It didnβt happen overnight, but it sparked something. I stopped seeing my body as broken and started seeing it as complicated β and still worthy. I began questioning the cultural messages Iβd swallowed: the myth of the βasexual disabled personβ, the idea that people like me were supposed to settle for gratitude instead of joy. I wanted joy. I wanted intimacy. I wanted my body to feel like mine again.
Reading had always been an indulgence of mine β an escape from the long hospital stays. During my sickest years β when I was too unwell to leave the house, too exhausted to socialise, and too embarrassed to date β I turned to romance fiction. It began as escapism. Paranormal romance, fantasy, enemies to lovers. But eventually, I discovered the spicier stuff. High-heat books where women took control of their pleasure, or handed it over willingly. Books about power, kink and messy, complicated intimacy. These werenβt just guilty pleasures. They were medicine.
Through them, I explored the parts of myself I thought were lost to illness. I learned what I liked, what I fantasised about, what made me feel powerful. I learned that desire didnβt have to mean perfection β it could mean vulnerability. Surrender. Curiosity.
And eventually, I started writing those stories myself.
Now, as a romance author, I write the kinds of stories I needed in my twenties: kinky, sexy, angsty books with complicated women who donβt wait to be βfixedβ before they claim love or pleasure. I write high-heat contemporary romance because I want chronically ill and disabled readers to see themselves not just as survivors, but as lovers. As people with rich, erotic inner lives. As people who can be deeply desired β and who are allowed to desire in return.
Writing these stories is not just an act of creative expression β itβs an act of rebellion. Because the erasure of disabled desire is still everywhere. TV shows reduce us to side characters, if weβre there at all. Sex education rarely includes us. The assumption that illness means celibacy still lingers.
And yet, desire is everywhere. Itβs human. Itβs universal.
When I tell people I used to work at an escort agency, they often blink. Thereβs discomfort. Curiosity. Politeness.
JADE MAY
We see this more clearly than ever right now. Erotic fiction and romance sales are booming, especially among women. Romance was the highest-grossing fiction genre in 2024, and seven of the top 10 bestselling titles in Australia were romance, most of them spicy. Meanwhile, 94,000 Australians live with Crohnβs disease alone β and yet how often do we see ourselves in those stories? How often do we read about disabled people having complex, joyful intimate lives?
We need more narratives that allow chronically ill and disabled people to be seen as whole β not in spite of our bodies, but within them.
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When I tell people I used to work at an escort agency, they often blink. Thereβs discomfort. Curiosity. Politeness. But the reality is this: seeing people seek out intimacy β regardless of age, ability, gender or background β taught me more about human nature than any health professional ever could.
It showed me that pleasure is not a luxury. Itβs not a reward for being healthy. Itβs a human right. And itβs not just about sex. Itβs about connection. Affection. Being met in the middle. Being wanted, even when youβre tired or stitched or bloated or scarred. Especially then.
If I could go back to the version of myself curled up in a hospital bed at 15, ashamed of her body, Iβd tell her this: youβre still allowed to want. Youβre still allowed to be wanted.
And youβre not alone.
Because even in the quiet corners of society β between inboxes and booking forms and whispered stories β there are people living full, erotic, complicated lives. People navigating pleasure with grace, humour, creativity and zero apology.
I think about that middle-aged man with MND. About the father whose daughter organised a booking out of love, not embarrassment. About the woman who told me sheβd rather pay for intimacy on her own terms than sit through another mediocre date. They changed me.
They reminded me that intimacy isnβt about having the perfect body. Itβs about showing up in the one you have, and believing itβs enough.
So if you live with an invisible illness, and youβve ever wondered whether desire still belongs to you, let me offer this: it does.
It always has.
Seduced by Eden by Jade May is out now.
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