When we fuck… when your hands are in my hair like desperation, lips on mine like fire, body pressed against me with my back pressed against the wall, nails dragging across my skin, tracing my outline and teasing… I am there with you.
But the moment you whisper those words, “you are so beautiful,” meant to open up your heart, I am gone.
If I could design my body, it would be a little less hollowed glass and a little more trained architect with a ruler. I’d fill in the concave space between my shoulder and my hips, fill in the muscle scraps stretched too thin, two less useless pounds, and the kind of confidence I’d need to not be so nervous when you go down. And no, I don’t want a dick, but I am pretty sick of this shit, too, and I don’t want to be a boy but girl has never really been my calling either. And the place I find myself, somewhere stuck in the middle, I don’t know if my body will ever feel beautiful, to me.
Only I can’t start a romance with my toilet bowl to shed this kind of shame, and there’s not a way to end the pain in my gut when the minimum wage labor at subway calls me “pal.” Really dude? Pal? If you’re going to lump me into the one half of the population my junk doesn’t match, at least call me sir, like you’re not looking down on me from your $7.25 an hour throne and that’s not the fucking point.
The point is that the next time you touch me, you can think whatever you like, but if you don’t mind, keep it inside. Because I know how hard you try to make me hear you, make me see what you see. And this body is beautiful, but don’t confuse this body with me.