Body Week is Them’s annual look at what it means to live in a queer body today. Read more from the series here.
Artemis and Greta met in 2021 at a Brooklyn rope jam, a type of casual, low-pressure community event where people gather to hang out and practice rope play. The meeting, Artemis jokingly tells Them, was a business partnership at first sight.
Not long after she met Greta, Artemis began working at a woman-owned boutique sex shop — something she initially looked forward to as a kinky and disabled trans person. But Artemis quickly realized the shop wasn’t as inclusive of her community as she’d hoped.
Not only do many sex shops lack basic sexual health and gender-affirming products for trans folks, Artemis says the physical layout of these spaces are often exclusionary for disabled people. “You go in [these stores] and you’re already knocking everything over. We need spaces where fat people can move, people with limited mobility can move around and sit, [where there are] chairs and couches for people for when you’re overstimulated,” Artemis, 30, says.
Not long after working at the boutique, Artemis pitched Greta on the idea of a sex shop that catered to their community: people who are queer, trans, disabled, and decidedly kinky. Greta, a 29-year-old with autism, was immediately sold on the idea. For them, access to kink had long been central to their sex life and sense of identity.
“I’ve never had the option to come out as disabled, it’s been since day one,” says Greta. “Kink gives me a space where my support needs are the crux of what happens, and my ability to be nonverbal is both a tool and a strength.”
Less than a year later in January 2024, the pair formally launched the Toolbox Collective in an inconspicuous brick building in New York City’s West Village. To their knowledge, the Toolbox is the first and only trans-owned, queer-centered sex shop in New York City.
The launch was so busy there was a waiting list at the door. (I should know; I was on it!) Everyone was masked, and the tables were brimming with pleasure products, many designed specifically for transfemme pleasure and with accessibility in mind. There were racks of kink gear and gender-affirming apparel, along with an abundance of free resources: educational zines, harm reduction treatments like Narcan, drug testing kits, and condoms. Though the initial launch was in a basement, requiring a narrow journey down a flight of stairs, the Toolbox Collective has since hosted events and workshops in many different venues and are working toward a permanent brick-and-mortar shop that’s fully accessible.
“The ultimate goal of the Toolbox Collective is building a space where people can go and have the tools and resources to access a more autonomous and embodied relationship to their pleasure,” says Greta.
For decades, kinky disabled people have been creating intentional, accessible spaces where their own sensuality, agency, and erotic connection is at the center. But as with the Toolbox Collective, much of this work comes from a place of necessity and exclusion. Although one in four adults in the U.S. is living with a disability, disabled adults are often infantilized, desexualized, or reduced to harmful tropes — and that’s to say nothing of the legal disparities that impact disabled folks, including marriage equality. Even in queer and trans spaces, it’s common for disabled people to be treated as an afterthought.
Kink, both as a practice and a community, can offer a space where queer and trans disabled people get to experience their own bodies on their own terms. From BDSM and beyond, kink can happen anywhere desire happens and be adapted across a full spectrum of bodies and abilities. It ranges from sensation play and bondage to power exchanges and roleplay.
As Anna Randall, a clinical sexologist and executive director of The Alternative Sexualities Health Research Alliance (TASHRA) points out, research has even proven that kink can offer particular benefits for disabled folks. As both a practice and community, kink can encourage confidence, personal healing, body acceptance, community building, and in some cases, even pain or symptom management, Randall tells Them
“BDSM is a playground of somatic experiences,” Randall says. Kink often encourages embodiment — or an intentional connection between the mind, body and senses — which can be especially valuable for people with disabilities and those with certain sensory needs and cravings, Randall adds.
For Sara Elise, a 35-year-old autistic leatherdyke, embodiment is one of the main benefits of her kink practice. “[BDSM play] allows me to be fully body-present, open, and flowing, the best version of myself,” she says. Elise discovered kink over a decade ago and soon began exploring bottoming and submission, as well as other power dynamics and ritualized play.
“Before developing a relationship with kink and receiving my diagnosis, I knew that I felt too much but I didn't know why and I didn’t know how to deal with it,” Elise says. To cope with her symptoms, she regularly turned to self-harm and self-medicating with drugs and alcohol.
“When I discovered kink, I discovered an outlet for self-regulation and play, a boundaried, clear, communicative, and constructive outlet for processing the intensity of energy and feelings I experience,” Elise says.
