With late-summer mosquitoes buzzing around them, the two giggled and caressed each other, their voices muffled by the rush of a nearby stream and the traffic above.
"It's our secret hideaway," said Rachel, 21, who has Down syndrome, as she snuggled with Nicholas, 24, who has a developmental disability. "Here, no one can see us and we are free to do whatever we want."
For people with disabilities like Rachel and Nicholas, such freedom to be intimate is rare. Across Minnesota, disabled adults complain of having to overcome constant hurdles to engage in romantic activity and sustain loving relationships. The obstacles include arbitrary curfews, lack of transportation, and segregated housing that cuts them off from mainstream social life and opportunities to date. Often, the barriers are imposed by group home operators that place safety above intimacy.
In the isolating confines of Minnesota's more than 4,500 group homes, true intimacy can be impossible. To go on a date, adult residents generally have to obtain permission in advance, then go out under the watchful eyes of paid staff. More ambitious requests — such as spending the night in bed with a partner — can trigger a long sequence of meetings and consultations.
The physical and legal barriers are sometimes reinforced by the widely held perception that people with disabilities are "asexual," or are too helpless to consent to intimacy, advocates say.
"We are denying people [with disabilities] a fundamental part of being human — the right to have intimacy and connectedness," said Nancy Fitzsimons, a professor of social work at Minnesota State University, Mankato. "We do this because it makes us uncomfortable, without ever asking what's right for them."
Building trust
Ninety minutes.
That's all Bradley Duncan is permitted for "alone time" with the woman he fell in love with nearly a year ago.