Trans Sex, Temple Supplicants and the Chthonic Hum of the Earth.

Positioning is everything.

Dearest Abominations, the spiciest content is going behind the paywall. So, buy a girl a drink first and remember, lovers… I’ll ALWAYS give you a taste.

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I watched her long cellist fingers pop the cap and twist out the nub of the cherry chap-stick. Slow delicate strokes across her lips. “You want some?” she murmured with an absent-minded gaze off over my shoulder. “Sure!” and in a flash she was on me, her fingers were snaking through the hair at the back of my neck, pulling my lips to hers like she was gripping a chalice.

She planted a long deep kiss on my mouth. Slowly pulling sideways to smear the gloriously sweet balm from her lips to mine.

“Tastes nice, doesn’t it?”

In that moment I saw a flash of high vaulted ceilings with soot-blackened arches. I caught a glimpse of the temple within me. I could smell the incense and taste the sacramental wine, sweet as the summer cherries of her lips.

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The Things that DON’T Make Me Feel Like a Woman.

Hormones, nitrogen fat-sculpting, laser treatments both to burn away the follicles of my lumberjack beard AND to re-texture the aging skin on my face. Waxing for brows and arms and chest and thighs and asshole, the works. Liposuction to mince two litres of fat from above my hips and suck it out to give me something akin to an “hourglass”. A nine-hour procedure to flay the skin from my face and neck, the scraping of fat from inside my cheeks, the slice of flesh cut out from under my nose, all to make this mug look more like a woman’s face and less like a middle-aged man’s The time and money and effort to change legal documents. The public fights with maliciously officious middle-managers at the customer service desk who think they know more than I do about the guidelines and requirements for updating my license, my bank account, my goddamn library card.

I’ve laid so many parts of me on the altar to be sacrificed, but none of it these make me feel validated as a woman in the same way as simple physical intimacy.

Be it kind, considerate passion or wild rambunctious fucking, for me the sharing of bodies is the most sacred and holy act. When done with someone who cares about me, who sees me for who I am, not “how I’m trying to be perceived”, it does more for me than any token platitude of acceptance. The words of well-meaning cisgendered politicians and public figures are nothing compared to the feeling of when a lover witnesses you and all your strangeness and loves you all the more because of it.

These are some of the moments, tender, rough and everything in between, where the choice of “position” is enough to transform my body. The simple act of how a person aligns their body with mine, unlocking the door to something buried within me.