I forget that I’m sexy.

I forget that I’m sexy. That there’s an ease to me lying in bed tracing a tattoo I don’t yet know with my fingertips. That my body exhales when I’m naked, shrugging off the weight I’ve imposed on it through expectation and leaving it scattered on the ground with my clothes. I forget that I laugh during sex when I realize I’m safe.

I forget that it isn’t just those things that make me sexy. That sexy isn’t bound to sex. My smile acts as permission, an invitation towards intimacy. And sometimes the sexiest moment of a weekend is drinking whiskey tucked up into each other talking. It’s the witnessing of each other’s story that ignites, not how perfect I look with the lights on or what a stud I am with them off. It’s showing up that’s sexy. And holding space. And fumbling over whether penis or dick should be used in a sentence (I’m trying to incorporate dick into my daily vernacular, you know, the usual.) 

I was talking to a friend the other night about the things that feed our soul. Things that help us push up against the boundaries we’ve set for ourselves. That allow us to settle into the person we know is there but stay a step ahead of because slowing down and walking in stride with her would change us irrevocably. Sex is that to me. And everything around it. It makes me feel feminine. And powerful. And nourished. I find myself questioning that all the time. Feeling like I need to qualify or neaten that sexual part of myself, or having to hear someone else do it for me from their own discomfort. 

Should I hold back?

Then I remember who I am in bed. 

She is marvelous. 

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