Like Elise, 23-year-old Juno uses kink to connect with their body — and to reclaim their power after negative healthcare experiences. During their sophomore year of college, Juno was often in and out of the hospital. These visits, alongside a childhood fear of needles, left them with a strong aversion to medical settings.
But while researching body modifications for their thesis, Juno decided to explore sharps play, which involves using sharp objects like needles on the body. Pretty soon, they were hooked. “I developed this really interesting relationship with [needles] where I decided, this is scary, but I have control over it,” they say. “It’s exposure therapy almost and it makes it so much easier to just look at a needle and be like, that’s nothing I can handle that.” Juno gets blood work done every few months; the appointments have transformed from uncomfortable to mundane.
But kink isn’t just about finding joy and agency in a sometimes-tenuous body; it’s also a way to build community. Though most queer people understand the importance of chosen family, these networks of care can be especially vital for disabled people who are more likely to lack adequate healthcare, housing, employment and other basic resources than their non-disabled counterparts. Though they often go underappreciated, these communities are deeply tied to LGBTQ+ history and survival. During the AIDS crisis, for example, leather families and lesbian activists helped popularize what was called the “San Francisco model of care,” a then-radical approach that prioritized holistic care for people living with HIV and AIDs — including home-delivered meals and other services — rather than solely focusing on medical treatment.
Today, the internet is transforming how kinky disabled people can find one another. In her research with TASHRA, Anna Randall says approximately 80% of kinksters go online to find community — and that includes Pup Quincy, a 26-year-old living with Multiple Sclerosis and chronic pain.
After exploring the New York city play party scene, Pup Quincy decided to fully embrace kink online, especially as various parties began lifting their COVID-19 guidelines. Online, they’ve attended workshops and monthly meet-ups and regularly connect on Discord.
“When it comes to the kink disability community, I would not have been able to connect with as many people or really as regularly or intentionally if it had not been for the spaces that I found online,” Pup Quincy says. “We’re [in these spaces] because we can't engage with sex in the ways we like to or want to on a regular basis and finding that community has been very, very fulfilling and rewarding.”
These disability-centered spaces and relationships have helped Pup Quincy enter their self-love era, where they connect with and care for their body through self-domming (depending on the person, self-domming can be focused erotic acts like masturbation or non-sexual activities like self-care). “The more I talk to other disabled people, I’m like ‘you guys are fucking smart,” they say. “[I] walk away feeling like, oh wow, there’s really so many possibilities to feel good in a world and a body that might feel really fucking bad. The perseverance and resilience to do that all the time is truly one of the most beautiful things in the world to me.”
There’s also a demand for IRL spaces where disabled pleasure is baked into the culture of the play, not sprinkled on top as an afterthought.
“The rope scene is not untouched by white supremacy, and in turn, ableism, fatphobia, and transphobia,” says Salem, a 26-year-old rope switch. When some friends introduced them to their local rope scene, Salem was immediately drawn to the social atmosphere of rope jams and the way relationships between rope facilitates intimate, non-normative dynamics. But a lot of rope education excludes modifications for bigger, disabled, or hypermobile people, and according to Salem, many riggers just aren’t that interested in learning these modifications.
“Though shibari is Japanese, the idealized body in rope, at least in the U.S., is a thin, able-bodied cis white woman,” they say. “I would say the scene largely pedestalizes ties that are intense and risky, while ties that are more comfortable, lower risk, and more accessible are seen as ‘boring,’ which unfortunately leaves a lot of people on the margins.” In response, Salem co-founded a rope jam that centers trans and marginalized kinksters — one of the few monthly rope spaces that still practices COVID precautions.
Now, Salem’s rope community is largely made up of other trans people of color, sex workers, and disabled folks. Salem reports that people often find their rope jams to be one of the only spaces they feel comfortable tying. Like kink itself, community spaces are co-created by all those involved, meaning they can be shaped and reshaped to fit the needs of all parties.
“Rope is like a language, and you give yourself a loose script. It feels like a safe(r) container where genuine play and vulnerability become accessible,” Salem says. “Through rope, I’ve found a lovely community of weirdos who see me for who I really am, who take care of each other, and who are willing to have hard conversations about important things.”
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