I need to take a piss. Like proper sit over the toilet, watching (feeling) the tin can desire to fuck leave my urinary tract. (And, God, I hate that phrase to fuck? What happened to make love? To having sex? Touching parts? Are we? Fucking, I mean? Who came up with the word?
I get horny just thinking about him with his sharp like blue glass jawline and engorged clitoris. I am fascinated by his folding labia, like mine: lapping, always thirsty and reaching for the penis (in which we find no satisfaction). That he is actually she who has transitioned to maleness (I can't decide if this has anything to do with masculinity. What is masculinity? Am I transphobic? Will they crucify me if they read this? I am slotted between the fear of being misunderstood and the desperation of trying to explain myself).
I want him to moan his pleasure into my ear, I touch him in nowhere places like shivering thighs (with pleasure, obviously), and grabbing hands (we are both still deciding what it is he is reaching for, but he is ravenous, and, for the moment, this is the only thing that is important).
I think then: I have never been more comfortable with the female body. That seeing a vagina on a man, part Frankenstein engorged penis-clitoris and butterfly labia, comes so naturally. That I have privately pondered the transgender body and never thought it was something filmed and of which others wondered, too. That I have been sold this commercial idea that transgenders have sex with the lights off, that they are afraid of their own bodies. Their otherness. Body dysmorphia sucking at their soul and calling the hollowness that remains home, pinching body-taped breasts in front of the mirror, drawing khoki lines of areas to be cut off with a scissor. Of a person 'being stuck in the wrong body'. And I have been thinking about transgender porn, again. About metamorphic bodies and how it is all in the pursuit of aesthetics. That there is no such thing as gender, femininity and masculinity doesn't exist. We are all simply in a state of being. My sister says that this ideology is erasing the feminine identity and rooted in misogyny. That I am invalidating the experiences of cis-gender women. I am a cis-gender woman. I think. But I am also queer and complicated and can't understand the transgender identity in the same way I can't understand the gender binary identity. That if gender doesn't exist, how can transgenders? How can men? How can women?
I am consumed with the idea now: gender (particularly femininity) being a display. A performance of learnt societal behaviour, and we cling to its rot flesh like summer maggots. I am inside of my body without understanding it, that I am cut-up magazine pictures of breasts and thighs and mouths and eyes, a glue stick collage of humanness.
I am tender in all of the wrong places (all the time) and at all the wrong times. I look at myself in the mirror when I am brushing my teeth (which I haven't done for the day), when I am taking a piss (and I think sometimes that I have diabetes and, privately, pray to God that it isn't so and I am a healthy twenty-one-year-old like everyone else) and see the shape of a non-body in the reflection of the mirror. Like a jump scare: Him gyrating over the trembling bulb of his rabbit vibrator and I'm arrested, grabbed by the throat like a froth-mouthed dog by my sexual desire. That, in some sickening sense, I think it's beautiful, aesthetically pleasing. That he is so pretty, and I am so enamored. Life threatening brain-rot and only being able to produce good work when I am lukewarm and slightly sexually aroused. Men speaking quietly into my ear, but, God, don't touch my throat (substituting the word neck with throat because I like sounding dangerous; that throat implies choking, suffocation by strangulation) or I'll absolutely die. I'll die. Bent over Barbie-Ken, eat your heart out jawline pumped with testosterone hormones. Fuck, I'm an insatiable demon. I'm despicable. How do I tolerate myself?