By Roberta Travis
EDITOR: For her own reasons, Roberta Travis does not wish to make known her line of work or place of residence. In her preface to this article, she said, “I had many fears regarding its publication, like being misunderstood, offending gay men or women, or, worse yet, getting accused of being another white, temporarily ablebodied woman chasing gimps. In this world of double standards and sexual phobias, the negative outcomes are all too probable.”
She acknowledges that her story makes a sweeping generalization or two, and reminds readers that there are always exceptions to every rule. We agree, but find the story altogether irresistable.
I am a woman who loves to make love. I like intense sex, with a lot of verbalization (words are OK, too), with men and women. I lost count long ago of how many people I’ve been with, but an extended number of years in various colleges, coupled with enduring polyamorous desires, has fueled my field experience. It’s not a numbers game for me at all, though. It’s some of the best, intimate, really human experiences of my life, and I take it seriously as long as a lot of fun is involved. Freud was on the right track about a few things, such as that, given the opportunity, most of us would rather be having sex instead of, say, working for a living.
Of all my partners, the best lover I ever had was a man who was paraplegic. I’ve been with quads and people with other disabilities, too, but this guy took the cake. He was completely in touch and at ease with his body (and mine) in spite of limited sensation, a moderately functional erection and inability to ejaculate. It just didn’t matter since neither of us cared to focus on these so-called “negatives.” I have now come to understand they are actually positives.
So what made him the best? His style. He was incredibly responsive and seemed to never get enough of making me feel wonderful. I think he’d say I treated him the same way. Ours was a relationship filled with lust, giving and receiving pleasure as long as we had the energy. Well, yes, he was truly skilled, having had close to 30 years’ experience as an adult. And, yes, he’d done plenty of reading and wasn’t afraid to try out or ask about what he read. What was really delightful, though, was that he wasn’t there to show me how great he was, and he wasn’t hung up on performance — mine or his. Ecstasy, plentiful as it was, wasn’t needed to confirm his sexuality. The truth is, men who can’t get past personal performance make me want to get up and leave before we get star