Mr. Wolf is Huffing and Puffing and Well — You Know the Rest

My life has never been the same since first meeting Mr. Wolf more than a decade ago.

Sadly, he became so fond of me that he decided to move in without an invitation, and I have been woefully unable to evict him since, despite my very best efforts.

I have Lupus, which I refer to as “Mr. Wolf,” because lupus is the Latin word for wolf, and boy has he been snapping his big teeth at me of late.

I have the most serious form of the disease, Systemic Lupus Erythematosus (pronounced: er-uh-thee-muh-toe-sus), also called SLE, which is an autoimmune disease. As such, it is characterized by a malfunction of the immune system. In these types of diseases, the immune system cannot distinguish between the body’s own cells and tissues and that of ‘foreign’ matter. So, rather than simply producing antibodies to attack invading viruses, bacteria or other similar foreign substances, my immune system creates auto-antibodies that attack my body’s own cells and/or tissues.

Like the last of the Three Little Pigs, I've learned long ago to build my house's foundation soundly against his attacks. I have built it upon the concepts of spirituality (Wicca), love (bisexual), hard work, honesty and a willingness to play (the last has been the hardest part for me.) Nonetheless, the truth is that my house is about to come down around my ears.

The past few months have been bleak. Mr. Wolf has been feasting virtually at will — and sister, does he have a lot of will. During the current onslaught, I went to the doctor and was told what I already knew — Mr. Wolf is coming closer and closer to achieving his goal.

Last year, I had a horrible realization: I can no longer remember what it felt like to be well. Oh, I have memories of being very active, unabashedly athletic and whole, but they are no longer sense memories. It’s as if that part of my life was so insubstantial that it has been absorbed into the unreality of dream.

When I was first diagnosed more than 15 years ago, I was consumed with knowing why my own body was trying to destroy me. At first, I found myself looking deeply into the mirror: Who was this stranger that had taken over my body? And, even more importantly, how could I ever learn to live with her?

I fell into a deep-as-the-deepest ravine depression. There was nothing left of the person I once was. Nothing, absolutely nothing, remained. Or so I thought then. I had been wrong. Very wrong. A tiny, itty-bitty, bright even luminous speck of something had survived.

Was it my soul? I still don’t know, but I think so. I also came to believe it was the divine spark of creation housed within all beings; that indescribable “something” that connects us all to each other regardless of race, gender, age, creed, religion or geography. Whatever it was, I felt it. Visceral.

But for the past few months, nothing. It had been a long process, but I had finally begun to believe again that I had a body, that I was a woman, not simply a lump of flesh that temporarily housed my brain until my ever-approaching death. Unfortunately, almost imperceptibly, I had become a “thing” again.

I had thought that once I had found my “soul,” that knowledge — that sense of self, would be mine forever. It has been sobering indeed to realize that self-knowledge, even hard-fought, can be forgotten in the face of relentless disease and worsening disability. So, once again I stood on the very brink. I had managed to take a step back once before, but did I have the ability, or even the will, to do it again?

For days, I once again stared at the pill bottle, my “stash” I had hoarded for years that would bring on the ultimate darkness. If I gave in to its seduction and the sweet oblivion it promised, I would finally rest. And, I was so very, very tired.

I thought back, what had I done before? What was it that had caused me to give a damn whether I met the next dawn? Slowly, I remembered – it was that little zing of life. That shooting feeling that you are, indeed, alive. Even muted by illness it was still there, still calling me unceasingly back from suicide: Sensation.

I sighed and put the pill bottle away— again. I know now that I will not improve, or may never even stabilize again. The truce, the peaceful co-existence, the political accord that I had hammered out with him before is gone.

I must once again work to reclaim my body, make her a part of me again. Integration in a literal sense. I have been kind, nurturing, drawing her back — but that is no longer enough.

Before, it was my honest sexuality that was the key. I had worked to feel arousal again, slowly, gradually working to feel even a nano flash of sexual interest. Once I had done that, I almost immediately remembered the long-lost feeling of my “soul.”

When I was having sex, I was no longer disabled. The pain that has always been Mr. Wolf’s hallmark transcended into pleasure. Touch and intimacy has been my link to the divine for as long as I can remember. In those moments, I was my true self again. Not a disabled person on her way out, but a living, vibrant woman who was put on this planet for some purpose beyond my finite understanding.

