This is the last essay in Anatomy Of A Mango, a series where Dani peels back the sweet, tart layers that have led to her “fruitful”, healthy sexuality.
When I was a young girl, my mother caught me touching myself under the covers when I was supposed to be asleep. I say touching myself, but I mean it in a way that is non-sexual. I was mystified by my vulva. It did not make sense to me. My arms I understood, my legs I understood, my eyes I understood. My vulva was a different texture to the rest of the skin I had come to know. This part of my body not covered by my smooth brown skin or hair. Every night I would explore it: folding up my labia and unraveling it in my hands. Trying to figure out why it was outside of my body instead of in. It was my fun, night time, solo activity.
When my mother caught me, she acted swiftly and with violence. She squeezed my wrist and demanded to know what I was doing. I wouldn’t tell her, it was my secret. Badgering me for the truth, she continued to yell in my face and ask me what I was doing. I wouldn’t give in because I knew she would take it away from me. She finally grabbed my wrist, smelled my hand, and knew. I slept on the top bunk and she dragged me down and into the bathroom, cursing all the way, calling me nasty. I remember being afraid but not surprised, it was another day of enduring her meanness and cruelty. I learned at a young age that I couldn’t do much right. My memory cuts out after this, I don’t know if I was met with more violence but I’m sure I was.
Though it had brought me immense satisfaction and happiness to play in this way, I became afraid of my body. For my mother to react that way, what could it be between my legs?
This moment scarred me irreparably for years. I stopped my nightly routine then. Though it had brought me immense satisfaction and happiness to play in this way, I became afraid of my body. For my mother to react that way, what could it be between my legs? Why was it evil enough to warrant physical harm? Though my mother had purchased many of those educational, “don’t be ashamed of your body” books, she had violated my curiosity. I hid the books away and cringed when we skimmed over anatomy in health. When I showered, I kept my eyes averted from my body and refused to linger what I deemed “too long” on certain body parts. Once, the stream of the showerhead lightly passed over my vulva and hit my clitoris and I jumped and shrieked at the sensation. The pleasure felt sinful.
So much of the perception of my body was tied up in Christian concepts of good and evil. My mother’s reaction to my inquisitive nature was a sign that my body was evil, and in order to stay pure, I needed to avoid it.
It took me a while to undo the damage my mother had done, and once I did I was able to view my body as my own, and not in the possession of others.
I finally did begin to explore again my sophomore year of college. For Christmas, my best friend took me to Adult Mart to buy a vibrator.
We had spent the evening having dinner with our dates and friends and then parted to go to Adult Mart with her girlfriend and the rest of the crew. As we walked over, I expected to be met with a tall, brimming building with huge, flashing neon signs that read ADULTMART! PERVERTS ENTER HERE!! but instead approached a sliver of a building with an innocent brick front. The lean stairs led up and out into a wide showroom with wall to wall sex. There were whips and paddles, dildos, harnesses, and video pornography. I felt scandalized and giddy all at once.
My best friend led me to the vibrator wall and my eyes were immediately drawn to a silicone, purple vibrator with a little butterfly wing attachment that was for “clitoral stimulation.” I pulled it off the wall and grabbed a pack of AA batteries to go with it.
The next day I sat up in my room and had my first orgasm. My legs shot up in the air like I was in a cartoon and had been knocked out.
The next day I sat up in my room and had my first orgasm. My legs shot up in the air like I was in a cartoon and had been knocked out. My eye twitched and my stomach fluttered. The explosion of sensation and ecstasy was so much that I almost bit a hole through my lip to keep from screaming. The feeling was astronomical, I felt like I wielded a supernatural power. The next couple weeks of winter break were spent stealing batteries from the remotes in the house. I was ravenous for orgasms and probably drove my family out of their minds in the process.
