We rarely, if ever, give our loved ones the final say in major decisions pertaining to our bodies while we’re alive. Why should they be the ones calling all the shots when we die?
Suddenly, a label I’d fought long and hard to embrace just didn’t feel right anymore.
In this space, BIPOC were seen and celebrated. I had never experienced that in a purportedly sex-positive space before, and it felt like a homecoming.
I swear, I’m really not much of an exhibitionist. But a certain Social Sex Revolution compelled me to change my tune.
Romance: it’s one of those ideas that’s culturally omnipresent, but is actually pretty nebulous once you try to pin it down.
I’ve actually always loved my skin color. I love its layered richness, its opacity, its resilience to the sun.
It’s June. I miss when that used to mean the end of schoolwork and the beginning of beach trips. Now, I feel the need to brace for impact: Pride is here. Or as I tend to think of it, the Month of Queer Gatekeeping.
Like with sex, my spirituality is something I physically experience.
My body has never felt like it totally belonged to me.