It seems significant that I have to relearn this simple message yet again — but this time without my usual coping mechanism. My sexuality continues to elude me now, so I have to figure something else out. Perhaps I failed to appreciate that my real sense of self, my soul, cannot be wooed from the outside, but must be found within. Even though I had connected to her through my physical senses and the practice of a Divine sexuality, she is not really connected to my body at all. She exists in everything, in everyone. Even me — still.

Thus, I have decided to move forward knowing that my deterioration simply is. Mr. Wolf is real, and I can't pretend that he's just some euphemism I created to represent my disease. I need to find new ways to hang on, to continue breathing. I was given the gift of life, and it remains a gift still.

I also hereby re-dedicate my efforts to re-establish my intimate life. I want the most satisfying sex possible. For me, sex doesn’t just promote overall health, it has always meant the very breath of creation. Despite needing to learn a different way to remain connected, I refuse to give up hope that physical intimacy is lost to me now.

— Danu's Daughter

Just Who Should We Fear, Anyway?

I routinely visit the doctor for ongoing treatment of Lupus, but I got way more than I bargained for last week when I got into it with a group of patients in the waiting room.

The issue that brought about the mini-skirmish was homosexuality in general, and gay marriage in particular.

Guess I’d better explain. When I arrived, my doctor was running late (don’t they always?), so I found a seat in the small and very crowded waiting room. A TV was blaring a Jerry Springer-like program in the corner. I’d brought a book to read, so I sat as far from the set as possible, which sadly put me facing the group of eager TV viewers.

These folks included more than 20 mixed race people, a little older than a normal cross-section of the public because the doctor we were waiting for is a rheumatologist. The key “player” in what turned out to be my personal drama was a man in his 30’s who had driven his elderly mother to her appointment and was waiting with her. He was quite handsome: tall, fit – cut even – with a stylish shaven head, but a less-than-stylish toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He was wearing expensive summer shorts and a blue polo shirt. He was also very loud.

At some point on the TV program, a homosexual man and his partner were picked out of the audience. They said they were planning to wed when/if it ever became legal in their home state. Immediately, the handsome man I was sitting across from began making unpleasant remarks about the gay couple on the TV. He loudly expressed how disgusting, etc. the whole thing was, prompting the bulk of the remainder of those in the waiting room to chime in their complete agreement. The handsome man, egged on by the obviously appreciative crowd and vise-versa, began to laugh derisively at the men on the TV. The handsome man and several others in the waiting room continued to express and utter a lot of vicious gay-bashing insults, and similar remarks that I will not dignify by repeating here.

As the whole thing unfolded, I literally felt sick to my stomach. I am bisexual, but even if I was straight, I would have been deeply offended by the terrible hate-talk.

After a few minutes, I found that I had almost involuntarily put my book down and was facing all of them. Quite abruptly, as if I was looking down on myself from some place high and hovering just below the ceiling, I interrupted this room of average Americans. At that point, almost all of them were laughing merrily – very happily bashing homosexuals, the handsome man at the center of it all, his eyes absolutely twinkling with cruel delight.

With as level a voice as I could manage, I softly asked them if they, “did not like gay people?”

An African-American woman who appeared to be in her 50’s answered without hesitation, “No,” prompting the majority of the group to all nod in agreement. The handsome man laughed again, and the others joined him.

She went on to proclaim that she was Christian, and that nowhere in the Bible did it say that homosexuality was anything but a sin, or that “those awful, awful people could marry.”

Another woman, who was white and said she was Italian-American and Catholic, said she agreed completely, proclaiming that, “those sick people will all go to hell, and this country will be better off without them in it.”

I told them that I couldn’t understand that view at all, that I tried to judge each person as an individual, and not to stereotype them. I said that I had thought that Christianity promoted that very approach. I also noted that the Bible also fails to condemn slavery, while actually providing instructions to slave owners. As a result, I suggested to the African-American woman that perhaps her citing it as support for an anti-homosexuality argument wasn’t the best choice under the circumstances.

For some reason, I kept talking. I noted calmly that many of those who were speaking out against homosexuals in the room were of different races. I told them that to me, “gay-bashing is just another form of bigotry – a different flavor of prejudice.”

The handsome man, who happened to be African-American, had suddenly become very, very, angry. He sharply and loudly criticized me for “daring” to speak out “in favor of those fags,” and for horribly comparing it to racial bigotry. He said I was "full of shit,” and that he had a right to his opinion.

