Dating Zone

You are now entering the Disabled Dating Zone. If you accept this

mission, your message will self-destruct in ten seconds.

Before the internet dating sites were fruitful and multiplied, I signed

up for a matchmaking group for the disabled called Chaverim. No

sooner had I turned in my paperwork, than I found out that I had

already been matched by the director.

“Erika, would you please come into my office and close the door?”

Hmm… this sounds suspicious. Feeling like a student who is about to

fail a test, because the school never taught me Dating 101, I enter

the office cautiously and close the door slowly. I definitely need

some advice. Too bad there’s no one to advise me.

“OK. What’s the catch this time?” I wonder.

“I’d like you to go out with Saul this Friday night. Oh, and it’s

Valentine’s Day.” “Valentine’s Day. How appropriate!” I think…only

the day with the highest expectations. I haven’t been on a date in

more than three years. Before I change my mind, I ask the director….

“What’s he like?”

“Quiet,” the director tells me. “Here’s his phone number.”

When I get home, I figure I better do it, I better call Saul, but when I

do, I must have the wrong phone number, there’s dead silence.

Finally, his aide pipes up and gives me the address for the restaurant

where we will meet, because the aide also happens to be Saul’s

voice.

Quiet. Ok. But there’s a big difference between Harpo Marx, the

silent movie star who always gets the girl, and this. I’m now part of

a ménage a trios, because the aide is sitting right there with us on

our date. I never thought I’d be the filling in that kind of sandwich.

Hung over already, from my Epilepsy medicine, I order the most

expensive thing on the menu, and proceed to chat with our

chaperone, since my date Saul can’t eat and talk at the same time.

Ok, now this is humiliating. If this is the best that the Disabled

Matchmaking Service can do, I’ll go on my own and put together a

Personal Ad: poet craves a lover, partner, confidant, passionate soul,

with vast intellect.

Ask me if I remember how I got home that night. By Special Delivery,

I suppose.

Betrayed again, by Playground Politics, the geniuses who decide

which disabilities fit together like puzzle pieces. Flashback to

Adaptive PE, there were 10 disabled kids in a town of 40,000. Me,

the girl with one hand, was “matched” with the girl who was blind in

one eye. Together, we made a whole person, I guess.

Fast forward a few years, and there are the Temple memberships

especially for those of us who are single. I scour those events, like

Public Enemy number one.

But even in the Jewish community, all I get is “Thank you for coming.

We’ll see you again next week.” Why? Are you going to include me

next week, make eye contact? Fat chance.

What’s the equation for finding the perfect match? Maybe Stephen

Hawking has it….

About a month later, there’s a knock on the door. “Who’s there?”

Special Delivery, ma’am. Sign here. “Thanks.” This must be an April

Fools joke. No card. Then, I find a letter in the bouquet. “Dear Erika,

my name is Gregory. I’m in an iron lung and love to dance.” I re-read

that last sentence a few times. Ok. How does anyone in an Iron Lung

dance? Let alone have sex?

Do I have to climb in so that we can have sex? Will somebody let me

out if I’m in there for too long?

I choose not to date Gregory.

I’ve had way too many experiences with the really awkward first

dates. More than one guy has asked what sex positions I like best

before we even sit down. Creepy.

And you think you’ve been dumped? I can do you one better. I was

dumped before a first date, just because a guy, sitting in his car, saw

me limping up to the coffee shop and roared off faster than a race

car.

“Disabled?” they’ll ask. “What does that mean? Are you in a

wheelchair?” Honestly, that might be easier for guys to understand.

There’s no way to explain over the phone what disabled is for me.

Instead, we arrange our “date” at a local coffee shop. “How will I

recognize you?” they ask. “I’ll be the one reading Winnie the Pooh.”

Or maybe I should say I’ll be the one limping. See you tomorrow.”

It can all be disheartening and drive you to surf the internet for

Disabled Sex Toys. Did you know there’s something called The

Intimate Rider, which is just what it sounds like. It’s a way for the

disabled to “get into position”. That’s just where this adventure

starts!

And because there are no sex surrogates for the Disabled, the

Intimate Rider comes with a positioning support strap, which is just

like it sounds, a way to alleviate some of the pressure from your

back, bringing you even closer to your partner as he waits for you,

doggy style.

I also found out that the disabled must choose carefully when

looking at sex toys. For example, we must consider-What parts of my

body can I reach without discomfort, what if we have limited use of

one hand or cannot use our hands at all? Are there drones? Are

there quiet times for when we reach orgasm?

Ah me. Sex alone, sex with someone?

Since I love to investigate and since I don’t think Sex Toys are the

whole answer, I enroll myself in a Sex Education class for the

Disabled. I get the syllabus, discover the text for the class is a sticker

book version of the Kama Sutra. Of course, I’m late. Our first

assignment is to partner up since we learn visually. Well, there are

two advantages here. First, we’re not doing anything more

complicated than Missionary style, and second, I “get stuck” with the

teacher. Hmm. Maybe this is the advanced class, and the teacher

thinks I’m his pet? I get to go up in front of the class… WITH THE

TEACHER… and DEMONSTRATE for the class. I don’t remember how

long we were partnered up. Honestly, I don’t know how anyone

took notes. What I do remember is that when we sat down again, I

was hot and sweaty, and very uncomfortable. But maybe there was a

method to the teacher’s madness, maybe others got the underlying

message about intimacy, because what I got out of the class was my

first and last love letter. “Dear Erika, hi. How are you? The first time

I saw you, I think I’m falling for you. I hope you believe in soulmates,

destiny?” We never went out on an unsupervised date, Michael too

had an aide, but this date was different. Why? Simply because it

didn’t make me feel like Julia Roberts at the beginning of Pretty

Woman. I was no one’s business transaction. Michael made me feel

like Cindy Crawford, even though I looked like Drew Barrymore. So,

for Michael, I put on my most beautiful dress, got to the restaurant

early, and we enjoyed swapping stories of our week.

I don’t think Michael ever got married.

I still have his phone number and his letter…

And now, I’m wondering just how advanced the Intimate Rider has

gotten…?

This adventure just keeps getting more and more interesting…

Join us tomorrow for the continuing “Adventures in Disabled

Dating” which, since EVERYTHING a disabled person does takes a

thousand times longer than any able bodied person, is going to be a

very, very long, and hopefully someday, a very satisfying journey.