Re-learning How to Have Sex: Embracing Being a Pillow Princess — Featuring Artwork by lohitha kethu
Words by Kenzie Kim
Visual Art by lohitha kethu
at the altar by lohitha kethu
I was raised in a purity culture, and lost my virginity to my high school sweetheart three days into college. The first time I had sex with someone else, he rolled me on top and I had a panic attack, not knowing how to ride a penis. After a lot of reassurance and dried tears, I got back into the “saddle” as he taught me, guiding my hips.
From then on, I loved being on top, embracing my power and sexuality as someone with a pussy. I grew up sporty, and had incredible lower body strength and flexibility. Being on top gave me confidence in my body and helped me feel sexy. It was also a way for me to take on more of the work during sex when with a physically disabled partner, which helped us have sex when they were struggling with flares. Although I had been diagnosed with a degenerative condition in my teens, I could not fathom how much function I would lose incrementally over the next ten years.
The same year I lost my virginity, I started to experience the loss of function that can be a symptom of my disability. I got tired more easily, and struggled with walking long distances. My eating disorder also started to creep up on me, and I learned to cope with my body dysmorphia through sex. Watching my partner’s eyes light up with desire as I rode them made me feel beautiful during a time I struggled with feeling any self-worth. The more my own body betrayed me, the more frustrated I felt. I started having fainting episodes during physical activity, which included sex.
At first, it was incredibly distressing, but as I started a new relationship, we went through my gradual loss of function together over the next 5 years in such a way that it was normalized. I still craved feeling beautiful and desirable, spiraling into my eating disorder and that false sense of control it gave me. Then came the pandemic and long distance and I was sicker than I had ever been before, struggling with hospitalization before going to inpatient treatment. Though I wrestled my eating disorder into remission, I had lost most of my muscle mass and stamina on top of the changes from my degenerative disability.
Still, with an established sex partner, even with months in between sex, he largely knew my limitations, and we didn’t attempt sex that would cause a flare up or was impossible for me. My disability was an unspoken norm and there was a level of empathy and understanding, as we both had chronic health issues. Occasionally, we would bump into a new limitation and I would collapse into tears of frustration and shame. He became a pro at drying tears and petting my hair until I stopped hyperventilating.
My ex was a source of comfort and safety in my sex life as I navigated my accessibility needs. Throughout most of our five years together we were polyamorous. Loathe as I am to admit it, a large part of why I rarely sought out new sex partners was because of my disability; fear of rejection for being disabled, and later, the fear of contracting COVID from a casual partner kept me functionally monogamous. We also engaged in BDSM and used the infliction of consensual pain to help relieve my chronic pain. My ex became a coping mechanism. I hung onto the relationship longer than was healthy, feeling like I couldn’t possibly be desirable and disabled. I feared having to cancel a date or use a cane and having someone ghost me, or worse, tell me how undesirable they found me. This combined with the fear of contracting COVID from a casual partner kept me mostly monogamous. As I healed my relationship with myself and my body, I was able to finally leave my ex.
Then came the utterly terrifying, demoralizing, and humiliating experience of jumping back onto dating apps fresh out of a breakup and thirteen months celibate. Much to my surprise, I brought home my first Bumble date. I was shaking so much with nerves that they asked me multiple times if I was sure this was what I wanted. I was scared to admit to them that I had any physical limitations. As the first-time sex nerves resolved, the fun anticipation set in. Partway through, they asked me what position I wanted, and I enthusiastically asked to be on top. Hardly a minute into it, I almost dislocated my hip and my entire side and thigh cramped up. I froze, then tried to climb off in a frenzy, attempting not to cry, realizing that I had lost more function than I had realized over the last thirteen months. To their credit, my date was incredibly understanding, and we adjusted to another position after they made sure I was okay. As we started to regularly have sex, we made more adjustments to accommodate my limitations and I learned how to appreciate being a “pillow princess.”
