little dangerous to have in such a heavily populated facility don't you think?" I asked of the guy sitting next to them, trying to cock an eyebrow but more likely looking constipated.
The dude turned to look at me, looked down at the things I perceived to be ninja weapons, and back at me.
"I wouldn't get very far without them."
I heard a slight slur in his speech that was all too familiar to me, the same one I grew up hearing my sister speak with. Somewhat mortified, I re-assessed the situation. Turns out bro did not have martial arts accessories with him, but rather a pair of crutches with beigy handles, which looked like wood in the light of the flashing techno pop of Beyonce's gyrating booty.
"Oh. The handles of your walking sticks really looked like nunchucks. I bet you hear that all the time though."
"Uh, not really."
"I am drunk and kind of an idiot. What's your name?"
He told me and we chatted a bit, me trying to backtrack and eat shit and try to undo the mistake I made that probably made this poor dude feel REAL WEIRD (add him to the ranks right?). I found out that he worked as a copywriter for a really great non-profit advertising agency, and that he wasn't gay, but also there wingmanning a gay butterfly of his own who had flitted off into the night. He told me he had CP, and I told him ain't no thang, my sister did too.
"So, would you wanna dance with me?" He asked.
I accepted the offer without hesitation. Because why wouldn't I?
When he got up, the guy stood about 5'1, or, at perfect eye level with my boobs, which fill out a DD with little room to spare.
"This is a good arrangement for you." I said with a smirk. Oh, oh how I spoke too soon.
You see friends, it is known amongst my most intimate circles that I love to dance. I will dance anywhere, anytime, given the proper catalyst (whiskey, Whitney Houston, any kind of twerkin trap music or any combination of these things). When dancing I like to thrust various sections of my body out into the world and suck them back in rapidly, trying to emulate this:
But generally look like this:
This night, I really felt like I had it going ON. Despite the facts that I was wearing a shirt that earlier in the day someone had confused me for a pregnant lady in, my hair was reacting poorly to the day's humidity, and I could not concisely recall the last time I bathed. Something in the magic of the reverberating bass made me feel as though I was the BEST dancer in the room.
I began to sway to the music with this dude and waited for the beat to drop and when it did I POPPED my shit like I was being electrocuted. I thrusted my boobs so forcefully at this guy as though this were Step Up 2 Tha Streets The Sequel and it was up to me to be the best popper or we would lose our grant to teach homeless youth the power of top rockin. The force was such that it knocked the dude to the ground. Down, down he went like a sack of lead nunchucks.
I scrambled to help him up. The thing about people immobile with CP is that their limbs are deadweight and in this instance seemed to be affected my gravity more that usual. I could.not. find an easy way to help a brother up. Because of the lack of muscle function in his legs he couldn't use me for balance and stand up on his own. Nor could I scoop him under the armpits as I do my sister, nor hoist him up by his hands. We tried several different arrangements, all while the people around us continued to dance and pop their booties and crotches in our faces. Finally the method of him clinging to my arm while I squatted down and then rapidly standing up got him on his feet (it took several tries and fails).
"Sorry about that, I got really excited there..." I trailed off.
"Can we dance over by the stage? I can lean on it, it will be easier," he said, almost apologetically.
I agreed of course, and we danced for a few more songs (ok well, I danced ON HIM and he leaned on the stage). After about 15 minutes, he tapped me on the shoulder.
"Can I kiss you?" He asked.
Now normally I would not take such a request into consideration from a dude I have known for five minutes. 'Can I take you to dinner, can I watch while you shop for jeggins, can I change your oil,' are examples of requests I would be more amenable to considering. But this night, I wanted to kiss this guy. Not out of pity or apology for being a total asshole around him twice in 20 minutes, but because I thought he deserved it. Because he had to be more brave than most to ask it. So I did.
I made out with him for a solid few minutes. I got a text from my coworker saying it was late and we should go. I told my new friend that I had to leave, and while he was clearly disappointed he said,
"I will never forget this."
Neither will I sir.
This website is the best resource I have found for helping people with disabilities retain their sexuality:
http://www.sexualityanddisability.org/default.aspx
Comments
Post a Comment