Kink and disability as a combination are often difficult to confront. After the injuries I sustained in an accident three years ago, I found myself having to reassess my own physical capabilities and acknowledge the subtle changes, beyond my control, that seemed to be happening within the relationships and power dynamics around me, both socially and in a BDSM context. It was, and is, frustrating beyond measure. Yet I still flinch at the idea of hurting a sub with medical issues in a way neither of us intend me to. By trying hard not to be a dick, I fear I’m being even more of a dick as a result and denying that person their own agency.
Here’s a brilliant, mind-opening article from Autostraddle from the point of view of a sub with cerebral palsy which addresses exactly that:
“…First time stories are always fun/mortifying, but that’s not the one I want to tell you, because that’s not the one that woke me up to the fact that my disability and sexuality have to breathe the same air. That happened about a month later, when Alex rolled over in bed and asked:
“So… how do you feel about bondage-y things?”
Remember for a moment that I had just gotten used to having sex at all. So my initial reaction was along the lines of UM WHAT I HAVE NO IDEA CAN I PHONE A FRIEND. But beneath that, I asked myself something else: how often are people this open about what they want? I wanted to please her, but was also interested to see what this would mean for me and for my body. It’s not often people invite me to take physical risks. So I agreed to try it.
And then… nothing.
I braced myself for the start of our little experiment, but things unfolded pretty much the same way as before. The delight of never knowing quickly gave way to frustration. I suspected why, but didn’t want to believe it. Sure enough, when I finally asked, I got the answer I had feared: “I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.”
What that said to me was, “this woman still thinks I’m a little girl.”
Up to that point, I thought I’d done everything “right”: cultivated a functional relationship, finally let someone see me with my clothes off, said yes to sex, talked about my body, listened about hers, been willing to try new things, behaved like an adult. But it turns out it hadn’t worked. All of a sudden, the “nice girl” formula that had made my disability palatable — acknowledge, but don’t dissect; laugh it off when things get tough — failed. I had literally done the most grown-up thing I could think of with this person, and she still saw me as vulnerable. Not in the way that brings people closer, mind you, but in the way that makes them afraid to touch you. Makes them think you’re breakable.
Instead of screaming in her face, which is what I really wanted, I turned her question back on her and asked: “Who’s better at pain than I am?”
As a way to get a grasp on the whole CP situation, people like to ask me, “does it hurt?” In pain/not in pain is a good/bad binary that they can digest. It allows them to categorize my body in a way that makes sense, and tells them whether they should feel bad for me or not. I always say no because I don’t want to give anyone (more) reason to look down on my body. But let’s be real — there are screws in my spine. Of course it hurts…”
I’d recommend reading the full article here.
