Worship at the Altar of This Trans Body

I’ve never been shown a body I didn’t love.

Dearest Abominations, while this is a post for subscribers I will ALWAYS give you a taste. You know what you need to do to see the rest. x

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There’s majesty and magnificence in your body.

I know you don’t feel it. Every day I look a mine and wonder how anyone could love this? How is it possible that anyone would consider it the “pretty piece of flesh” to be held and wanted and yearned for?

But you? You are glorious.

I know this because I’ve never been shown a body that didn’t speak volumes to me about its history, its story, its pain and its joy. I’ve never been shown a body that I didn’t worship.

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The woman who thinks her shoulders are too broad is sitting in my lap, legs wrapped around me. There’s only the barest scrap of silken underwear between us. She gazes down into my eyes and asks what I see when I look at her.

And so, I tell her.

“In another era, in another age your body would be celebrated. All the things you hate about your body would be seen as blessings to you and your community. It’s the body of a warrior. Just as easily it can swing a sword it can carry a child on its hip or a felled deer on its shoulder. I look at you and I can see you sprinting between the trees, launching yourself off the rocks to plunge the hand-napped stone blade into the heart of an elk.”

She’d never considered this perspective. The modern, hyper-real expectations of beauty had locked that away from her. You know the look I’m talking about. The look that sits in that strange, fictitious intersection of thinness and youth meeting the wanton buxomness of sexual maturity. The expectations that pervade every corner of our lives?

Yeah, you know them too.

Even being aware of them, this woman, who is without a doubt objectively stunning, is still victim to them. It’s hard to think of her as a “victim” of anything when she looks so powerful, when she looks like she looks like she should be streaked with war paint and the blood of the kill.

She weaves her strong climbers’ hands into my hair and pulls my mouth to hers as we press into each other.