Less Pressure, More Pleasure: “Cripping” the Ways We Think About Sex

Let’s be honest: sex can be stressful. That might sound contradictory. Isn’t sex supposed to be fun? Intimate? Liberating? Maybe even healing? Sure. But for some of us—especially those navigating queerness, disability, anxiety, or just the weight of dominant sexual scripts—sex is often accompanied by expectations, performance anxiety, and a haunting sense that we’re somehow doing it wrong.

I want us to talk about this pressure. The pressure to perform. The pressure to be and remain “hard.” The pressure to “finish.” The pressure to not “ruin the mood.” The pressure to be enough.

Let me name something that was hard to admit, even to myself: there was a time when, if I lost an erection during sex, I would immediately spiral. The moment it happened, a wave of panic would hit me. I’d worry that the other person thought I wasn’t into them, that they’d feel unattractive, undesired, or like they were doing something wrong. I’d apologize—sometimes repeatedly—and rush to explain myself, to fix the moment, to get back on track like it was a tech glitch rather than a natural shift in the rhythm of connection.

And I can feel them spiral too sometimes. Sometimes they freeze up or start saying things like “sorry, am I doing something wrong?” or “should we stop?” or worse, “I knew you weren’t really into this.” A moment that could have been playful, intimate, or connective instead becomes a site of shame and disappointment—for both of us.

Where is the pleasure in all that?

The Tyranny of “Finishing”

Another myth we need to retire: that sex “counts” only if someone finishes. We’ve absorbed this idea that sex builds toward a single goal—a climax, a cum shot, a “happy ending.” If we don’t reach that, we tell ourselves the sex was “incomplete,” “awkward,” or a waste of time.

I’ve felt that pressure too. To orgasm. To make sure they orgasm. To show, through some physical evidence, that the sex was successful. I’ve faked it before. I’ve also stayed in experiences longer than I wanted to, not because I was enjoying them, but because I didn’t want the other person to feel like they supposedly failed.

What kind of culture makes us prioritize someone feeling successful over our own authentic desire?

Enter: “Crip” Sex

This is where “crip” perspectives may offer something radical—and beautiful.

Crip theory, emerging from disability studies and queer theory, invites us to rethink “normalcy” and all the ways we’re told bodies should behave. When we apply crip theory to sex, we start asking: Why do we assume that sex needs to follow a linear script? Why is duration, firmness, symmetry, or orgasm the measure of success? What if slowness, interruption, adaptation, and care were features of sex, not failures?

Crip sex challenges the idea that sex has to look or feel a certain way. It says: bodies are weird. Desires shift. Sometimes what we need during sex is a nap. Or a snack. Or to cry. Or to laugh so hard we forget what we were doing. Crip sex makes space for all of that—and more.

This question sits at the heart of what I’ve been calling a “crip” sociology of fucking—a way of thinking about sex that centers disabled people’s experiences, challenges normative sexual scripts, and resists the idea that sex must follow a linear, goal-oriented path to be legitimate.

In my research and writing, I’ve been exploring how disabled people often create alternative sexual worlds—ones that privilege communication, slowness, care, creativity, and mutual attunement over performance or productivity. These aren’t just compensations for bodies that don’t “function properly”—they’re blueprints for better sex, for all of us. When we stop measuring sex by how efficiently it leads to orgasm and start valuing connection, pleasure, and choice, we open up space for more meaningful and liberatory intimate encounters.

Some Crip Re-imaginings of Sex:

• Sex as sensation, not destination. Crip sex invites us to savor touch, temperature, movement, and energy. A shoulder rub can be as intimate as penetration. Holding eye contact, for others, can feel more powerful than any climax.

• Sex as conversation. Communicating about needs, changes, boundaries, and feelings becomes part of the erotic experience. Not a prelude or afterthought, but the thing itself.

• Sex as collaborative improvisation. One of my favorite crip sex ideas is that partners are co-creating the experience in real time, adjusting for energy levels, emotions, and bodily unpredictability. Like jazz, not choreography.

• Sex as relational care. It’s not about what your body can do, but how you hold space for someone else’s vulnerability and desire—and how they hold yours.

• Sex without a finish line. Crip sex disrupts the idea that sex must build toward a clear endpoint—usually orgasm—to be valid or worthwhile. Instead of racing toward a “goal,” it invites us to linger in the process itself. Pleasure can ebb and flow. A moment of pause, a shift in activity, or even deciding to stop altogether can still be satisfying, intimate, and complete in its own right.

• Sex that doesn’t center genitals. Maybe it’s about mutual massage, sharing fantasies, cuddling, or simply lying naked next to someone while listening to a playlist. If it’s about connection and consent and pleasure—it counts.

• More erogenous zones, more possibilities. Crip sex invites us to expand beyond the genitals and recognize that pleasure can live anywhere in the body—scalp, feet, inner arms, belly, even the space between bodies. Disabled people often become experts at mapping new pathways to pleasure, especially when traditional routes aren’t accessible. This opens up endless opportunities to connect, explore, and redefine what feels good.

The Pleasure of Letting Go

I want us to stop measuring our sexual encounters by how long we “lasted” or whether someone came. I want us to start asking: Did we feel safe? Did we share something real? Did we listen to each other’s bodies? This shift—from pressure to pleasure—isn’t just for disabled people. Everyone benefits from slowing down, releasing the script, and embracing a more expansive understanding of what sex can be.

Let’s make space for sex that’s messy, interrupted, imperfect, and human. Let’s build cultures of consent and care where no one feels like a failure when things don’t “go as planned.”

Let’s have less pressure—and more pleasure.