ResourcesArticle

My Vibrator is Disability Affirmative

Queer Rights

July 2022

By Nu

After three years full of rejection, sexual violation, ghosting, and romantic cynicism from different failed pandemic situationships, I’m convinced that the only disability affirmative sexual experience I’ve had is the one I have every night – with my vibrator. There’s something about the isolation that makes you feel comfortable with being completely alone. In a way, I’m glad I’ve been single these past three years, ever since the pandemic began. I’ve been in love once, and it was good while it lasted, but none of my average ex-lovers embody the energy of this hot pink pocket vibrator that fits so perfectly in my hands. The vibrator has 5 speeds, and at each speed, I imagine a different person – a future lover perhaps. That’s the thing – such a situation leaves plenty of room for imagination – to imagine future lovers I’m yet to meet, to free myself from past abusive experiences in relationships, and to convince myself that I’ll finally meet someone that doesn’t have all the red flags that my exes had. To imagine that I’ll finally break the pattern.

Or maybe I’ll die here, in this bed, beside this vibrator, as I see the abled queer community – another community I don’t feel like I fit into – laugh about queer references, reminisce about queer bars in parts of the city that I haven’t even heard of, and die before I reach my ultimate level of queerness.

The only reference point that I’ve had my entire life is that of able-bodied gender. I perform able-bodied gender everyday. Queer icons on screen have taught me how to be queer in their way – an able-bodied way. They’ve taught me how to strut, except that I can’t strut with my Forrest Gump shoes. They’ve taught me how to dress up, except that many clothes are inaccessible for my physically disabled queer body. Hence, I’ve learnt to be queer in an uncomfortable way. Not my way, but their way.

As I watch Euphoria and see Jules and Rue kiss, I bury my head deep inside my pillow and hug my vibrator. I want what they have, but what is it about this bed and this vibrator that makes me think that this is enough? That I’ll never need partnered sex again? That I could spend my entire life in this bed with my vibrator, my favourite book, and of course, my favourite chaotic gen z television show?

Oh my god I’m going to die alone.

The pandemic forced me to become productive in isolation – to become something other than an average student with abandonment issues and a traumatic past, to make something out of my trauma and to carve out an identity. Otherwise, of what use are marginalised identities in a capitalistic world, unless they make art out of their trauma, right? They don’t let their trauma just be. Instead, they make their trauma useful and worthwhile, they make their trauma work hard so that it satisfies the Diversity and Inclusion world which rewards only certain identities whilst shunning away others. The world wants to know – in heavy detail – the intricacies of the sexuality of a marginalised person. The world expects us to be open books – to put our sexualities out there. Somehow, we owe the cis hetro-patriarchal ableist world all these answers.

How has my pleasure travelled, evolved, or remained static over the years? How has my access to pleasure as a disabled queer woman changed? Why do I ask so many questions?

To dream of an alternate gender reality, different from my current circumstances, to look at and affirm myself in the mirror, to put my sexual needs first, to have the space and agency to dream of my utopia, to have the resources to capitalise on my trauma – these are all privileges I possess.

As I stare at my crutch, I remember the access it has given me – to explore the city, eat my favourite meal at my favourite restaurant, or go shopping for lingerie alone. It has also given me access to bad, awkward dates, but that’s no one’s fault. If you asked me to draw my pleasure portrait, my crutch would be the centre of attention.

Recently I started illustrating my ideal partner – in a world which is not designed for me or my codes of intimacy, how exactly do I give myself the space to dream and hope for love? How exactly do I identify and acknowledge my needs? How do I know the next person I’m going to talk to on a dating app isn’t going to be an absolute asshole? Or even worse, an abuser? Every night, I sleep cuddling my copy of “All About Love” by bell hooks. Sometimes my cuddling partner is my vibrator. I don’t really like sharing the bed with anyone as I’ve been sleeping alone for the past 24 years. So do I actually really need partnership?

As I wash my vibrator in warm water, I wonder – is this the extent of intimacy that I’ll get in this lifetime? What about all those great love stories that I see on television as I eat my 8th cup of ice cream? Will I ever fondly remember my relationships with other people, or will they just be memories of abuse, despair, and disappointment?

My disabled fingers get fueled by my singlehood and create imperfect, chaotic art. I write countless narratives of loneliness and peace. I don’t feel like going on dating apps nowadays, I’d rather be alive for my work, my friends, and my colouring book. But sometimes, I reprimand myself – “I need to atleast get laid and enjoy my 20s” (a lesson I’ve clearly learned from romcoms in the 2000s) – and then I cringe as I realise the world wasn’t designed for a disabled woman’s needs, even if that need was just casual sex.

Disabled intimacy during a pandemic is so paradoxical, and yet ever so present. I call up my ex at 4am and we have car-park conversations, except we aren’t together in a car, we’re on a phone call. Sometimes I pleasure myself and think of no one in particular. I’m still learning how to be perfectly single, but what is perfectly single anyway? What is perfectly disabled anyway? What is perfectly queer anyway?

Yes, I need someone to help my disabled limbs go to the movies. So I must take a friend. Oh, I need a partner to support me physically and emotionally. Oh, I must dress in a way that is attractive to him, behave in a way where he thinks of me as the ideal able-bodied wife. I must disregard my queerness and adhere to his standards. Dependence belongs in my nature, I must get used to it, but at the same time, feel guilt and shame in my disabled bones. I must please a man, endure his abuse because otherwise he’ll go away and I’ll have no one anymore. I must base my entire identity on being, loving, living with him.

It’s an important decision to be absolutely alone. To relieve yourself of the pressure of being wooed, of being adored, of taking comfort in the grief and of getting used to comments saying you’ll either die alone or become a lonely cat lady. Loneliness has always been a dominant word in my life.

Being a lonely isolated body is uncomfortable. Nobody likes being one. Everything happens in pairs, how does anything get started with a single person? What about the pop songs and movies that have deeply been ingrained in my brain? What about my dreams that have been built around finding “the one”? What about my favourite Taylor Swift songs? Were they all wrong?

But I refuse, I disrupt, I rebel, I relax in my loneliness, in my solitary, in my yearning. Communication and intimacy have always followed able-bodied codes for me which has been terribly discomforting. I’m no longer waiting for pleasure, waiting for that holiday, waiting for a person to go with, waiting for the recognition of “the one”, waiting for a destination. I’m rioting, and I’m gone.

 

This article was written as part of TYPF’s digital campaign for Pride Month in 2022. The #PrideInPleasure campaign highlights experiences of pleasure that do not find representation in mainstream media, and amplifies queer voices from the margins.

Search
Donate
Donate