Having my first orgasm was revelatory. I became so incredibly interested in my vulva, what it looked like, the shape and length of my labia, how my clitoris responded to stimulation. Masturbation was a place of inhibition and freedom for me. It was my first step toward reconceptualizing my idea of my body as my own. I still felt a little sinful, but most of that feeling dissipated once I was back in the habit of masturbating. Somehow, when I started having sex with other people, the story changed.
My first time having sex with another person, I had to get drunk in order to find the confidence to share my body with them. It was a wonderful experience, but looking back, I would have loved to have been sober for it. The experience, while vibrant, was curved in some places, buffed out of my memory. I bottomed my first time, but I remember the urgency with which I threw myself into her, took off her clothes, tried to hide in her body. Bottoming is a very vulnerable act, to let someone pleasure you is to put the body into sharp focus. I couldn’t bear it without the haze of alcohol. Those first sexual experiences with women, I was often near a blackout drunk because I was in that bottoming position. I was still learning how to please and pleasure a woman and so relied on their guidance. Once I found my footing in the world of lesbian sex, I quickly learned that the best way for me to feel safe was to take a more dominant role and control the situation.
When I was a senior in college, I got the chance to hook up with someone I had a crush on when I was a freshman. She had graduated and moved on to different opportunities that I didn’t have the wherewithal to learn. I was of a singular mind in those days, and I was set on hooking up with her after she had rejected me when I was too young for her. We were at a bodypaint party when two of our friends, a couple, started hooking up in the same room as us. We took this as a cue to spend some time on our own as well. We went outside to the side of the house, slowly moving our bodies against each other in the dark, kissing and making promises to bring each other to ecstasy.
Once we got back to my dorm room, a different story unfolded. I was still young and had assumed that a partner presenting as masc meant they would want to be a top: this was not the case. After running to the bathroom to freshen up, I was surprised to find her sprawled naked on my bed in a coy, feminine posture, her eyes cat-like and enticing. “I want you to fuck me” she declared in a sumptuous voice that almost came out as a growl. My heart jumped in excitement, I was ready to do the work.
I assumed the position on my knees and began to pleasure her with my hands and my mouth, I remember being guided by the principle of doing what sounded like it felt good. I asked questions, got consent. When she moaned or screamed, I kept doing the thing that elicited that reaction, feeling my focus sharpen like a knife as I lay on my belly, watching her writhe and purr. With every new move I tried she melted, and with that, I felt a confidence and assuredness in my capabilities.
After a while of giving, I was ready to receive and asked if she would mind switching positions. I’ll never forget the tone of her voice when she replied, “Sorry, I don’t eat hairy pussy.” I was stunned and frankly, ashamed.
After a while of giving, I was ready to receive and asked if she would mind switching positions. I’ll never forget the tone of her voice when she replied, “Sorry, I don’t eat hairy pussy.” I was stunned and frankly, ashamed. I had never encountered a woman who had refused to go down on me because of my body hair and I certainly wasn’t going to hop up and shave after that. The moment made me flashback to the scene with my mother– someone else dictating what was and wasn’t appropriate with my body. It had made me angry, but I quickly snapped out of it, not wanting her to have a bad time because of me. I went back to bring her to orgasm again and again and would wake up with her the next morning, never addressing what had transpired between us.
This interaction colored the rest of my sexual experiences after. I was a Women’s Studies minor and what I considered to be a devoted feminist, so I wasn’t going to shave on account of one person. But I did continue to take the role as a top during sex from then on. I didn’t want another person to shame me, to know my body intimately enough to have the power to shame me. Taking my clothes off during sex was a feat. I often got my shirt and bra off then stopped after that, not wanting to expose what was between my legs due to fear of an adverse reaction. Sex became a space for me to not be a body, and with the aid of alcohol and drugs, I abandoned myself entirely.
When I started entering the world of sex and dating even more after college, I found that I only explored my own wants and desires within the confines of my own mind and during solo masturbation sessions. Sex with others wasn’t much about what I wanted, even though I took a dominant role. This was never more evidenced than during my “relationship” with C. C and I had a tense, sexually charged relationship that started with us innocently drinking wine and would end after hours of sex with us standing outside my apartment, smoking cigarettes at the bus stop as I pretended to be a stone-cold dyke with no feelings who didn’t really care about her.
