Taking sexy pictures of myself reminds me how I got in trouble in elementary school for drawing a naked woman. My body was not my own to depict, or even a neutral object. It was property of my relatives or a patriarchal Christian god, temporary property of my teacher at school. I’m happy to have more choices now.
A good friend does cam work. I was really close to someone else who makes porn. I realized those were options for me. My body is fat, but some people like that!
Back in spring I was with my spouse at this cabin we visit, where we have more privacy than usual. I took some half-naked pictures of us, and they were beautiful. The light is pretty there!
My spouse was at the sliding glass door, wearing no shirt, glowingly gorgeous. I took some sexy pictures–selfies with no shirt on–and thought about money. I’m ridiculous at money, believing everything in the world should be free, an everyday anarchist.
But maybe I could earn some cash and do good things with the money, like help friends survive. The friend who cams–what if I gave her an unexpected thousand dollars? Could that help her life?
It’s been many years, my views on money have been weird. Things felt extra-fluxy recently, though, like maybe I was free to shift my opinion. Open enrollment period for new economic notions.
Realizing I could do sex work tripped me out. It made me think maybe I need to leave the community I live in.
I realized how compartmentalized my life is. Some people know me as a writer, others as an anarchist activist. Where I used to live, some people classify me as a chaste religious person–I used to hang out with ascetics, though I was a hedonist for sure.
Some people see me as a quiet stupid person, which is not true. Others see me as an organizer with energy and people skills. I can’t maintain that at all, but I learned how to facilitate meetings out of necessity. I can do that for an hour and a half, then collapse, out of sight.
Few people know me as a queer sexy hot woman who wants a lot of sex and pleasure. Will work for orgasms. That’s what I’m moving toward. Sex and connection, freedom within responsibility, play with a lot of care and aftercare–the whole enchilada of love.
I needed more pics for this sex blog–I look for public domain images connected to the text conceptually, which is ok. There’s something creative about it, but some jokes are lost.
There’s a section of the long essay sexually responsible about fending off dicks, and the picture is of a type of flower called blue dicks. Blue dicks grow in my homeland, which is how I know them. Isn’t that funny? But who would know that.
I asked my spouse to take some naked pictures of me, of my breasts mostly, in the bathroom when the light was nice. It felt empowering, to have some say in how I’m seen, to find out how to look sexy in the ways I want to. Using light and angles and cropping to make some art, with images of my own body. Filters too, turning it black & white or other colors. Taking a lot of sexy pictures, seeing what works well, discarding most.
It feels strange and exciting, to be perceived, after a life of wishing I was invisible. I hated creepy men looking at my breasts–at the gas station, a white guy with gray hair, glancing at my chest, then looking guilty. My vulnerability was painful for him and for me.
This decision to ask to be seen is a new thing. Later I took selfies. That was good too, having even more power over it, but limited by my physical disability, the reduced function in my right hand.
Back at the cabin where we have privacy, a few days ago, I wanted to take pictures in that bathroom. I like to soap up before getting into the shower sometimes, to save water.
So I soap my body at the sink, taking my time, almost a spiritual experience. My breasts look amazing like that–I look in the mirror and arouse myself, with the wet shine and sudsiness, the loving motion of moving my hands over my breasts, in slow circles, washing them–gorgeous.
My spouse agreed and took the pictures. I get to know my own body in a new way. Like I mentioned in another post, I don’t understand what my own body looks like. I know how it feels, I know how some people react to it, but I can’t tell how it looks.
A photo is a photo, not real life. I still don’t know what I look like, but a photo is a hint.
Next up I would like to make more artful art depicting my breasts, and the rest of my body, like drawings or paintings. Why not–they say “write what you know.” I would like to paint what I am. My body is always with me and definitely on hand.
I hope you enjoy your whole being, empowered in the ways you need.