So There’s this common misconception about sexual trauma or molestation that afterward the “correct” or “normal” response is for that person to shun sex forever or be afraid of it. Well. It’s not that way for everyone. This is a poem about my sex addiction born out of sexual trauma. It is now mostly under control but has got me into a lot of trouble in the past. It’s called alphabet soup.
Vulva is just
Wet so to
You see. Thats Z .E. E. With a capital Zee. It goes way beyond pansexuality. It’s the yearning to be sex-Zee with everyone I see in front of me.
You see. I’ve enjoyed my way through mind blowing mind sex with asexuals, and oh the allure of androgyny, basking in the beauty of bisexuality, or those not bound by binaries, caressing captivating cunts, copious cunnilingus, cumming consumed in carnivorous carnal care, digging deeper with the demisexuals, delving in our dearest desires and dreaming of delightul days, fawning over fantastic femmes, free fluidity, ah, you see, I like everything I see in front of me, from A to Zee and all between, and imagine Zees hips gyrating vigorously.
I’m sorry. But ya see. My Zeesexuality, is a part of me, born out of brutality, realized as a love for all the beauty that confirms my desire to be sex-Zee with all the sex-Zee people I see in front of me.
So if you think you ain’t sex-zee, I can guarantee, that my Zeesexual eyes have spotted your “fly” and they wholeheartedly agree. You sex-Zee… with a capital Zee.
I never identified as queer. Growing up in a small rural town, there weren’t many options.
My older sister, the paragon of femininity, me casting off her hand me downs for my cousins or grandpas clothes instead. Playing every sport imaginable, asking family and friends to call me “Joe”, which I could always laugh off as short for “Joesphine” should I ever face the challenge. Dad had wanted boys, and they tried four times before they retired. So it seemed Dad always felt drawn to my masculine spirit, let it roam free. Encouraged me in lacrosse and hockey. Let me wear my clothes, even to events where I would get stares. My parents always told me it didn’t matter who you loved, as long as you loved them because they were good people, though my mother’s gay-dar ever sharpened. Never in hate, but always good for a laugh. The reason I stay in this closet to them to this day, refusing to be the butt of some family joke.
I remember the shame growing deep inside as I lusted after my closest friend. Her and I ballroom dancing away our Thursday nights, trading off as lead. Getting stares from the coupled expanse. Dating boys in public and coming home to tell her, much to her chagrin. Spending our evenings cuddled watching shows, instantly separating upon interruption. Wishing we had a space to explore our bodies without shame.
Though I know she felt the same, the words were never uttered from our lips. Platonic overtudes shading our lust in public. Ensuring everyone we were just besties, and nothing more.
As I grew older I fucked women in silence, hiding away my “dyke-ed-ness” from everyone, including myself. But I never felt like a lesbian, never felt bisexual. These words did not describe me. They didn’t feel like truth. I just never saw gender as a prerequisite for attraction. I never cared what was between a person’s legs. I neither saw myself as a man nor woman, but something in between that didn’t have a description I could muster.
And as I grew more, so did my vocabulary, an ever-growing lexicon to describe to people what didn’t even feel like my truth. Pansexual. Polyamorous. Non-binary.
I never felt that I was in the wrong body. It always felt like mine. But yet I never drawn to one or the other, only the love of my growing breasts, and hips and curves soon changed my dress code away from androgyny, limited by the binary selections that didn’t suit my mood.
The lack of jealousy that drove my first boyfriend wild, instantly made sense in a world beyond this cesspool of bigotry, where I was free to have multiple loves and partners and not be tied to a monogamous hopes and dreams.
As I age, none of the labels yet feels like a fit. I struggle to find where I belong in a world determined into binaries. Neat ideals carved out to classify our world into neat little boxes, but my box has flattened, ceasing to be conformed into a shape to serve a purpose for another. I refuse to let my identity overpower my spirit. I have broken my box. Refuse to categorize myself and be used to store other people’s shit. I will stay stacked against the wall waiting for a better shape to fit my purpose.