During sex, I would top her, and then when she tried to please me I would push her away; when she wanted to do things I considered too intimate I would shift the focus toward her desire again. We once had a terse struggle for dominance in which she grabbed my face and begged me to look into her eyes while I fucked her. I couldn’t do it, I could barely let her kiss me on my mouth. In a space of dominance, I could relax knowing I wasn’t the focus. That I could direct my attention on another woman’s body, enjoying her curves and signs she was enjoying what I did to her.
In many ways, my sexual relationships mirrored my relationship with my mother. Everything about me was secondary: my thoughts, my emotions, my wants. My mother was a very domineering force who commanded the love and affection of others, she was a magnet that many people were drawn to or were in the service of. As her daughter, I was one of those people who were in her service. Everything I did was to get a positive reaction out of her, to earn her love. I disappeared when I was with her and became an extension of her personhood. During that scene with her in my bedroom, I learned that my body wasn’t mine, that anything I did to explore myself was forbidden and dirty. It made it easier for people to take advantage of me when I was a young girl and made it easy for me to slip in and out of whatever personality I needed to when I became an adult.
Because of the positive affirmation I received during sex, I began to believe it was all I was good for. When people wanted me, I assumed that meant that whatever I felt was irrelevant; my job was to provide joy for other people, and so I did.
Because of the positive affirmation I received during sex, I began to believe it was all I was good for. When people wanted me, I assumed that meant that whatever I felt was irrelevant; my job was to provide joy for other people, and so I did. I gave myself to a lot of people in that way, only turning someone down occasionally for odd reasons. More often than not I pushed myself further than I was willing to go in these situations and found myself feeling uncomfortable or violated afterward. Sometimes, my reputation caused trouble in the relationship I was in for almost two years. I liked being wanted, it made me feel good, but I found it hard to say no to people when I was in a committed relationship. I flirted endlessly, sent nudes back and forth with women. When my partner wanted to get closer emotionally I found myself wrestling with an internal dialogue not to trust her, that I could turn my love for her off if I needed to, that I was only useful as a sex object and not someone to truly love. She was one of the few people I did trust enough to let her touch me in very intimate ways, but that intimacy often terrified me.
The first person I began to explore my own body with was H, who I talked about in the second essay in this series, Flesh. For some reason, the fact that H was a total stranger to me made it easier to let my guard down, and focus on being catered to. It helped that H was incredibly sexy and skillful — once their tongue touched me I began to melt almost instantly. What I remember the most about that interaction other than the orgasm was my staring up at the ceiling, tightly gripping the bedsheets. I hadn’t shaved and this person was getting a full view of the very thing I had spent years trying to run from. My breath caught in my throat as I tried to relax into the situation, hoping to overcome the cacophony of voices in my head telling me that trying to feel pleasure was useless and I needed to put a stop to this whole thing. H was kind, checked in, was very communicative about what they liked and did not like. I found their confidence comforting and was excited to see them the next time they were in town.
I met my ex shortly after I had hooked up with H, and stayed pretty exclusive in that relationship to its end, and so when I came out of that breakup I was ready to explore myself more. A lot of that occurred during masturbation: I took a few months celibacy stint after getting sober and wanted to refocus my energy on what I wanted, and not what others wanted of me. Masturbation became such a healing space for me, I was in control of my fantasies and the pace/rate at which I could have an orgasm or not have one at all. I could revisit really hot past experiences or make up whole new people that I would want to sleep with.
Sometimes, after masturbating, I would return to that place of play. Just resting my palms over my labia to feel its warmth, slowly touching and exploring it, the clitoral hood, becoming curious again. I needed to learn that I was in possession of a body that I could do what I wanted with, but that I wasn’t just this body. I was more than just the things that had been forbidden to me. When I shared myself with other people, I had to remember that because I was entering into an intimate space with them, I had a right to pleasure as well. Masturbation provided a unique, hyper self-focused place for me to gain back the autonomy I had lost.
