The following are excerpts from “Notes from A Queer Cripple: How to Cultivate Queer Disabled Joy (and Be Hot While Doing It!” by Andrew Gurza

There was a big queer party one night in the middle of summer a few years back. It was right in the heart of the deliciously debauched queerness that happens every Friday and Saturday night at downtown spots. You know, shirtless queer boys dancing and flirting—that whole vibe. I had heard that one of my favorite porn stars was going to be there dancing the night away. I was determined to go and unleash myself at this party. I thought, “Here is my chance to be seen.”

I remember that it took me hours of planning and rearranging my life to be there. I had to book two accessible wheelchair buses, each one needing to be timed to the minute so that I would get there okay. I spent a day and a half on hold getting the buses figured out, not to mention the fact that I had to coordinate my drinking and water intake, so that when I left home, I wouldn’t be stranded somewhere between the club and home, all alone and needing to pee.

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Anyone who has had to do “pee math” knows exactly what I am talking about. For those of you reading who may not know about this particular equation, allow me to expand on it for you.

Pee math is an equation that disabled people employ before we leave the accessibility of our homes and go anywhere. We consider how much we can drink before we’ll need to pee again; we consider how long we’ll be gone and whether or not it’s worth hydrating at all, especially if the washrooms we’ll encounter in the wild aren’t accessible to us. Pee math takes up so much of our time as disabled folks, and I certainly haven’t got it down to a science, but I hope that you understand a little better now.

All of this planning and coordination felt like a full-time job on its own. But, needless to say, I had worked it all out and I was going. I had the nervous butterflies, hoping and praying that it would be a good time. Okay, if I’m honest with you all, I hoped that the porn star would see me at this party and want to take me home or something.

The night finally came. The party didn’t start until 10pm, but I had to leave my house at 7pm to get on the two accessible transit buses just to be there on time. I did all of this, making sure not to drink too much as we got closer to the bar. As all the guys filed in, sweaty, shirtless and full of potential, I came in behind them in my wheelchair. I remember that as I rolled around the venue in my power wheelchair, while I found it very physically accessible for me to be in the space, there was now another level of access that I had to consider: emotional accessibility.

Every time that I saw a group of guys that I wanted to talk with, I wheeled over in my chair, and I saw their faces change—almost immediately. They went from a jovial, lively, happy conversation to seeing me and being frozen in fear. It was as if they had seen an alien with three heads approach them. Those kind of guys didn’t know what to do at all, so they just stared and closed ranks around themselves.

There were also the guys who looked at me as if I didn’t dare belong, and that somehow my whole presence was ruining their night. They had certainly perfected the “mean gay” trope, and every time I tried to introduce myself to one of them, I was met with smiles full of pity and annoyance. I was reminded in that moment that these guys I was wanting to connect with were not emotionally accessible to me, and ever since then I have wondered how to change that.

How to make queer, non-disabled community members get in touch with that emotional accessibility so that they can start to see queer disabled people as viable, vital community members.

Let’s look at some ways we can do that, and then explore more ways to make queer spaces accessible together!

We need conversations about disability at the queer club

When I give talks about queerness, sexuality and disability, I am usually doing so in a university lecture hall. I love doing it this way, because I know that I am influencing the next generation of queer folks to think about the intersection of disability within the rainbow. I’m also very aware of the fact that these conversations need to be happening outside academia.

These conversations can feel safest in the academic bubble, but sometimes it can feel as if the ableism we’re talking about lives only in a hypothetical space, and that’s a big problem.

These conversations need to be taking place where queerness goes to party. We need to have these conversations at the club. It is my dream to rent out a big, kinky leather bar somewhere and use that space to talk about disability. Why, you may ask? Because it will force queer people to look at and confront disability in the spaces that they actually frequent—the spaces where they have cultivated queer community themselves.

Every time I picture this happening in my head, I can’t help but imagine a big, burly muscle daddy in his leathers being asked to talk about and confront his own ableism. In my head, I also picture a cute go-go dancer sitting down and thinking about the ways that, in the same spaces where he dances his weekends away, he may have perpetuated ableism.

We see a lot of couplings, crazy parties and other things that start with c at these clubs, but rarely do we see these conversations, and it’s time for that to change.

Gently get queer non-disabled men to talk about ableism

One of the ways that I think we need to foster that emotional accessibility among queer non-disabled men is getting them to talk about their ableism. Now, when I say this, I don’t mean calling someone out on their ableist behaviors. Rather, I see this as an opportunity for these queer men to speak their truth around disability, no matter what that looks like.

Maybe disability scares the absolute f*ck out of some of these guys, even if they are interested in a disabled person. Maybe they’ve had an experience around disability in their lives that transformed how they thought about disabled people, and they’ve never been given a chance to express that because they were afraid they might be saying something offensive.

Queer non-disabled folks need the opportunity to be honest about ableism, without fear that the honesty will get them shut down.

I know you might be reading this section thinking, “But, Andrew, there’s just SO MUCH ableism, we gotta call it out.” I get that, trust me, I do. Calling someone on their stuff, especially ableism, feels f*cking good.

I worry, though, that it shuts down conversation altogether, and thus ends an opportunity for growth and change. If non-disabled queers were given a chance to say, “I saw this disabled guy last week at Starbucks and I was going to approach him, but, like, what if he needed me? I was scared shitless” and share these feelings in an open forum, maybe we’d start moving past the fear that is so prevalent among queer non-disabled people. Just a thought.

***

My dream club—what I wish accessibility in queer spaces actually looked like

As a disabled person in a power wheelchair who is unable to fully access queer spaces, I often imagine what a fully accessible queer disabled club would look like. In my mind’s eye, I can picture it to a tee. I can see the room crammed full of people, disabled and non-disabled alike, each of them there to enjoy a booming Saturday drag show, or a Sunday funday underwear party. I want to share with you, dear reader, what my accessible club looks like. Come on in, won’t you?

For the entry way, I envision big ramps that light up as you walk or wheel down them (because disabled queers deserve to make a f*cking entrance). I imagine that these ramps will be flat, not steep in any way. Unlike our modern idea of accessibility, the entry way to this bar will be at the front of the building, and when you enter, the doors will open automatically, no buttons required at all.

When you enter the club, you will be immediately met by an attendant who will help you take off your outside clothes and adorn whatever attire makes you feel the most sexy. They will be there to help you with any personal care needs throughout the evening, from using the washroom to prepping for playtime with the cutie across the bar. So often, queer disabled people have to navigate their intersectionality of queerness and disability while alone in these spaces, thus making asking for help or support impossible or embarrassing. My dream club will change all of that.

The club will never use strobe lights, scents or anything else that might cause sensory overload because we understand that this club isn’t just for the wheelchair-using queer cripple, it is to be an experience that all can enjoy. To that end, the club has an area for guide dogs, which includes water bowls and a rest area. I have never seen a service dog in a queer club, and that definitely needs to change.

As you look around the club, you see that the ceilings are very high. Each ceiling beam has a Hoyer lift and a track fixed to it, so that should clubbers want to get out of their mobility aids and cozy up next to someone, they can do that.

If you need to pee at the club, every washroom is equipped with wide doors for power chairs, braille on all signage for the cute blind folks out there, and every single stall is accessible. They each have Hoyer lifts, adult changing tables, and adult sex tables in them, because why shouldn’t disabled folks get to experience hot bathroom sex in the accessible stalls? Everyone else seems to.

Every night would be #DisabledPeopleAreHot night, and everyone is welcome. From walker users, to wheelchair users, to guide dog owners, to those with disabilities we cannot see, no one is excluded.

All of these things seem like big asks right now, but really they aren’t.

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