For the most part, sex work can be described as a feel good profession. As opposed to collection agents, gym teachers or reality TV show judges, doing your job well usually means leaving someone with a smile. That’s not to say the work you do is always going to be pleasurable for you. But knowing that you’re giving someone something they genuinely benefit from is often enough to compensate for the other challenges you experience along the way.
The nature of that relationship, the sense that I’m giving a client something they can’t get anywhere else, becomes particularly pronounced in certain situations — taking a 60 year old’s anal virginity, aiding a married man to explore his interest in cross-dressing, helping someone re-enter the sexual arena after the death of their spouse. But that sense you’re doing something critically important, something that’s changing someone’s life, is probably the most pronounced when you’re serving a client with disabilities.
I’ve had plenty of clients with a range of physical and mental challenges over the years. Though guys in this scenario tend to be quite upfront about both their needs and desires, I’ve learned to get as much information as possible in advance; what kind of assistance they’ll need, their physical limits, whether their dicks get hard. In a way, it’s not that different from other dates. Faced with a client who has a major impairment can lead you to feeling like the Florence Nightingale of fucking — a well-intentioned, though grandiose, sense of sexual self-importance.
Raymond lays out everything in his first email. He’s paralyzed from the waist down but has full use of his upper body. His dick won’t be part of the equation but mine will be a central focus. He’s an oral bottom into face-fucking, spit, piss and forced poppers use. I initially suggest an afternoon time slot, but he says he’s busy and wants to meet much later, around midnight.
He lives on the first floor of a row of townhouses. When I ring the bell, the door buzzes and I step inside. Walking through a second doorway, I see a long hallway that opens to another room. Dropping my shoes and my bag, I continue down the corridor until I find myself in a tastefully decorated kitchen where he’s seated with a glass of wine at the table. He’s 50-something and a little chubby, with salt and pepper hair, a chiselled jaw line and shockingly blue eyes. He offers me a glass of what he’s drinking and I agree, sitting next to him in one of the kitchen chairs.
While I always want to know about the present state of someone’s disability and how it will shape the sexual experience, I don’t make a habit of prying into their past. Perhaps because he’s been down this road before, Raymond lays everything on the table almost immediately. He was born able-bodied and lived that way for the first 41 years of his life. Fifteen years ago, a car accident severed his spine and left him without the use of his legs. As he talks, I glance around the kitchen, noticing the placement of cookbooks and glasses on easily reachable shelves, the kitchen counters at an accessible height, the well-appointed wine rack in the corner.
The place doesn’t have the feel of someone living on a disability pension, so I casually mention something about an insurance settlement from the accident. It turns out there was no money (the crash was actually his fault) and his current accommodations weren’t the result of some massive payout or government assistance. He had the tiny fortune to have his major life change around the time telecommuting was coming into wide use. Instead of quitting work and going on a pension, he was able to return to his job after his rehabilitation, working almost entirely from his home office.
I notice the clock has already eaten up about 20 minutes, so I winkingly suggest he give me a tour of the bedroom. He smiles, downs the last of his wine and then wheels himself out of the kitchen. I follow him down the hall to a room with a king size bed. I’m about to offer him assistance in transferring from his chair to the bed, but he easily swings himself over in a single motion, doffs his shirt, and grabs the bottle of poppers from the nightstand.
I find myself in a moment of self-check. Why on earth would I assume he’d need my help to get into his own bed? Based on everything else in his apartment, he obviously lives independently. The fact that a hooker is present doesn’t change his ability to make the leap from chair to bed he makes each night. He breaks me from my moment of self-doubt as he grabs my arm and forcibly pulls me in for a kiss. I press my mouth hungrily to his, letting strands of saliva flow.
Our lips still in contact, I unbuckle my jeans and slide them down to my knees. His hand immediately reaches for my cock, pulling it closer to him. I try to avoid letting clients see me soft. They’re not paying for a person with a normal ebb and flow of desire. You’re supposed to embody sex in the most literal way possible, which more or less means being perpetually erect.
Getting hard isn’t usually a problem, as long as there’s a little foreplay. But we’ve been at it for little more than a minute and I haven’t had time to psychologically reroute blood to my still-flaccid dick. He’s unaffected by my limp state, taking me greedily in his mouth. I get hard fast and begin slowly fucking his face. I’m trying to be gentle so as not to knock him over, but he grabs my ass and pulls me into him until he’s almost choking. I grab the bottle of poppers from the bed, unscrew it and press it to his nose, goading him on to inhale more.
Tossing the bottle aside, I grab the nipple clamps from the table and try to apply them. My hands are slippery and I can’t get a good grip. My dick still in his mouth, he applies them himself, then lies back on the bed, grabbing my ass and pulling me on top of him . . .