{Kristy} I live in New England with a dude, a dog, and a kid. I put random stuff on the internet, and some people read it. That's both cool and terrifying. I enjoy many things, including books, coffee, documentaries, endless hours of television/internet, booze, funny people, and swear words. email at everydaykg(at)gmail.com
Story Land is a bookish theme park located in the small town of Glen, New Hampshire. The park has a number of rides and attractions, including a tea cup ride based on Alice in Wonderland, Cinderella’s castle and pumpkin coach, and Mother Goose’s house.
"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."
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.
After scouring site after site with rows and rows of horny men holding their hard-ons, I found David. His smile was warm, inviting, and intriguingly devious all at once. He was older than me, in his mid-40s, and his photos showed off a powerful body, a strong charisma, and an undeniable charm. I’d often felt physically invisible within the mainstream LGBT community, but David possessed everything I longed for.
I sent David a cursory email, telling him that I was interested in using his services, but that I had never done this before, that I was nervous. I also casually explained as best I could that I lived with a disability and used a chair. He emailed back some hours later, letting me know that he had experience working with clients with disabilities. David wrote bluntly: “If I’m unsure of something, I’ll just ask.” It was a refreshing change from all the guys who tripped and tumbled over their discomfort.
We ironed out the logistics—a time, a location, a fee. Knowing that my sexuality would be broken down into a succinct session was daunting, and it took away from the fantasy and spontaneity I had dreamed of. But this, perhaps, was the cost of getting what I wanted, what I needed. David gently reminded me that I was paying for his time, and whatever happened happened. On our very last exchange, just a day before we’d meet, he called and asked me a simple question, though one I have never been asked before: “What do you want?”
Shyly and nervously I outlined my likes and dislikes as well as my abilities. I wanted kissing. I craved body contact. I couldn’t bottom for him because of my spasticity and tight muscles. I’d need help undressing and being put in bed. I paused, smiled. My needs were at the forefront.
On a rainy, blustery Saturday afternoon, my iPhone blinked with the message that David was in my lobby. I looked at myself in the mirror: a long-sleeve shirt, cozy winter sweats, a baseball cap. I headed downstairs in the elevator. When the door opened, I recognized him immediately. “Hey there! How are you?” he said, giving me a big hug as if we were long-lost friends. I kept watching him, in part because I still couldn’t believe this was happening, and because he looked really good in those tight blue jeans and that leather jacket.
A sexy man was in my house. We made small talk, waiting for someone to strike. He led himself into my bedroom and asked me about the transfer device I use to get into bed. I told him he would have to lift my legs while I held on to two gymnastic rings fastened to a hydraulic lift in my ceiling. I continued babbling, watching him get closer to me, taking off his coat, revealing a tank top and thick, muscled arms. He then straddled my chair, bent down, and kissed me. As I reached and pawed at him—my limbs flailing, not wanting to miss an inch—he stopped me. He looked into my eyes, past the rejection and pain caused by other lovers, and spoke with a firm honesty. “It’s OK.”
David drank in my disability and I dared not stop him. He lifted me out of my chair and held me in his arms. He grabbed me, cradled me, and kissed me. I curled up into him so he could feel the scars, curves, rods, and contractures that inform my disability. I felt sexy. He took off my shirt, and together we revealed my skin. As he moved down my body, and took off my pants and shoes, I worried what he would do when he saw my leg bag and my toes, which curled into each other. But David made this act of care exciting and real for me. When I was finally naked with him on the bed—my body going into spastic fits as a result of CP—I started to tense even more as I neared climax. In a piercing moment of release, I felt my two identities collide: queer and crippled came together in a surge of pure, uncomplicated pleasure.
The afterglow was setting in as David lay beside me. He held me tight and kissed my forehead. He told me that I was handsome, and as I looked at his arms wrapped around my spindly legs, I felt he meant it. Moments passed and he placed me in my chair, planting one last soft kiss on my lips before ending our session and saying goodbye. As I sat alone, my adrenaline became diluted by a calming bliss. I could not shame this experience because it marked a passage greater than a fleeting carnal exchange. It was the start of my own physical assertion. I would not settle for an affectionless existence, and I had to strive to honor what I wanted as a seated, but sexually alive, man. I finally had someone see me, and regardless of the cost, I finally showed myself to someone else.
