Autistic Sex: For a Terrible Time, Call

            I know people are curious about my sexuality, because my body is so obviously out of control while my mind is unique yet intact enough to know love, fear, longing, loneliness, joy, excitement, friendship, pain, and ecstasy.  Most are too polite to ask.  I should note that a lot of autistics are highly aversive to touch and feel physical and emotional pain when they come in contact with another person.  That is not true in my case, as I find great comfort and closeness when I touch or am touched.  That goes double for my young, male, beefcake physical trainers.

            Writing a book means sharing who I am—all of who I am with anyone who cares to know.  So, here goes.  Yes, I get horny as hell.  The problems is sexual release is nowhere to be found.  Satisfying masturbation is impossible due to my perpetually awkward hand/eye coordination.  No partner is available yet.  But, frankly, I don’t expect one anytime soon…and how would I reciprocate, anyway?  Get me frustrated and I bite myself and others—hard.  I bite so hard it would be counterproductive no matter what level of S & M you proclaim to enjoy.  We are talking Lorena Bobbitt time here.  And, who bets she now has difficulty finding a date?

Quite honestly, I have considered asking SS to find me a surrogate—a fancy name for some prostitute to help me have an orgasm for a little bit of cash and a lot of promising not to tell my good Catholic dad.  That option comes with numerous potentially terrible outcomes.  One, if my folks found out that our good doctor became a helpful pimp for a day, they might banish her.  Plus, I don’t think she would arrange it anyway, fearing reputation problems.  Secondly, I fancy someone might actually blackmail dear ol’ Dad, thus raising the price of my orgasm to busted politician levels.  A conundrum indeed.

One of my previous personal attendants, who shall remain anonymous because she also has parents, dabbled in the phone sex business.  She made no attempt to hide her part-time job, not that she could.  My eavesdropping skills are keen, and these conversations were just too fraught with novelty and absurdity to pass up for sleeping or contemplating my own wrinkled gray matter.  Some of the entertainment was pure comedy, like when the caller would ask, “What are you wearing?”  My attendant never, never wore anything suggestive—or even nice, for that matter.  She gained a lot of weight, and pride and poverty limited her to either a pair of worn-thin black stretch pants with some sloppy T-shirt—usually borrowed from some unconscenting friend or family member—or a crushed velvet warm-up with a zippered, hooded top.  She often wore the warm-up with no shirt underneath.  A heavy-duty bra, “period panties,” and the occasional soiled bunny slippers were nearly the extend to the wardrobe.  I still think of some of those “clients” and plan to incorporate a sampling of the more flamboyant characters in my fiction writing.  The loon also explored going into homes as a sex toy consultant for shy types and prominent local “Promise Keepers.”   I hoped that connection would turn out helpful to my situation.  Like our veterinarian referred Smother to a reputable soft-touch groomer (who, comes to the house and bathes the ostentatious pooch in a heated Winnebago) and even a less-flaky-than-most dog psychologist, surely once my pal got immersed in this fringe subculture, she could get me the name of a discrete, non-ax-murderer type who could tweak and insert as needed.  Hmmm, water, water everywhere but none to drink.

These are my circling preoccupations of late.  I am over thirty, and one would think I would have found transferred energies to soothe the savage beast by now.  Not true.  Actually, sex—and my lack of it—is taking more brain space than ever and is making me quite cross.  As usual, I require assistance from normals to get resolution.  Allow me to present my case.

My world is filled with a decent representation of concrete knowledge and countless theories and paradigms.  Personal experience does not usually thwart my admittance to knowing.  Society tolerates my thoughts and perceptions about politics, philosophy, current events, history, religion, and other such disciplines where vicarious learning is sanctioned.  Sex is different.

All humans, special forces members included, are sexual beings.  The scientific community, which I am permitted to comment on, consistently informs the public that sexual activity to fulfill innate biological needs is a significant component to the overall health, well-being, and quality of adult life.  Insurance pays for Viagra, so I know this to be true.

At some point, normals drew a line in the sand moating off special forces members from inclusion in this definition of wellness.  This gadfly seeks to open Pandora’s chaste box and begin the discussion about what you normals can hardly bear to live without but are unwilling to consider for your sentient siblings who did not sign up for the priesthood.

I eventually found resolution, and I am about to tell you how.  So, if this is too much information, please stop reading now.  Long after she moved on to another more traditional career, I contacted my former personal attendant and got the ball vibrating.  We discussed many objects and possibilities.  She did not think I was being sordid or inappropriate, and the topic was not uncomfortable to her.  In fact, she commented that I was a trooper for holding out this long and said that she would have gone postal long ago.  Finally, she suggested I contact “”  I did.  I had numerous e-mail exchanges with them, which even involved me discussing my disability-related challenges with an online professional who was very understanding and says she often consults with persons with disabilities in order to help them order the right device.  Who knew such experts existed?

I bought two—one for maintenance, weekday sex and the other for special occasions.  My Rubbermaid lovers are Carlos and Jamal.  (Their names have been changed to protect the not so innocent.)  They reside in my one night stand.   We have no secrets here:  Carlos and Jamal know each other.  Carlos is a good, battery-powered Catholic boy, so we only go so far.  Jamal is a plug-in Southern Baptist.  The promises he keeps with me are lots of discretion and staying power when those special occasions arise.


Practical Implications

  1. Just because nobody talks about it does not mean it is not a real issue.  Think about it.  Talk about it.
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