I am sitting on my sofa, with my fingers on the laptop (just realising that the first line of this could be sung to the tune of Tom's Diner by Suzanne Vega) and my fingers are screaming at me to wait, just wait a bit until the painkillers have kicked in. My feet feel like Negan was in during the night with Lucille and the soles had REALLY offended him. My hips, while not lying, do not have to scream at me like that and my shoulders, which really have no business getting involved, have come out loudly in solidarity with the rest of my body and are currently recruiting my lower back and gastric system to join the fight.
Yes, theydies and gentlethems, I am in flare. Chronic illness is a wild ride. But today, I got there through honest, hard work.
I fucked my husband. Well.
He came home and I was in the mood so I went for it like a woman who doesn't have fibromyalgia. It was rough, it was hard, it was intense and energetic, and I knew that today, physically, I was going to be good for fuck all. So why do it?
Have you fucking seen my husband? He is fucking gorgeous and he is sexy in a way that does me in every single time I look at him. We've been together for 7 years now and we still want to get each other naked all the time.
Because I am sick and tired of being told where to spend my energy. You may not be conversant with Spoon Theory so here is a wonderful resource for you. Back now? Good, isn't it? So here is the crux of the matter, they are my spoons and I shall spend them as I wish. So there.
So many of our disabled siblings are infantilised and have decision making taken away from them. People ask "would they like a cup of tea?" and expect us to be silent and well behaved. There are horrible programmes like The Undateables (which I won't link to because EWWW) which are just as bad as circus freak shows. Worse, we get held up to the standard of a Paralympian or a wheelchair user with two jobs. And here is some news for you, not all autistic people are fucking rain man. I am absolutely shit at maths. I can suck the marrow out of a cock though.
I have my own agency. Losing my mobility and ability to be awake for 48 hours straight does not mean that the brain that is in there is incapable of making decisions. And yeah, some of them may not make sense to you, but I am not this fragile creature who needs wrapping in cotton wool.
"I'm not sure you should be travelling that far by yourself."
"Well, I'm not sure you should be plucking your eyebrows like it is 1982 but here we are Karen."
So if I tell you to pull my hair, don't fucking insult me by giving it a little tug. Grab a handful and use it to drag me round the bed and down harder on you as I ride your cock. If I tell you to spank me, don't tickle it, hit it, let me feel it. The more you hurt me, the better I like it. Because you are treating me like a woman who knows what she wants, you are treating me like the slut I want to be in that moment. When I say harder, I don't mean a little bit harder, I mean fuck me like you mean it, put me through the fucking wall.
Because, though I like it to be slow and tender sometimes, I have always liked pain. It probably has something to do with endorphins and such, or the fact that my body experiences sensation in a different way to neurotypical people, I am a sensory seeking bitch at the best of times, but I don't want a feathery stroker, I want my pressure deep and hard. And that is my decision. I'll soon let you know if you should stop.
And though I am likely to need an edible by the end of the day... Throw me around, bend me over, fuck me so hard the neighbours hear. It is not your job to decide if I can take it, it is your job to make me cum so hard, I see through space and time.
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