Why my vibrator knows me better than any ex ever could

When we think of the rules of lovemaking, it is usually centred around an abled body, a body that is capable of penetrative sex and performing all the sequential steps leading up to it. Go ahead, watch any movie, turn on any show. It’s all over. Whether it’s sexy, able-bodied foreplay or steamy vampire humping that breaks the bed—Edward Cullen and Nosferatu, here’s looking at you. Not me, though. I’m a physically disabled queer person who uses an accessible vibrator to pleasure myself, most often. For those who can’t imagine it, let me paint a picture... of the vibrator, silly. It has a circular handlebar that is easy to grip and is small enough to fit into my pocket. Of course, to say a vibrator is the only thing that you need to achieve pleasure might be ignorant, and giving the stick (you know which one I mean!) too much power. But for us, it often is.

For disabled queer, trans, and cis women, most trade-offs between pleasure and pain are not as sexy as BDSM. In fact, our trade-offs include the dark side of pleasure—trips to the hospital, awkward explanations to a doctor, a sprained hand. No wonder we never ever choose our pleasure, or put it first. Our bodies often feel like they are built solely for pain. My physically disabled body has always been treated with fragility and control in bed by people who don’t understand my disability, who walk on eggshells around it, and who perceive my body as breakable. My entire life, I’ve been handed a list of dos and don’ts. How do I protect my physically disabled body? How do I be the perfect disabled obedient woman? How do I be the perfect disabled activist? How do I be the perfect disabled patient?

Perhaps that’s why having queer sex was revolutionary for me. It not only helped me understand myself and my body better, but it helped me explore a side of myself not tapped into by my cis partners. I discovered how my disabled body loved being treated without caution (with appropriate safety measures of course). As for the vibrator, it doesn’t expect anything. I don’t have to prove my capability with my vibrator. I have now begun to form my own sexual boundaries, my needs and my desires, and I have realised that I love being sexually intimate with myself on my bed while my partner watches from the other side of the screen. My disabled body has been and will always be the most accessible to me. But all this liberation makes me think—why are we so afraid of failing sexually? Why can’t we simply let our disabled bodies be in bed? Why must my body achieve something, do something, be something? Why is sex considered successful only when we perform peno-vaginal sex? F**k that nonsense.

The idea of intimacy has often been one-dimensional, heteronormative, and fixated—like there’s that one person in the world who’ll perfectly accept who I am, overlook my disability, untangle me from my inhibitions, and draw constellations on my body with their fingers. But my vibrators accept me every day—be it the pocket pink one with the exact speed I like, or the non-phallic green one that made a grown man feel threatened. I remember, as I was getting under the covers with my vibrator by my side, he commented, “Why do you need that when you have me?” Now he works for an erotic audiobook company online, and I’d like to think he’s changed. We only see glamorous sexual behaviours. Nobody talks about the drooling, dependence, or aftercare one might require. Asking for help during sex due to a non-functioning or dysfunctional body, including losing mobility or ageing, is considered shameful and weak. When one is disabled and queer, especially visibly so, intimate spaces are often contested.

Nobody wants to talk about the painful, grievous, shameful process of seeking sex as a disabled queer woman. Ableism doesn’t only exist within heterosexual communities but also within queer ones. Sometimes, I don’t want to be viewed in terms of my disability. Sometimes, I just want to be viewed as a horny young 26-year-old. But my disability must be considered in all aspects, as it affects my access to intimacy.  We grow up learning that intimacy codes must be perfected. Intimacy lies in a successful exchange of eye contact (not too much nor too little), in a “perfectly shaped” haircut that makes you “look” queer and therefore approachable, and in the aesthetic—something that confirms your identity. How do we reclaim a culture of intimacy devoid of the politics of appearance, agency, and taking up space? Well, here’s how I’m doing it. I’m not nonchalant about it. I’m my idea of a horny disabled queer person. I’m my own flower garden—flowers that are disabled as hell, with stunted growth and shrivelled leaves, needing love and care every second of every day because they deserve it. They deserve everything, and I am certain so do I.

 

Nu is an author, researcher, and the founder of Revival Disability India, a collective that is led and driven by queer disabled folks.

Illustration by Ritika Gupta

 

This article originally appeared in the March-April print edition of Cosmopolitan India.

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