Pillow princesses are incredibly maligned, especially in lesbian community. I struggled with the stigma of being a pillow princess, both as a queer person who had sex primarily with people with penises and as a disabled person. It was difficult to cope with the fact that not only was my disability requiring me to stick to positions and sex where I did less work, or sometimes almost no work, but that I really enjoy feeling pampered during sex. Disabled people often get accused of being lazy, when the reality is we work incredibly hard just to survive, let alone experience pleasure.
I enjoy giving my partner pleasure and being an active participant. However, “active” doesn’t always equate to being the thrusting partner or being the partner who gets in the best workout. My partner also genuinely enjoys giving more than receiving sometimes, which is well-matched with the times that I need to be more passive due to a flare or a recent injury.
At first, I held shame, and threw myself into Physical Therapy (PT), making my pain worse and exuberantly promised my partner every time we met up that I was doing my PT program. One time, I limped out with fifteen articles my Physical Therapist had printed for me clutched in my hand. My partner and I laughed at the fact I was getting articles with titles like “Sex Positions for Seniors with Bad Hips” when we were a couple in our late twenties. At the same time, symptoms of my eating disorder were coming up more and more as I leaned into my self-shame and focused on what I was no longer able to do. Being naked in front of someone who bikes everywhere and regularly goes to the gym was terrifying for me. My body changed with my disability, but despite frequent reassurance and compliments from my partner, I was convinced I couldn't possibly be attractive. There was a steep learning curve. I would get frustrated having to explain to my partner why my hips were weak, that it was normal for me to fall asleep at 8 PM sometimes, or just because I could bend like that, didn’t mean that I should. I could get stuck in my own head with body dysmorphia and disconnect, especially as we bumped into new physical limitations. As I was the first person they had dated with a disability, he was lacking vocabulary and understanding of concepts that created a steep learning curve. On top of the normal challenges of a brand-new relationship, such as learning each other sexually, we had to learn my new limitations together.
The longer we dated, the more I was able to address my own insecurities and grapple my eating disorder back into remission. Strengthening exercises and stamina-building, as well as shifting positions and trying different medication helped me adjust to a new type of sex life. Every once in a while, I’m able to be on top, and while I’m not saving a horse by riding a cowboy, I enjoy the way I am able to ride. My partner and I have developed familiarity and routine. My disability has become part of our norm. My sex life is incredibly different than it was ten years ago when I lost my virginity and started to feel the impact of my degenerative disability. Honestly, though? I’m having the best sex of my life. I appreciate sometimes being a pillow princess.
Feeling sexy comes from within, not from being able to have acrobatic sex for hours on end or requiring external validation. Don’t ever settle for someone or stay in a toxic relationship because you feel undesirable. The right person will never make you feel ashamed or less than because of your limitations; they will work with you to build accessibility. To quote the Disability Visibility Project: “Access is Love.” I won’t claim that dating while disabled are not difficult or that it’s easy to find the “right” person. That could be its own essay. Re-learning how to have sex certainly wasn’t easy. For me, it was very worth it to realize that while I might not be able to ride someone like a porn star, I am gorgeous and sexy and worthy of incredibly good sex.
About the Author
Kenzie (they/them) is a queer gender non-conforming Korean disabled adoptee/immigrant. They have a special interest in disability and reproductive justice. You can find them on Instagram @kenziekimwrites which may have one too many photos of Bindaetteok the cat.
“This [piece] is part love letter to disabled bodies and queer/trans people and partially the story of acceptance and hope I needed when diagnosed with a degenerative disability.”
About the Artist
“as a medical illustrator and artist, my personal work helps me understand the body, disability, rage, spirituality, gender, sexuality, and all of the messiness and discomfort in between. while illness has impacted my life in irreparable ways, i am learning to relate to the body not of its ability to produce but as a collection of fluid desires, offerings, and connections. truly achieving peace with one's body or ability is ongoing and complex; what happens when one stops wriggling and fighting their own body/mind? does your body become a part of mine, and mine a part of yours?”
View more of lohitha kethu’s work on Instagram.
