At the beginning of Dying for Sex on Hulu, I told myself I didn’t know what Molly was missing. I should have been more sympathetic. Even though I’m not currently dying, I’ve missed a lot sexually as well and have a fair amount of lost time to account for, but watching Molly turn down what people like me are taught to want, Ie, a man that can “handle” all of our appointments and caregiving tasks (Maybe he was just a little too into it, actually), and turn it down, was hard for me. I didn’t get it (or didn’t I? I did pass up a very sweet disabled partner once because “we were in different places” (usually, literally, which to be fair to both of us, probably did more to put pressure on the relationship than any sense of missing storybook passion.) But, although the sweet memories made me torment myself for years about letting him go-, especially since I didn’t have the options of even a dying Michelle Williams and her radiant O-face, I knew it was probably best not to uproot my whole life to start out where it takes couples years to shift into. The pain and loss were compounded when it seemed like the education I chose instead, and indeed, much of my whole lifestyle here, seemed like a bad investment.
(Even though I’m over this loss and missing him, in more than an abstract way, I’m still sad I can’t say that either I got a do-over or that choosing me went great.) Maybe the optimists among my readers-all six who are left-might want to think the Universe has a long timetable and I haven’t completely screwed up yet(I probably did, though. Don’t think there’s another dimension where I’m a futures trader.)
Even though I liked the movie a lot, especially for Jenny Slade as free-spirited bestie-turned- attendant Nikki Boyer, I did have some quibbles, as a disabled viewer. First, the way they structured the episodes did sort of make it seem that Molly was always ready to go in a way that strains the credulity of anyone with even the mildest chronic condition. Also, she always looks like a poem. (Although, yeah, it’s “Dying for Sex” not “What’s It Like to Die”, but still…dude, it’s probably not like that very often.) Kind of felt sorry for her hubs, too…how many times did she lie?
“Oh, that was great, baby! You’re the best I ever…” (Although he was insufferable enough to think that without much prompting and probably bought special “Music for The Patient’s Yoni” tapes.) But it’s a sad thought amid all the awakenings that we cheer on. Also, I only wish America (to say nothing of our health-care system itself, which could be a separate post for the zillions of petty tortures it inflicts on us) could tell us:
“Yes, halt and lame and huddled masses…joy and pleasure should be yours.”
I only wish everyone could do that. In real life, I think I’m only guaranteed an offer of a trip to Disney World—a lot of my classmates were Make A Wish kids when we were young enough that I was jealous. Didn’t really understand the real ride they were undertaking, nor how often surviving might leave me still feeling jealous from time to time.
As for sex-positive social workers, yeah, sometimes I’d settle
for one that, when she told me she had two kids, didn’t make me think “How?”
right. Suffice to say, we don’t talk about kinks. I think one time I suggested
to one of the nicer ones, about twenty years ago, that it was hard for me to
make a first impression without hearing about Grandma’s operation and she
looked over her glasses at me and said “Why?” so I just can’t imagine all that support.
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