I told him I agreed completely that he had the right to believe anything and everything that he chose. Swallowing my now palpable fear, I unwisely added, “but you’re in a public place, laughing at and insulting a group of people simply because of their sexuality. I really see it as bigotry. Your conversation and behavior are very offensive to me, and I would appreciate it if you would stop.”

An immediate and deep-as-a-ravine silence followed in which the only sound I could hear was my own heart thudding wildly in my chest like it was trying to jump completely out of my body, along with the constant drone of the TV.

“We’ll stop – but not because of you, because we’re finished talking,” he said, twisting his handsome features into an honest-to-God sneer. Then he leaned way forward in his chair and actually jabbed a finger out directly at me, reaching very close to where I was sitting. “Change the subject, or this is going to get very ugly for you – right here, right now.”

Look, I'm almost twice his age and disabled. I’m a 54-year-old white woman who can only walk with the use of two canes.

Somehow, I managed to look directly and deeply into his now hate-filled and threatening eyes. I knew in that instant that if I said a single other thing to him – anything – he really might strike me. And, if he did, I also knew he’d never suffer a pang of conscience, even though any blow from him would injure me quite badly.

“No problem. I have my book,” I replied, my mouth suddenly very dry. As I looked away from him, not one person in the waiting room made eye contact with me. Turning to my book still on my lap, I found that my hands were shaking uncontrollably.

No one spoke the rest of the time we were pressed together. When it was finally my turn to see the doctor and we were alone in an examination room, she asked if I was OK. The receptionists, all women, had heard everything and had told her because they were upset. Despite how they had felt, not one of them had tried to stop the gay-bashing.

Even so, the doctor thanked me for speaking out. She said that, "a lone voice against hate and intolerance does make a difference." She said it puts a different energy into the minds of everyone present. She said she thought it was fear that had stopped some to speak up who probably had agreed with me; some that felt gay marriage was OK; or others who believed that homosexuality was nothing to be made fun of, and that gays should not be abused.

I found out later that the oh-so-thoroughly-furious-handsome man was...wait for it...a police officer! Just what we need, not only another homophobic-bigoted man – but one with a badge and a gun.

— Danu's Daughter

Finding the Goddess – No Matter What

I became a Wiccan when the Goddess suddenly came alive in my heart through the magick of nature’s bounty, from her brilliant foliage to all wild creatures – the Sacred Circle of vibrant creation.

She is so real, so close, that I can honestly feel the actual touch of Her gentle hand guiding me, and can almost – almost – see the details of Her sweet, ever-changing face.

So, what happens when you’re a Wiccan who connects to the Goddess and God through nature and ritual but can no longer explore Their glorious world through either of these? What happens when you are unable to stroll on the beach, explore the wilderness, walk through a meadow, or skim the perfect stone (flat, of course, with just the right round, smoothness to perfectly fit the gentle curve of your forefinger) across a lake for a minimum of five long-arcing skips?

I face those questions every day because I have been losing my ability to walk; to stand for very long; and to move my shoulder, arms and fingers in one arm for anything that requires the barest amount of control.

As a result, I can no longer attend the occasional Coven meeting (I am a Solitary Practitioner, Eclectic Wiccan, so I have no Coven membership); dance with joy under a Full Moon; celebrate the festivals; cast a Sacred Circle; manipulate my Altar tools; prepare the seasonal (Sabbats and Esbats) gifts successfully; make Wiccan jewelry; carve or inscribe candles for spells; or even bundle herbs and make infused oils.

Nor can I chase little children through sprinklers on long, hot summer days amidst their squeals of delight – ending the evening by landing fireflies on my hand for just a magical moment.

I have Lupus, a progressive disease. Now, I can only view the Lady’s and Lord’s astounding glories – like the changing of the seasons, stunning sunsets, or the wondrous activities of the birds, squirrels, deer, even skunks – from the patio of my small backyard; or worse yet, from the window of a moving car.

As I write this, the reality of my “life” causes my stomach to clinch with a fear so palpable that it threatens to overwhelm my reason. But then, faith is not based on reality, or reason, is it? It exists on a completely different plane, it frankly speaks to a part of ourselves that is the antithesis of logic.

Just what is the meaning of my life – any life for that matter?

That age-old, rather trite question is one that each of us has asked in one way or another at one time or another. I was batting this question around with a dear friend, SurviveSurvival who just happens to be a scientist and an artist – pretty cool combo, right? He also knows all about my condition, and is continuing to survive his own health issues.