Donald has attacked every person of color – except John Boehner. And he has demonstrated that he has a very difficult time when he has to deal with bright women of authority, like Megyn Kelly and Governor Nikki Haley. Can’t you picture it? Can’t you picture his reaction watching Hillary take the oath of office? It’s going to be worth the price of admission. But folks, on a serious point, Trump said he likes “people who don’t get captured.“ What a terrible thing to say about my friend and a genuine war hero, John McCain. So tonight I call on Donald Trump to be a man of his word – and release Chris Christie right now.
-or an almost navy, denim-looking but probably actually 100% cotton shirt
-some sort of easy-peasy, put-together but still fun and fresh long bob that you can take care of in the midst of making a casual brunch for your florist friends (which includes an inexplicable variety of fruit crumbles)
-makeup trend: serve fresh lox at the aforementioned brunch that you bought at your favorite fishmonger’s place, and although it’s not a TREND to be friends with your fishmonger because friendship isn’t a trend, maybe you should make 2016 you fucking chat with the guy who painstakingly makes your precious whitefish salad, dammit.
-also at the brunch is cream cheese and freshly cut tomatoes from your garden (the tomatoes are from your garden, but not the cream cheese entirely), which is just something you do for a variety of friends who own small but expensive food and lifestyle shops
-a bunch of herbs you put in the middle of the table as decoration at your summer garden party
-VERY good olive oil, not good or even great, just VERY good
-maybe some kind of royal purple pashmina that costs, oh, probably 80 bucks? You’re rich enough to own nice things but practical enough to not really go crazy with it
-minimal jewelry on the hands because you’ll be rolling the dough out for a bountiful feast
-wine! Just enough wine to seem fun and light, because you’re mostly drinking during the day with enough seltzer to make it crisp and zesty, or with a bunch of your cheese shop squad as you put things on a Christmas tree or celebrate the birth of sage or put large, flaky, Maldon Sea Salt on something freshly caught and recently killed
-a husband who comes home after a weekend of raucous, May Day partying with your possibly gay, certainly doesn’t matter, fabulously dressed in pastels male friends and goes “chicken pot pie?” and fucking loves it and you CHEERS
I would take people out at the knees with a baseball bat to get front of the line access to a remote cabin in the woods where no one knows where I am and can’t contact me, all for a $100k reward after the fact.
The people in the condo above us are the loudest people I’ve ever heard in my life. I’m running out of things to compare them to—I’ve used, “they must be attempting ballet in their ski boots,” “sounds like they’re trying to assemble an ikea dining room set,” and “it’s amazing how many elephants they can fit in that two-bedroom condo.” Last night at 7:30, with steady banging over our heads, my mother-in-law said, “It sounds like they are splitting firewood into kindling.”
I know in the mornings it is ski boots, that they are walking around in them despite ski boots being uncomfortable, and why would you walk around in them for an hour before leaving to go ski? But in the evenings, the noise has no possible answer, unless they are rare individuals who like wearing ski boots, and they just keep them on hours after they get home from skiing. It seems unlikely.
It hasn’t been too much of a problem, since it hasn’t lasted really late at night, but I’ve told my parents-in-law that if it keeps up today I’ll go introduce myself and gently check in on what they’re up to. But part of me doesn’t want to ruin the illusion of four adults, wearing ski boots, splitting firewood, while attempting to assemble a dining room table, all while a young elephant observes them from behind the kitchen counter. Imagine walking in on that. And I’d just give them a salute and say, “Exactly what I thought, good night,” and go home.
EDIT to include this video that @yrfriendliz just reminded me of, and is so amazing and 100% what is happening to us right now:
2087
turnnoffyourmind
pixelskylines
romaincrisis
blakekathryn
vaporwave
theartofmadeline
dailybridgerton
