“It’s like they think we don’t have sex at all,” I complained down the phone to my friend, as I boarded the bus to go home from a sexual health checkup in which I’d been reminded, many times, that the service didn’t cater to the needs of people such as me.

Ready to give my mate the full account of what had happened, I realised that maybe my fellow passengers didn’t want to be subjected to this story. So I reluctantly said my goodbyes, sat down and gathered my thoughts.

From the moment I called to make the appointment to the second I left the building, I was reminded, drip by drip, how sexual healthcare in this country is at best unwelcoming to disabled people, and at worst completely inaccessible. I just wanted the usual MOT – which we should all be getting routinely if we are sexually active – but even that proved troublesome.

When I walked into the clinic for my appointment, I stood in front of a reception desk so high I couldn’t see the three people behind it (and, as I’m 4ft tall, they certainly couldn’t see me). We had a brief and very awkward exchange, before I was ushered into a waiting room where the chairs were too high for me to mount, so I had to stand. I was given a form with tiny printed text that asked me all manner of personal questions, excluding a very important one: whether I had access needs. In fact, at no point, from the initial phone call to the appointment itself, was I asked about my access needs.

In the patient room, I was asked to lie down on a bed that was too high for me; the stirrups didn’t fit my legs so I couldn’t use them; and clinicians couldn’t find my cervix (lots of people with dwarfism, and many without, have tilted cervixes – it’s a thing).

Some of those things are inconvenient and uncomfortable; some are major access barriers. All together, they can make you feel like giving up and going home. Speaking up and pushing for better access, which places the onus on disabled people and not the people in charge of the inaccessible environment around us, can feel overwhelming and awkward – particularly in the context of sexual health.

Mine is not an isolated story, and it’s not the worst-case scenario, either. I was able to get what I needed, albeit in an undignified fashion. Others aren’t so lucky. I asked other disabled peopleto share their experiences, and this is what they told me.

One person told me that the sexual health clinic at their local hospital runs a walk-in service that’s located up three flights of stairs with no easily accessible lift.

Imogen Fox, a queer disabled femme, told me that when they visited a sexual health clinic, the tests they needed couldn’t be carried out because there was no hoist to move them from their wheelchair to the bed.

Someone else said they had to phone up to ask accessibility questions before booking their appointment, but phoning being the only option is an access issue in itself for those who are deaf or have neurological disabilities. Another talked about having to wait months for a home visit appointment because they couldn’t leave the house; a lengthy waiting time like this is risky if you have an infection that needs treatment.

“It took three years from receiving my cervical screening invitation to actually being able to have it,” says Lorraine Stanley, CEO of Sex With a Difference (SWAD), an organisation dedicated to improving access to sexual healthcare for disabled people in the UK. The delay was caused due to a lack of examination tables with appropriate leg supports and handles. “Luckily, my results were clear, but if there had been cancerous cells present, the delay could have resulted in my having to have a more invasive treatment.”

Disabled people are painfully aware of the accessibility barriers we face in healthcare at large. In the context of sexual health, these barriers feel somehow heavier to me; society often treats us as though we’re not deserving of sexual experiences, and/or that we simply can’t have them. Inaccessibility to sexual health only reinforces these stereotypes.

Hannah Barham-Brown, who is a GP registrar and wheelchair user, agrees. She told me that due to services being under huge strain, “it is inevitable that as human beings, staff will fall back on assumptions to speed up care provision – but this is liable to disproportionately impact disabled people, who may be assumed not to be sexually active at all.”

Later that day, I called my friend back and shared what had happened. They replied with sympathy, then added: “But the NHS is on its knees.” They’re right, of course. Nevertheless, it’s unfair, and oftentimes dangerous, that disabled people should yet again have to bear the brunt of the Tory government’s chronic NHS underfunding. We deserve opportunities to explore sex – and we deserve access to sexual healthcare, too.

• Cathy Reay is a freelance writer covering disability and relationships