As it happened, I had just watched a rare TV interview of famed, off-the-chart-brilliant, theoretical-physicist, British Professor Stephen W. Hawking.

Hawking, 68, suffers from ALS, a fatal condition commonly referred to as Lou Gehrig’s Disease. He was diagnosed while at Oxford at age 22.

At the time, his professors and educators were beginning to appreciate just how special he is. “It was only necessary for him to know that something could be done, and he could do it without looking to see how other people did it. [...] He didn't have very many books, and he didn't take notes. Of course, his mind was completely different from all of his contemporaries,” said Robert Berman, his physics tutor.

Doctors told him he wouldn’t live another two years – and he’s still here. Up to 1974, he was able to feed himself, and get in and out of bed without assistance. In 1985, he caught pneumonia, had to have a tracheotomy operation that removed his ability to speak altogether. Despite that, using a special computer, he has written numerous books, including the award-winning A Brief History of Time, articles and so much more.

His physical condition has also deteriorated progressively. Now, he can only communicate by moving a single muscle in his cheek that stimulates a signal on a special computer. It is the only muscle that he can still consistently control.

“I am quite often asked: How do you feel about having ALS? The answer is, not a lot. I try to lead as normal a life as possible, and not think about my condition, or regret the things it prevents me from doing, which are not that many,” he says on his website.

“I have had motor neurone disease for practically all my adult life. Yet it has not prevented me from having a very attractive family, and being successful in my work. This is thanks to the help I have received from Jane, my children, and a large number of other people and organizations. I have been lucky, that my condition has progressed more slowly than is often the case. But it shows that one need not lose hope,” he said.

The last question he was asked in the TV interview was: If he could receive the answer to any of the questions he's sought for so long as a scientist, what would it be? His response: Why we are here; why there is even existence at all.

That is the very question that scientists and all religious seekers (including me) have pursued and will continue to pursue until entropy overtakes everything, and nothingness again rules the cosmos. At that moment, I was reminded that it is not the question or even the answer that defines us but its pursuit, and it does so through the glass darkly or lightly, depending on the person that each of are continuing to become.

I believe that mythology, all religions, and even science strives to provide the answer to that precise question. But those answers are embraced, absorbed, related to or rejected – via various degrees in specific and even unique ways that are based solely on our own personal world views, experience, education, and cultures. What makes sense to me in terms of the ultimate Cosmic question as a middle-aged white woman, may not make any sense to someone of a different age, who lives in a different culture, ethnicity, etc.

I had an unconventional upbringing, which I believe made it much easier for me to be flexible and question every single major religion and philosophy. When I found Wicca, I suddenly released a breath I hadn’t know that I’d been holding for so long that my face had become a permanent blue. It was like searching endlessly for a single missing part of a jigsaw puzzle, then simply tripping over it.

All of those answers from all ancient sources have evolved over millennia, but that core question remains, doesn’t it? Professor Hawking said that scientists use observation and reason to find the answer, while metaphysical/religious seekers use more subjective measures. A trace of a smile touched his face as he asserted that because of their methods, scientists will always be right!

While I disagree with his conclusion, his message resonants to me on so many levels partly because he still cares about the answer – passionately! Despite his broken body, his mind and spirit remain utterly unbowed, his life as precious to him as the day he was born.

The beauty of Wicca for me is that it underscores that no one person or path, religious or scientific, is right or wrong. It doesn’t seek to convert or condemn, but simply to provide a means to live each moment, to feel the pulse of the planet in our very cells.

Another famous scientist from a much earlier era, Paracelsus, summed it up, “Magic has the power to experience and fathom this which are inaccessible to human reason. For magic is a great secret wisdom; and reasoning against it is nothing else but extreme folly.”

For those unfamiliar with Paracelsus, he was an enigmatic sixteenth-century Swiss physician and natural philosopher Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim. Called Paracelsus, he is known for the almost superhuman energy with which he produced his innumerable writings, for his remarkable achievements in the development of science, and for his reputation as a visionary (not to mention sorcerer) and alchemist.

The importance of Paracelsus, who lived from 1493 to 1541, lies in the link that he provided between medieval and scientific thought. Believing in and practicing alchemy, magic, astrology and various divinatory techniques, he was also “the first modern scientist,” and the “precursor of microchemistry, antisepsis, modern wound surgery, homeopathy and a number of ultra-modern achievements.”

