How Often Do You Have Sex?

 

Now that I have your attention, let’s talk about narratives: How We Tell Tales

 

Think about narratives—the different types of conversations we have every day. Many of us change tone and wording without thinking. The way we speak changes depending on where we are and who we’re speaking to. You wouldn’t talk to your boss the way you talk to your best friend. You wouldn’t approach a stranger and immediately ask them about their intimate life. And yet, when it comes to disabled people, this social toggling or its sensitivity seems to disappear.

 If asked how often I have sex, I would expect the very close friend to have at least filled my glass a few times!

Public Narratives

 

Pick up a newspaper, and you will notice how journalists shape narratives to guide the reader’s focus. Consider a headline: George, 56, fell in the street because of a pothole. Why mention his age? Unless he is 5¾, George will be unlikely to want you to know his birthdate! Age is personal. A journalist will mention it because it jars—the wrong toggle invites a particular reaction. We identify with George if we're around his age; perhaps we’ll feel sympathy, concern, or a reminder of our own vulnerabilities. Journalism is about framing, about making certain details stand out while others fade into the background.

 

Similarly, if a journalist writes about sex in a professional context—say, a dentist having a relationship with a client—it’s because they hope their readers find it surprising. The narrative assumes that the mix of workplace culture and intimacy is unusual. In this case, there’s nothing to report. What dentists do in private is personal, as long as everyone consents. (Jill and John got married and lived happily ever after 🙂)

 

 

Misplaced Focus on Medical Matters

 

Getting the focus wrong—the toggling—often happens, sometimes unwittingly, when disability is written about. While many disabled people see themselves as human, the narratives about them often articulate a faulty, medicalised view. Reading about disability in mainstream literature, you’d be forgiven for thinking that most disabled people constantly need medical help. This framing can make disabled people seem less human, focusing only on their differences, often medical conditions. The narrative subtly shifts; the George headline becomes Autistic Falls in the Road.*

 

This brings me to a recent exchange in the supermarket. As I picked up a lettuce, I never expected to be asked about my condition(s). Not because I’m ashamed, but because it’s personal—jarring. Yet, I was asked what was wrong with me by a stranger. Sadly, it happens too often for me to ignore. Typically, in public, we don’t ask strangers deeply personal questions.

After ten years of study and research, I’m not surprised that disabled people are frequently subjected to intrusive questions: Are you taking medication? What’s your condition? Does your disability allow you to do this? These questions wouldn’t be acceptable to most typical social interactions, so why do they become acceptable when directed at people who appear disabled?

 

Literature and Personal Truths

 

Different literary genres use distinct storytelling methods. Mysteries, for instance, focus on action and facts, leading the reader in a straight line to solve the puzzle. Memoirs, on the other hand, rely on personal truths and emotional details, asking the reader to see the world from the writer’s unique perspective. As Mary Karr puts it in The Art of Memoir: “Truth works a tripwire that permits the book to explode into being.” So why tell tales about disabled people? Needy, lazy, broken, sick...

 

Disabled writers and scholars have pointed out that narratives about disability often follow a script that doesn’t align with their actual lived experiences. The focus tends to be on medical conditions rather than the person as a whole. This mirrors real-life interactions, where people feel comfortable asking disabled individuals personal questions of a clinical nature they wouldn’t ask anyone else   (Medical Model )

 

It’s not the same, but the equivalent of walking up to a stranger and asking, How often do you have sex?

 

So, the next time you meet someone, think about how you frame your questions. Do they reflect genuine curiosity about the person? Cats, curry, chardonnay? Or are they shaped by a narrative you’ve not challenged? Let’s move beyond the jarring stereotypes and towards conversations that recognise all people as complex individuals.

*totally disrespectful I'll agree!