I hooked up with a guy last night.

His name is ZZ. His hair is pink and he wears pink nail polish and has pink glasses and wears pink shorts and shirts and shoes. Not all at once but strewn around his apartment everywhere is pink. On the floor is my pink underwear.

I am on the bed, getting fucked. I am moaning in between the comforter and the fuzzy-soft Costco blanket on an unmade bed while I am penetrated by a magic wand, fingers, a mouth, a toy, a dick. I am screaming and cumming and oozing my nectar all over the comforter. He matches my intensity. He is hairy, bear-y, bearded, soft, hard, with sparkling eyes. He teases my edge, extracting more moaning and sighing and screaming out of me.

I am electric. I am soft and spongy and electric. I am hard and electric. I am incapable of anything else except electricity. I fade into subspace. I am in the nonverbal place. I am unable to answer commands. He brings me back, asks if I want more. I manage to tell him that I need a break.

This is the second time in my life that I have ever “needed a break” during sex.

Before we started ZZ mentioned that he felt insatiable, fired up, more sexual than ever before and that he wanted more and more. I told him that my body is kind of intimate, and that very few lovers have ever managed to fully satisfy me. In between sessions he told me that he had never been with a body like mine before, so responsive, so…what was that word I used again? He asked me.



Being with this person was like fire. I had been with three other people in the past few weeks and they were respectively ocean, woodland, and volcano…this one was fire, pure and simple, like being burned up in the eye of love.

The energy in this person surged upward. He told me was prone to be fiery in his communication. He had facial tics. His body tended to overheat. He is a drummer. He is orphaned; one parent died of a brain tumor, another of addictive habits. Another family member had brain cancer. A brother is incarcerated for drug crime. I think these things are related, and I tell him so. He is surprised, but not dismissive.

The next morning he fucks me before we start our day. I feel rushed but I let him, and I get into it, and enjoy myself, but I do and did feel like that wasn’t my highest and best choice. I later communicate my feelings to him and he is so understanding, appreciative, and apologetic. We need some ground rules, I realize, and structure. Otherwise we will burn each other up.


I ask this person how he identifies. We both agree that words are crap. Nevertheless he loosely identifies as a “straight-ish kinky person.” This surprises me, because I found him on a queer cruising Facebook group and later on at a sex party at a trans/GNC house. I am surprised at my ability to find the one cis straight (albeit queer) man at the queer and trans party. It has happened three other times in the past two weeks. The monoculture, much like the patriarchy, reproduces itself.

My roommate asked me if I’ve had fun when I slid into my house on Saturday morning, glowing and vibrating with life. I felt that I could burn the retinas of an onlooker I was so bright. We celebrate for a moment. I then reveal that this person was another cis, straight-ish identified (albeit queer!) person, found in the queerest of GNC places. Lighthearted bemusement abounded. I later wonder how many times I will verbally quit men on the heterosexual side of the spectrum until I realize that there really is a place for them in my ecology. It’s almost like I am bi-erasing myself, or maybe I just want evenness along my pansexual terrain. I aspire toward a true sexual polyculture, but I’ve gotten so used to eating corn that I can’t stop. Corn stalks cloud my field of vision. Stalks with their golden ears waving in my face, tempting me with their damn genetically-modified sweetness. Husked and unhusked. White corn, golden corn, corn syrup…I could be eating acorns, hazelnuts, chestnuts, walnuts, and yet I check the ingredient of every one of my hookups and somewhere in there is corn. 60% of this damn continent is covered in an annual, habitat-destroying carbohydrate shaped like a dick. Am I really to blame?!

“I have faith that the contours of my sexuality are revealing themselves in due time.”

“I have faith that the contours of my sexuality are revealing themselves in due time.”

“I have faith that the contours of my sexuality are revealing themselves in due time.”




I started seeing someone. His name is XY. He is a super beautiful human and I feel so much happiness knowing him and getting to know him. And the challenges that he brings forward in my life are so full of promise and growth. Right now he is wearing my floral leggings and college sweatshirt and making me breakfast so that I have time to write. I feel like we’ve known each other for a long time.

I consider XY to be a permacultural human being; one who walks in nature way. By that I mean the hypocrisy in his life is very low, and of that which remains he is painfully aware. XY, a lifelong and now certified chef, always makes food from leftovers, is very careful to reduce waste, has been to permaculture meetups, practiced tantra, loves yoga, and treats everyone with the same level of respect, save for those who tear through relationships like a virus and scourge the earth in their wake. XY is also bisexual and an innate feminist, which comes out in how he relates to the feminine in and outside of himself. He’s very nurturing. Many times already have I turned around to see him holding a spoonful of something delicious that he has made for me.

We are both foreign, and finding ways to navigate being in the continental US. while XY’s neighborhood friends in his small town outside of Naples were grooming themselves to fit into the Southern Italian patriarchy, XY was emigrating to the US to go to an international high school on a scholarship, and then on a scholarship to Brown, where he would immerse himself in a politic of the body that made sense to him, and would help him to shed his childhood conditioning. He studied math and economics and international relations. He dated his TA, who brought him up to speed in the bedroom. XY is an excellent lover, I think.

Most importantly, and most permaculturally, XY gives people a lot of room to be who they are. He enjoys meeting people’s needs. He loves to help others. And any time I speak a need to be working or organizing myself he honors it, and creates room for those needs and offers his support and assistance where possible. I think XY really understands that quality time could be spent doing anything, from sitting quietly together to cleaning out a bedroom to going to a party. He is very undemanding and easy-going, in bed, socially, and in life, and will just as easily mingle with others at a party as snuggle with me. He treats other manifestations of life with a stunning and almost ethereal equanimity.

XY is also suicidal.

I feel like a hurt animal writing that.

He doesn’t act on it but ideation caresses his mind, while he mathematically calculates which buildings on his route are tall enough to get the job done.

In a way I’m not surprised, because XY is gentle and feminine and the world is not like that. He has such high integrity and never cheats or spites anyone, and is a super clear communicator, and yet, at the bottom of his heart, XY doesn’t want to be here anymore. He didn’t think he’d make it to see the election.

XY is someone whom I hold with nonattached appreciation, as he holds me. We talk about babies and remember abortions. We talk about homesteading and remember immigration. We talk about long lives and remember short ones.

I want to treat him with the utmost respect as he gives his love to me. I want to give my love to him as he treats me with respect. Beyond that, words fall off the page.