To make my queerness more nameable to myself

Standard
CN: queerness, fucking, NSFW.

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Do I have to penetrate? Do I have to come?
These are some questions. For queer sex, its refusal of a hetero constellation of values, knows itself not or not just by the relative gender IDs of those involved — queerness as gayness — but also by the queer ways their bodies meet each other, how their bodies displace P-in-V and male orgasm as sex’s ends.
So, to make my queerness more nameable to myself (and, oops! to you), and to grant myself permission to resist its drift towards a genital centralism that’s never been the mode of my deepest pleasure but remains a fulcrum of social pressures I feel, here are some reasons I don’t have to penetrate and also I don’t have to come.
I don’t have to do those things to prove I can, despite the early and formative lack of solidarity from my penis, its refusal to rally on the night when my virginity got lost, memories of which have made each instance of sex since feel more like a question than an assertion, or an assertion perched precariously on a question, which is both good and not.
I don’t have to penetrate and to come in order to feel uncanny fathoms of pleasure, since such pleasure is available in the tension sustained and unbroken before orgasm, without respect to orgasm, as I’m gripped against a wall and kissed deeply, or held over a lap and soundly spanked, as I’m fucked from behind and gasping as I tell myself I don’t in fact need to pee.
I don’t have to penetrate, or even to come, so as to perform a masculine dominance, though fucking to orgasm can be a fun part of that performance on such nights or with such partners as compel me to it.
I don’t have to do those things to mark out where sex stops, or shifts. It can just stop, or shift. Or not.
Nor do I have to do those things, to penetrate, to come, because I’ve done them before and found them good. Each partner, each night (or day!) is different. I’m different.
I don’t have to penetrate my partner for fear that they’ll feel undesired if I don’t, especially when they’ve not said that this is how they think of sex.
I don’t have to do those things. Compulsory heterosexuality operates by insisting that I and other penis-havers must do those things, should want to. Patriarchy coerces by laying down blueprints for living and loving and urging you to lend them your flesh. It asks you to build a pleasure-machine that whirrs and hums towards the penis going in and clearing out, whatever the diversions on the way. But we can all fuck like lesbians if we want to, penetration available but dethroned. It’s nice and helpful to recall that all of us are female from behind.
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