Could We Have Sex With The Lights Off
Love?
Could we have sex with the lights off?
Have you ever performed before
With spotlights and vibrato nerves,
Then known your entire existance to be a performance,
because the bile in your throat
And the blood petrifying in your hands
has the familiar same acidity
And the same stone heaviness
As catching the train home,
And snapping a selfie,
And tangling skin to skin with your lover?
To be crip is never to leave the stage.
To be blind is always to hold the spotlight’s brilliant scrutiny.
It’s not that I hate my disabled body;
It’s just that I never consented to a lifetime of stages and spotlights-
Never consented to the constant scorecards of ableism-
Never consented to the stranger on the street corner pointing and announcing he’d “fuck that blind one.”
So I guess
All I’m asking is:
Could we have sex with the lights off?
You never told me,
It’s just I can’t forget:
How I’m supposed to walk and dance and sit;
How I’m supposed to speak and move and fuck;
How I would need to act
Not to have my body grabbed,
pulled,
Jerked like the puppet they think me to be.
How I would need to act…
To exist
To be viewed as autonomous,
Maybe even…
Worthy of respect?
You never told me,
It’s just I can’t forget:
Eye contact is honest,
Caring,
Intimate
“You seem untrustworthy when you don’t meet my eyes.”
“At least make it look like you’re looking into my eyes, so I know you’re engaging with me.”
So I’m making it look like I’m looking into your eyes when you’re between my thighs gazing at me, so the crowd will feel more…
Connected.
And I’m trying to be visually pleasing.
Maybe I shouldn’t try-
Shouldn’t perform-
Fuck societal standards!
But maybe that wouldn’t make my body any less of a constant curiosity,
A naked manikin,
A jewelry case in a department store for gawking hands and estimating eyes.
Maybe ableism, like the most unwelcome voyeur, would still recline outside my window mocking me as I undress.
So I guess
All I’m asking is:
Maybe just this once,
Could we have sex with the lights off?