Body Love

Like many other female bodied/AFAB (remember – I identify as GQ) people I was taught to hate my body at a young age.  My body was the enemy, to be reduced, enhanced, made to look slim and perky, made to conform.  My mother was always trying to diet away the weight she gained after carrying my sister and I.  Never taught to appreciate what genetics gave me in the way of planes and curves.  The ones that were passed down from my mother, her mother, my dad’s mother, and all their mothers before then, many years back.  What a waste of love.  What a waste of words.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned it was possible to love your body.  Even if I want to lose weight.  Even if I have insecurities about bits that stick out.  I saw women who were bigger than me, smaller than me completely naked like it was the most normal thing in the world.  And it is.

When I started fucking women I began to see and love in them the things I had learned to hate in myself.  Then I realized how silly that was.  Why was that scar, that curve of the hip, that rounded stomach so attractive on her, but I couldn’t see it on me?  The light bulb starts to blink on.

When I got my first tattoo, I had been designing it for years.  I saw how pretty it was, how much it enhanced my look.  Then I got two more on my wrists, little ones.  Then my lower back piece – so simple and colorful, a memorial piece.  One that reminds me of Minx and her delightful curved hips (rounded out from bearing and giving life to two children, which I always admired), long curved abdominal scar (from a tummy tuck after weight loss), sensitive breasts, and a cunt so full of life.  This one reminds me that love of all is not out of reach.

My partners, past and present, male, female, and everywhere in between have given me a wonderful gift in this regard.  They remind me of all the great pleasure my body can give to another, through sight, sound, smell, and touch.  Their imaginations bring me to life and lust in ways that I could have never thought.  They show me, through their enthusiasm for what my body looks like and what it can do and what it can take, how fantastic it is.

I am not still completely in love with my body.  But I have come to appreciate the curve and solidness of my thighs, the ones that help carry me to the tops of mountains, and wrap so sensually around the hips or waist or head of my lover.  The extra pudge on the outside of them that won’t go away – my mom and sister both have that, and it ties me to them.  And my breasts still get in the way in clothing, but are a source of great joy to me, and to others.  My waist, more trim now than before because I weight lifted and made it that way, is still my great source of bodily anxiety.

But all said, my body is what carries me through this life and gives form to my thoughts and ambitions.  For that I am thankful.



I recently started identifying as genderqueer.  I’ve had hesitations about identifying as strictly female for quite some time.  I was a tomboy as a kid and never quite grew out of it, but sort of adjusted to what was expected of me.

A few years ago I figured out that queer was a far more accurate label for my fluctuating sexual sexuality than bisexual or the one that I more often use – pansexual.  I like the term because it evokes something different, something outside of the heteronormative, an oddity that is accurate for who I am.  But recently I realized that this is also accurate for my gender too – a little odd, a bit different.

Genderfluid is probably more accurate – it shifts from day to day (as does my sexual orientation), but I love the word “queer”.

If you’re curious – I choose she/her or zie/zir for pronouns.  I’m not a fan of they/them for myself – doesn’t feel quite right personally  (grammatically is a different tin of worms that I’m not getting into).


I Don’t Know Where to Begin…

About two months ago, I started flirting with a guy at a party – playing with the snappy buttons on his shirt.  I had been drinking.  We had talked a little bit earlier, he had asked me whether I was going to this particular party.  I said yes, because, well, I was.  He said he looked forward to seeing me – nice, but not going in any particular direction.  We talked a little bit and I asked if I could play with his buttons.  “Sure.”  So for the next hour or so I did, much to the amusement of everyone else at the party.  We ended up making out downstairs, me pushing him against the wall.  Lovely subby boy.

We ended up deciding to take it further – checked in about the necessary safer sex stuff, asked about a room, found one.  And oh my the sparks flew.  We played for about an hour the first time – biting, fingering, touching all over.  He made me cum more times than I could count before he even put a condom on and slide his cock in me.  And a couple more times before he finished.  Afterwards we just lay there and talked and touched.

Got up, then ended up going outside to sit in the hot tub with the people still left at the party (it was late), flirting with each other, and playing around with the other folks in the hot tub.  I sat on his lap most of the time.  We ended up going back in.  And repeating the events of earlier with much enthusiasm.

Eventually we ended up going to bed on an inflatable mattress – he fell asleep, I got cold so I couldn’t.  At some point during the night he woke up and saw I was cold, pulled me in close to share his warmth.  I fell asleep right there, so I got a few hours that night.  We showered together the next morning, left with phone numbers and a promise to get together again soon.  And we did.  And have several times since.

We have talked every day since via text – more than two months, for a bit of that across states.  We are officially together – he is my boyfriend, my boy.

I think the rest is worth discussion later.

But for now, meet Grey Sky.