And, what of Professor Hawking? He is almost certain that alien life exists in other parts of the universe and uses a mathematical basis for his assumptions. "To my mathematical brain, the numbers alone make thinking about aliens perfectly rational. The real challenge is to work out what aliens might actually be like."

My, wouldn’t those two men have had the most incredible discussions?

Me? Ironically, it is thanks to these two scientists that I have been reminded of the most important lesson of all: It isn’t the religious trappings, physical abilities, or even a specific God, non-God or science to follow, or even to rail against, it is what is what each of us holds in our hearts that matter.

[Above: Professor Stephen W. Hawking experiences zero-gravity in April 2007 while in a modified Boeing 727 jet that simulated the experience of weightlessness as it took a series of eight plunges. He was able to float free for about four minutes, unrestricted by his paralyzed muscles and his wheelchair.]

Here are a just a few of Professor Hawking’s awards and honors:

1975 Eddington Medal
1976 Hughes Medal of the Royal Society
1979 Albert Einstein Medal
1981 Franklin Medal
1982 Order of the British Empire (Commander)
1985 Gold Medal of the Royal Astronomical Society
1986 Member of the Pontifical Academy of Sciences
1988 Wolf Prize in Physics
1989 Prince of Asturias Awards in Concord
1989 Companion of Honour
1999 Julius Edgar Lilienfeld Prize of the American Physical Society
2003 Michelson Morley Award of Case Western Reserve University
2006 Copley Medal of the Royal Society
2008 Fonseca Price of the University of Santiago de Compostela
2009 Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honor in the United States

He and his wife, Jane, have three adult children.

[Above: Portrait of Paracelsus by renowned artist Quentin Massys (Metsys), who lived 1466–1530.]

Here is a bit more about Paracelsus:

He believed that it was far more important to contemplate nature and the majesty of God's handiworks than to spend all one's time studying the knowledge that could be found in books.

Medicine during the Middle Ages was greatly influenced by Galen who sought to study anatomy and physiology by using an animal as a cadaver; however this proved to be an insufficient model of the true anatomy of the human body. Furthermore, Galen’s hypothesis that the body had two blood systems and diseases could be cured by looking deeper into the four humors in the body proved to be grossly erroneous. When Paracelsus, Vesalius, and Harvey came onto the medical scene during the 16th and 17th century, medicine started to evolve into a more precise and exact science.

Paracelsus’ methods were based on a new chemical philosophy, in contrast, the universities were still using traditional Galen’s principles and Paracelsus did not agree with this method of teaching.

His methods were based on experimentation and a chemical philosophy based on the harmony of man (the microcosm) and Nature (macrocosm). Paracelsus believed that actions that occurred within the body were the result of the universe, on a smaller scale of course.

This notion, although it deterred from Galen’s previous findings, was that chemical imbalances in the body were found in certain organs and could be treated with specific remedies. These, of course, proved that imbalances of the four humors were not the underlying factors in diagnosing certain illnesses.

This prompted Paracelsus to start dedicating his time to producing chemicals and minerals that could be used in certain doses for specific ailments. He did meet opposition, as many believed he was infecting patients with the same disease they had in order to cure it, and this may in fact have been right. In all actuality, his findings have made him the father of modern medicine, and to some of the Scientific Revolution, the first person to study in depth homeopathic and holistic medicine.

He was also a prolific writing, publishing more than 200 volumes of material, including De Occulta Philosophia. The most well known in the U.S. is a two-volume collection of his most famous material, The Hermetic and Alchemical Writings Of Paracelsus.

— Danu’s Daughter

My Sex Life as a Disabled Woman

Almost always, sex is simply too much.

It’s too much expectation; too much pain; often just too much effort that leads to too much debilitating exhaustion; too much disappointment. I’m disabled you see, so it’s rare that sex isn’t too much. But it just as often brings too much joy; too much connection; too much Cosmic Divinity; too much glorious pleasure that leads to too much unbelievably soaring release. So, far too wonderful to lose. Thus, I will reach out to my partner with my broken, weakening body until I am just too, too, too totally unable to do so.

I LOVE sex. I believe and live a sex-positive life, having found a true connection with the Cosmic Creator through practicing Tantra in sexual unions. Wicca has allowed me the freedom to set guilt aside and embrace physical pleasure for the gift that it is. But, this has been a pretty tough year for me. I have Lupus, S.E., and it’s devastated a lot of my joints (I walk with two canes), and is now working on the ’ole noggin. I’m 53, but feel more like 93 a lot of time (and no, not the new 93 either!)

