flame

“Last time we had sex, when I was masturbating, I imagined my dick as a flame,” I said.

I was lying in bed with my spouse, naked, after sex.

“Was it sharp?” my spouse asked.

“Not really sharp,” I said. “But it was angular and red. It wasn’t dick-shaped.”

It was pointed triangle shaped– a red, long triangle flame filling my hand with energy. So alive.

In regular life, my dick is a clit. In dream life, my flame-dick was so pushing, hot, and vibrant.

energy

What shape should a dick be? I don’t need to use that word.

I feel sad how “male” can be used to exclude me. No, I’m not male. If you’re looking for a cunt-free household, community, or hot springs retreat experience, I won’t pass your test. My cunt hole is a portal to the other world –I don’t make up the rules.

I don’t fetishize maleness, men, or dicks. Actually I tend to avoid them.

Yet I’m trying out new gender expressions, and what are my options. Non-binary, agender, multigender, fluid gender, gender fucking, gendernaut are options! But even when I reject the labels of man and woman, the dick question is too haunting. Cis people want to know what’s in our pants as proof, as if a part would prove something…

This is a shard of energy between my legs. You don’t get to know much about it unless we’re very good friends. But it’s a flame.

pain

Spring makes me crazy, and everything hurts. I’m crying about death– mostly not actually dying, but all that surrounds it. I’m crying about

• inadequacy of home hospicing
• the jail-hell of hospitals
• my mom’s horrific departure
• the inability to prepare
• grief
• loss
• here and then not-here

Gender I could cry about also, but I never expected to be understood. Culture never promised me any matching of my inner form to my outer form.

Culture told me to shut up and take it. I’d prefer a functional culture, but I’m working with what we have.

I loved someone last year who told me we could dress up as our genders even when they don’t have legibility. My gender that day was BBQ sauce– sweet, spicy hot, red-brown, and messy with a tang of lime.

How would we represent that? They offered to help me fashion and gender, and never followed through with the imagined relationship. I’m still here. Spring is tenderizing me. Honestly I’m ripped open.

The flame is bright, and my hands can touch that danger.