Member-only story
A Wheelchair Can’t be a Woman
A person in a wheelchair is often defined by the chair and therefore isn’t a woman either
I’ve tossed my high heels by the hotel’s bedside table. I’m looking at my pile of clothes — unpacked, not put away — strewn across the couch, thinking of what I might change into when I take my dress off, wondering how to get from my wheelchair to his body now that we’re alone.
While I’m still thinking, he lifts me from my chair to the bed, kissing me along the way. My dress’s slit is deep and falls open across my hips.
He is still in his suit. Just like in the fantasy I’ve masturbated to for months: He comes home from work. He can’t help it, can’t wait, doesn’t take his suit off, not even his jacket. He leaves his tie on. Kneels in front of me. Pulls my hips toward him. Wordless. Spreads my legs around his shoulders and kisses up my the inside of my thigh.
Now it is happening. It is real. He is wearing a suit, jacket, and tie. I, this black thigh-slit dress.
He kisses me and pulls down my underwear with one slow finger. He sprawls on his stomach, his suit jacket bunching at his shoulders. He pulls my legs apart, ducks under my right knee, and kisses up the inside of my leg.