I’ve lived with the diagnosis a very long time, adjusting my sex life so that the positions required for success could be consistently met with a partner or during solo sex. Recently, that’s been more and more difficult. It may well be that I won’t be able to find a comfortable position at all some day – so I have to prepare for that horrible possibility.

You know, most disabled women and men never discuss their sex lives or sexual problems publicly or sadly, even in private. There is such an enormous layer of shame surrounding it, like it’s somehow our fault that our limbs won’t respond like a “normal,” able-bodied person. Like we’re filthy, unclean in the Biblical sense.

Recently, I looked through a bunch of free porn on the Internet. No, I’m not into it, although there’s nothing wrong with porn, and I actually surprised myself by finding some of it arousing. I had been looking for an image to copy and stylize for this blog when I ran into some very troubling information. It seems that if someone is in a wheelchair, or is otherwise visibly disabled and are depicted in porn, it is produced as “fetish sex.” FETISH SEX! In other words, not regular-people-porn. (I can’t believe I’m arguing we should be treated better by the porn industry, but I am.)

Here’s the dictionary definition of fetish: “The paraphilic focus in Fetishism involves the use of nonliving objects (the "fetish"). Among the more common fetish objects are women's underpants, bras, stockings, shoes, boots, or other wearing apparel. The person with Fetishism frequently masturbates while holding, rubbing, or smelling the fetish object or may ask the sexual partner to wear the object during their sexual encounters. Usually the fetish is required or strongly preferred for sexual excitement, and in its absence there may be erectile dysfunction in males…Usually the Paraphilia begins by adolescence, although the fetish may have been endowed with special significance earlier in childhood. Once established, Fetishism tends to be chronic.”

Obviously, fetish has also come to be used to denote any preference that has an erotic or sensual tinge to it, even if it isn’t part of a person’s traditional sex life. So someone who really loves shoes may describe themselves as having a shoe fetish. On the other hand, someone who likes to incorporate fur into their sex play may say they have fur fetish. Thus, someone who gets off by seeing someone in a wheelchair has a disabled-person fetish? Holy crap, as if life with a serious/fatal illness wasn’t rough enough already.

Everyone needs to feel good about themselves at least a little bit to be able to have sex, rotten self-esteem takes the steam out of the sizzle faster than anything else. So, when the porn industry throws us under the bus, too, it simply underscores just how the rest of society must see us, too.

I had already discovered that there are no sex aids for the disabled on the market – believe me, I’d looked everywhere. As a woman, a gadget that would help me reach would be great, or something to support my arms while I try to pleasure my partner, since my hands are unable to work long or well. Nothing, zip, nada. Soooooo, I have been forced to improvise, as I’m sure all other disabled people must, too.

In many ways, I’m lucky to be female since I don’t have to depend on holding an erection, which must be a nightmare for a lot of disabled guys. I’m also lucky because I orgasm easily and consistently – as long as the right areas can be comfortably reached, that is.

Does society really think we have no right to sex? That we are non-entities, sexless eunuchs who should stay in the background. We should know and keep our place. Above all, that we are not flesh and blood human beings with deep feelings, passionate desires, and strong sexual drives. Are you surprised to hear that we have just as many earthly needs as you have? That we have as much of a birthright to orgasm you. Or, does the real image of a disabled person deeply aroused or in full orgasm repulse you? Be brutally honest. The truth is it might even repulse you if you are disabled.

I assume that any erotica penned that involves a disabled person would be considered fetish sex, or even deviant sex. That’s too bad. We disabled know a lot about sex – we have to. We have to understand how our bodies, and yours, work to be able to have sex consistently and successfully. We know cool little – and sometimes big – tricks that you might really, really enjoy. We are also very patient, and are often forced to go nice and slow. We are generally sincerely considerate of your needs and pleasure, and very grateful for the kind, loving touches, kisses that we receive.

You see, when I have sex and the pleasure begins to build (inside or within my partner), I am no longer disabled. My body is no longer broken; I am suddenly floating free and unencumbered in the loving arms of endless, universal bliss, and I see the face of the Goddess. Is it any wonder that I do not – will not – give up this part of my life, and steadfastly refuse to apologize for it?

(FYI: There are few books I've found on this subject. The best for me by far is The Ultimate Guide to Sex and Disability by Miriam Kaufman and Cory Silverberg.)

— Danu’s Daughter