Sex beyond cis — exploring the moonlit hinterland
There comes a point when your lips are so close to theirs that your whole being is longs to connect, that sense in the very core of your being that it…just…feels…right. That moment, delicately poised, then as things progress you are utterly wrapped up in them, this person of complete desire and frisson. Their scent, their skin, their presence. They are all consuming, they are the centre of all experience.
And they can be all the beautiful permutations of the human form. Sexuality, at least for me, is as much based on the connection I build with someone as it is about raw lust. Lust slaked in the moment can be delicious and hedonistically staccato crying rapture, heat of the night that consumes and burns all the way through to walking not so shamefully back ne’er to see again. Or it can be the slowest of builds, weeks and months spent talking and exploring all the wonderful facets, unfolding slow motion as one night you merge one into another; tis all the gyre and gimbles in the stars.
Every body, every cure, every taste of their lips. Transcending male or female; girl dick as sweet as his ever was. Soft and curvaceous, lithe and toned. Muscles sweating despite the cold, their eyes locked only on me. Sex in all its glorious forms twisted knots and bent me all out of shape, recoiling in utter beguiling sea wracked shores as their tsunami broke me apart in their arms. No gender defines Elysium, for all bodies in all their glories ride Galadriel through my heart.
In the darkest clubs has seduction twined me, dripping ambrosia as her body coiled under mine, his hands soon enough softly slunk until all three of us crowned a new mountain peaked in nearly-morning glory. Pounding beats and queer bodies, her eyes the centre of that prismatic universe, the wandering of all our days temporally stopped as fingers entwined. I feel her excitement, just, enough to know her lust. Stripped back in the night behind cheap hotel door we knew each other, queer hinterland explored.
This is in no textbook, they do not teach you how to navigate queer bodies with a banana and overhead projector. No VHS or DVD, well, not those VHSs or DVDs, showed me coitus queerness. Just the vague outline of where queer bodies should be if the whispers were not so dangerous. Loving and lusting all the bodies means finding all those moments when those classroom lessons never quite do apply. No bananas, unless for snacks and cuddles or more.
Queer bodies are dangerous things, at least the cis folk tell themselves. It was never our problem, never the queer folk who are afraid of our queer lusts. No, exploring the hinterland is not things we are ashamed of, but in their shame they make our lust lethal, to us. They make our bodies this canon of unholy writ, this communion that spills literal blood in panic. Not for them Elysia, just sordid forgotten in the pale light of dawn. Queer bodies transcend their lust and shame, for we know the glory that comes from our sheer existence.
There is no shame in my curves and dipping hips. There is full moonlight sonatas, drums pounding or heartbeat timpani, is rhapsody of all the bodies queer and cis, enticing as all those snatched glances and almost there kisses. Queer bodies linger long, feeling just right, cis too, their passions adorning all stations of my soul. Trans sexuality, whatever that may mean, fuses with all those deep yearnings fulfilled, never trapped, certainly never ashamed.
