FYI, as a disclaimer, these are his titles that he picked himself.

“That Time I Had Sex With Another Queer Cripple”

In my feverish frenzy to relish in the moment, I asked him to hang out again. He paused. It was the pause we all know. The one where they’re about to reveal to you something you knew deep, deep inside. After his pause, which felt like an eternity, he said that we couldn’t see each other again because... I was “too disabled” and “too much work.” I was absolutely floored by what I was hearing. I couldn’t believe that someone who most likely had experienced all the same stumbles as I had was being so very ableist. What. Was. Happening? I think I actually thought, “He isn’t allowed to say that, is he?” It was some of the worst rejection that I have ever experienced, because it came from one of my own.

“Price of Intimacy: The Time I Hired a Sex Worker.”

I’d never considered the price of intimacy until I hired a sex worker. Though I’d been learning to embrace my life in a wheelchair—a result of cerebral palsy—going without touch, or even access to my own body, was taking a toll. Even so, I didn’t come to my decision lightly. I was worried about shame, stigma, and fear, and concerned I’d pay for time and still not get what I needed. I spent weeks quieting the voices in my head telling me that using the services of a sex worker was not a good idea. Would this be the only way I could find intimacy? Would someone even want to do this with me, or would he only view it as a charitable opportunity to help a cripple? Despite all these questions, I sat in my apartment reflecting on my nearly year-long celibacy. It was time to take care of myself.

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