Girl on the Net

I adore this week’s guest blog, for many reasons – not least because it is super-hot in it’s descriptions of some of the sexual details that I like to obsess over. But also because it’s devastatingly real: real-life fucking with all the quirks and kinks and troubles that come with it. It’s about sex, disability, and dealing with chronic pain and fatigue when you’re fucking. Take it away Alice…

Sex, disability and focusing on pleasure

Let’s get the slightly awkward bit out of the way: I’m ill. All the time. I’ve been ill for more than half my adult life and will continue to be so, because it’s genetic and degenerative. It’s annoying as hell – I often can’t work, have to limit my hobbies and when I do go out it’s a fucking humungous effort of energy, will and the acceptance that I’ll end up in a lot of pain the next day.

The upside of this is that I end up having a lot of fun indoors, in private and often in bed.

I’ve always had a high sex drive. Even though I was a late starter, I’ve spent the last eight years exploring everything I can with regards to sex, from fetishes to foursomes to pegging to “so THAT’S a Hitachi. Holy fuck … Do it again”. Sex is the one thing that switches my brain off and, honestly, creates enough endorphins to help me ignore most of the pain.

For the last few months, I’ve had to focus on how negative my disability is. How it affects my ability to walk to the shops, how I get so fatigued I put the kettle in the fridge… it’s hard to feel sexy when I’ve had to note down every negative effect that chronic fatigue and pain have on my life, for someone I’ve never met before but who has a say in how much help I can get from the government.

Now that’s over, though, I can focus on the good stuff. I can focus on the fact that when in the missionary position, I can watch his face form a perfect ‘O’ of shock and pleasure as I raise my legs above my head and, if I’m feeling particularly limber, hook my feet over the bed railings.

I can focus on how ridiculously supple and long my tongue is and how beautifully it curls and twists around a cock or cunt. I get to focus on the pleasure I can give.

I can focus on how, when someone’s had their face between my legs until I’ve lost track of time, with my hand contorted in their hair, I can see the muscles in my thighs trembling and not just from how exhausted I am. I can focus on taking pleasure and finding reserve energy I didn’t think I had to buck in their face when I come, again.

I can focus on how, sometimes, it’s fun to push myself – my back might be hurting, but I can think instead about the firm, strong fingers digging into my hips or the palm pressing on the base of my spine. It’ll hurt the next day, but the moment of feeling completely owned and fucked and delighted in is worth it. It’s like sitting down after a particularly vicious beating – it hurts, but it sends a smile to my face and a tingle to my cunt.

I can enjoy the funny bits, too. The moments when I have to ask for a pause because my hip’s gone and partly put itself out: click it back in and get back to pounding me into the mattress, lover. The times people have just ended up nuzzling my skin, marvelling at how soft it is. The explanations of “no, really, I’ll be able to slip my wrists out, look” and slid out of a pair of cuffs as easily as a knife out of butter. The punishment for being such a nubile, difficult-to-restrain brat. The times when one of my legs has had enough of being a leg and sends me falling, with style, into a lover’s lap for an impromptu grope.

And there are the ones who understand. The ones who know not to flog me on that certain part of my arse if I’ve got a sciatica flare-up, but know I can take it, dear god yes I can take it please, harder, on other areas. The ones who know not to call me lazy if I need to sleep in, but will gladly curl up against me, warm and solid against my aching back, and offer to kiss me better. The ones who don’t give a fuck if I’m using a walking stick or wheelchair, but definitely do give a fuck if I’m wearing Those Boots, or That Dress. The ones who focus on the person, not the disability.

If someone came along tomorrow and offered me a definite cure, I’d jump at it without fear of dislocating several bits of myself at once. But, fuck it: if I’m going to have a disability, I’m damn well going to have a sex life. And it’s going to be a good one.

Now, excuse me, I’ve got to limber up…