2004 - Vol. 1, Issue 6

Jeremy's palm is rough under the pad of my thumb as I trace soft circles into his skin. My hand is shaking a little - his too - but I am not nervous, and he takes a deep breath and smiles up at me. This is what he wants, and he's patient.

We laugh about things. The two of us are good at that; it's the best way to be. Earlier, when the spasms in my hands were worse, I managed to get parmesan cheese absolutely everywhere but into my bowl of pasta. Jeremy nearly dropped a forkful of linguini onto his lap but saved it at the last moment: well practiced. "Gimp girl: minus one; gimp boy: one," we joked. Jeremy had suggested I lose two whole points, considering the mess I had made. "Don't push your luck," I told him. Besides, it was my kitchen, so I was on cleanup duty by default.

Anyway, it was all very creative. Throw some glue and parmesan cheese on a canvas, add some music, a dancing gimp, and you could make it into a performance piece about the trials and tribulations of life on Social Security Income, what with all the food wasted due to spasms and bad coordination.

"Fact," he helped me along in the dramatic tone of a movie-trailer voice-over. "Every three minutes a tablespoon of grated parmesan cheese is unintentionally lost to the world as a result of the congenital affliction of cerebral palsy. Show a special person you care. Your local theater personnel will be taking your tax-deductible parmesan donation following the show."

"God, you could almost have me convinced someone's tried that. Exactly like that," I laughed. His smile lit up his green eyes, and that's when I kissed him.

In bed, we move slowly. It is the measured slowness that we both share, the key to our togetherness. Our laughter sounds different - is different - now. It is the laughter of success, of pride. We are here now. We are moving together, slow and steady, getting it right. Perfect.

Sometimes, if we go too fast, the spasms come, and Jeremy doesn't want to laugh then. This is making love - it is serious, and something we work hard for. When I think of all the work, I get so tired. Sometimes, I don't have it in me to fight my body for what I want.

It was a Tuesday afternoon when the sun was too bright in my eyes and the pavement too uneven under the wheels of my chair. That's probably why I decided to ask the question. I sat across the desk from yet another caseworker whose sole purpose in my world was to sort my life into carefully managed, government-approved boxes. As he sat, flipping from the green sheet to the yellow sheet and back to the blue, I was thinking, "Say it. Just go ahead and say it..."

"And how would you say that this condition affects your activities of daily living - your personal care activities, washing, dressing... ?"

"Well, actually," I blurted, "I have this boyfriend, we're really serious, and I've been thinking lately - how can I be taking good personal care of myself if I'm not nurturing this relationship? So I'm actually wondering if you have any thoughts on sex. That would really improve my quality of life, you know - just a good, hard lay - if he could manage to pry my legs apart. He can't, you know, and then he starts having these spasms. Right now we can only manage it every so often. It's kind of tiring. I'm just trying to make it an activity of my daily living. Do you know what we could do about that?"

His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish, and when he opened it again he still had to take a deep breath before he could answer me. "Well," he said, "I think the first step should always be a consideration of your birth control options, because-"

"Actually I've already had sex ed, thanks. I know how to use a condom-"

"-because I just think that you ought to be thinking about the bigger picture of your life, and maybe prioritize a bit more effectively. You've got so many important things to worry about. Are you even able to get around in this city? The other day I couldn't catch my train, even when I ran, and I thought of you. I think you ought to work on those kinds of problems."

He smiled with relief as he got himself right back on track. He was, after all, only required to support me in my lone quest for a sufficient quantity of Ramen noodles, a special van, patient trains. Anything beyond that was of no consequence to him. That was the last time I asked the question.

I prop myself up on one elbow and kiss Jeremy's sweet lips, running one hand through his hair. He swallows hard and closes his eyes. He is not afraid, he is concentrating. I run my fingers along the crease in the middle of his forehead, and he lets out his breath slowly. His leg kicks out.

"Shit! Don't do that!" There is anger in his voice. "I could have kicked you," he says more quietly.

"That's okay," I say. "That's how you move. Besides, it's safer for you to kick me below the belt than it is for me to do likewise, so we're lucky," I smooth back his hair again. His smile is reluctant and his eyes wet, so I keep my gaze steadily on his face as I continue. "Jer, this is me. I love you. It doesn't matter."

"I know. I know. I just hate it when I kick you. Jesus. I wouldn't give a shit about anything else - you know that. But I fucking hate that I kick you."

"You'd think of something else," I say matter-of-factly. "So let it go, babe." When I kiss him again, I am more insistent; it is deep and long and hot, and he forgets. He forgets the hate and he forgets the spasms and he kicks me, and we don't mind at all.

Jer and I know the movements of one another's bodies. This was not something we could rush into. Learning what works takes a lot of waiting, watching. Before learning to move together you have to watch how you move apart, have to learn to trust what you know, trust each other - how to hold each other and make it count. Sex is huge and looming and takes working up to. Before the big things will go smoothly, the smaller things need attention. Not that it has the tendency to go smoothly, even now. Smooth and easy sex is not Jeremy and I. We know this. It is not something we want, not really. And yet we get tired. Tired of abortive attempts, of our bodies telling us "no" when we can hardly see straight from the want of it, and quickly.

Quick and easy sex works, but where's the imagination? Jer knows I know the difference. When he's really tired of it all he reminds me of my time with Rob, who could walk, get on top, hold me without shaking. Then Jer is angry, hurt by his own thoughts, and sometimes I can't say anything. When he is in this mood and won't listen, I do not want to touch him. I can't be a part of his negativity. It belongs to him, and he wants to keep it in those moments.

I think of Rob, the way he moved, the way things were: Simpler, but not soft. Quicker, but not better. Less patient, more primal. Rob moved my hands, my legs where he thought they ought to be.

"Please," Jeremy says, "There. Please." He smiles. He waits. Helps me if I ask - if he can. Rob didn't wait. Didn't hold me close and just lay there. He could move well and had to keep moving well, and so he moved me and then moved on.

I ask Jeremy, "Who's here with me now?" and he says, "You think about him." Yes, I do. Sometimes, when I am at a loss for other words, I shout, "You're thinking about it, too!" Then he is quiet for a long time, and I know I have hurt him. We look down, then up, then move toward each other, smiling soft, apologetic smiles. Admitting our pettiness, we hold each other.

With Jeremy there are no doubts. We speak and move softly; this is our love. When I run my hands lightly over his body, he shivers. We claim each other with our hands, our tongues, fire spreading between us, and all that there is, is that we are together - only sight and sound and sensation; no fear, no hate, no pain. Only Jeremy and me. Together and moving slowly.