When he was 21, Liam met a man in a bar and went back to his hotel room. As they were undressing one another, Liam tugged roughly on his new friend’s trousers. He pulled off the guy’s pants – and both of his prosthetic legs.
“Do you know how light a person is without legs? I could pick him up and carry him when we were having sex,” Liam said. “It was brilliant!”
There are people who have a fetish for amputees. They are called acrotomphiles. Liam isn’t one. Instead he is, in his own words, a “slut.” He is also a far better person than I am. I would have been angry and upset if I hadn’t had a heads- up beforehand, but Liam takes everything in his stride.
I want to make something clear: I don’t think amputees, or anyone with a non-normative body, is not a viable sex partner. I have had a partner with a disability and it made no difference to me at all. But having said that, if there is anything unusual or unexpected under your clothes I would like to know beforehand. Third nipple? Twelve inch cock? Whatever. I don’t like surprises.
There were four of us sitting around on a Sunday afternoon eating pizza when Liam told us this story. Interestingly enough, I was the only one who felt this way. The others thought that disclosure beforehand was unnecessary as you would find out soon enough. Then again, I was also the only woman in the group — or maybe I was the only arsehole.
It’s always been my firm belief that you should be upfront about any personal information that could influence whether or not someone is willing to have sex with you. A prosthetic leg would not bother me; not being told beforehand definitely would.
I think that my attitude has been shaped by the fact that I am a woman – and a relatively small one at that. Most of my sexual partners have been taller and stronger than me. If a man waited until I was alone with him – and therefore vulnerable – before revealing an important detail, I would feel that my consent had been obtained under false premises.
Consent obtained with a lie – even a lie of omission – is not consent at all. If someone holds back vital information because they know, or suspect, that revealing it will change a “yes” into a “no” then they have not received consent in good faith. That makes them untrustworthy – and you need some level of trust even for the most casual of sexual encounters.
However, this does bring up some difficult questions. How much truthfulness does a sexual partner deserve about your body, medical history and physical limitations? If you have lost a nipple or testicle to cancer, does a one-night stand need to know? On the one hand, your medical history is not any of their business, and there’s nothing like near-death diseases to dampen a romantic mood. On the other, they are going to see that you’re rocking a single ball, and their reaction could be a boner killer too – especially if they run screaming into the night.
What about sexually transmitted diseases? If you are practicing safe sex, are you obliged to tell a potential partner that you have an infection – and would it make any difference if it was something curable like chlamydia, or a recurring problem like herpes?
I think it would, which is why I would like to know. But my modus operandi has always been to find out as much information as possible before I invite somebody home. Going on a date with me is like a police interrogation with alcohol.
I’ll want to know your politics, your favourite band, the last book you read, and how you feel about all kinds of topics from abortion to zombies.
The more I thought about this, the more I was willing to concede that yup, I may be an arsehole. It’s easy for me to demand to know if someone has a non-normative body or a sexually transmitted disease, for the simple reason that I don’t. In fact, I am so supremely ‘average’ that I’ve got to be a statistical anomaly. Average height, average weight, average everything. I have never had an STD, or any sexual problems. I don’t have any big dark secrets either. Hell, I even have my damn appendix. Not everyone has that luxury.
Trans people, particularly trans women, can find themselves the target of aggression if they reveal their status too soon, or if someone guesses it. In the US, it is estimated that trans women have a one in twelve chance of being murdered, rising to a one in eight chance if she is a woman of colour. Half of all trans people have been raped or assaulted by a romantic partner. Think about that for a moment. Those statistics are horrific.
There is no way I would expect anyone to out themselves to me or anyone else if they were living under such a threat. It is just too dangerous. And although I am not a danger to anyone, someone who has only just met me, or doesn’t know me well, has no way of knowing that. I don’t blame anyone for wanting to keep their private business private for as long as they can.
Another issue is wanting to avoid partners who fetishise you. If your dating profile reveals that you have a physical disability, extreme body hair, or are obese, then you’ll get messages from people who have an attraction to those particular things. Nobody wants the totality of who they are to be reduced to a single physical characteristic.
If however you don’t reveal them, then you’re likely to end up with a lot of disappointed dates – or possibly even potentially aggressive ones.
Our culture prizes slim, fit, able- bodied, cisgender young men and women as sexual ideals. Most of us fall short of that in some way or another. Sometimes those shortfalls can be a barrier to a happy and varied sex life; sometimes we just think they are. There may be no golden rule about what and when to reveal a physical issue or sexually transmitted disease – although I would say that before you are naked and alone is definitely the most honest course.
That may turn a “yes” into a “no”, which may be frustrating and feel unfair. But nobody owes anybody sex under any circumstances. The only thing we owe each other is common courtesy. Whichever side of the equation you’re on, you should remember that.