I needed to learn that I was in possession of a body that I could do what I wanted with, but that I wasn’t just this body. I was more than just the things that had been forbidden to me.
I don’t want to write this and make it sound like all the sex I had was bad, that having sex with lots of people you don’t know is bad. Being a sexually free woman is a great source of empowerment in my life. Where I went wrong was that I was using the other person as a means to disappear and to not have to reckon with my personhood. Being my own person felt impossible on its own, but when I had to do it in sexual experiences it was downright scary. My mother’s perception of the kind of girl, woman, and person I should be still clouded my own actions and self-judgments.
On bad days, it still does. I recently had an intimate interaction with someone who I didn’t like, but I kept going because this person was into me and I didn’t want to disappoint them. There were many moments along where I could have brought the situation to a halt, but I blew through every stop sign, again, not wanting to be the source of someone else’s “bad time.” I used to think back on these experiences with great shame. How could I not say “no” to someone I didn’t even want? Was I so damaged as a person that I couldn’t even communicate what I needed in a situation as fraught as sex? These questions went on and on in my head and would often wear me down. In this situation, I decided to cut things off with that person and to focus my energy on pursuing people I was really into. I haven’t met anyone I’m super into yet, but I’m looking forward to getting to know these people. Been heavy on tinder in these quarantine days and ready to risk it all!
The seed of a mango is nestled snuggly inside of its pit. I didn’t realize this until recently when I watched a woman separate the seed from the pit with her hands, struggling mightily with each layer removed. Every part of our personalities has a seed, a root that is at the core of our motivations. The seed, of course, is the reason things grow, the reason we bare fruit and flower. Sometimes, if the seed planted is toxic or harmful, it can bare spoiled fruit. The event with my mother was a seed that spurned into an unhealthy relationship with my body, which led to sexual relationships that weren’t fruitful. This is a seed that is implanted in me forever. It has grown into what it has grown into, my job now is to do the work of tending to the rest of my garden, planting different seeds, ones that will sprout into bright orange, sinfully tasty fruit. I’m planting seeds for myself that will blossom into the trees I contend with for the rest of my life, so it is my job to care for them with good intentions and healthy boundaries.
This seed of shame that was implanted in me, what do I do with it now? That shame, while I’ve worked on it immensely, still pops up in my life. It usually rears its head in the moments after sex and masturbation, an impulse to not make noise or to immediately “button up” after the orgasm is over, as if I don’t want to be caught naked and vulnerable. The moments after ecstasy, from someone hearing your sex sounds to seeing your face, are a different kind of nakedness. In some ways, giving someone the power to pleasure you is also giving them the power to hurt you — the two are not so far from each other. I realize now that this is the root of my shame; it is protecting me from being caught like I was as a child. It keeps me alert and vigilant, protected me from what I assume will lead to violence. I have to fight that impulse now and remind myself that I am safe, and that I can let the walls tumble, especially in my most intimate moments with myself. I will always struggle with being afraid to be my fully realized self, in sex and in life, but it is through my writing about it and confronting it that I begin to win that battle a little more every time.
This is the third essay in Anatomy Of A Mango, a series where Dani peels back the sweet, tart layers that have led to her “fruitful”, healthy sexuality.
My first time having sex sober was one of the most frightening, intense moments of my life.
For so long, I had come to sex with the aid of alcohol and drugs. They acted as a lubricant, a bridge toward believing in my own desirability and sexiness. Alcohol, my drug of choice, especially gave me a feeling of tallness and invincibility that extended into all facets of my life. When I drank wine or some fancy cocktail I thought myself more refined, I felt the bones in my face sharpen and my poise stiffen into an elegance. I wasn’t just Dani anymore, I became confident and sexier, people were charmed by me and I was more open to their flirtations.
I already recounted it in the first essay, but my first time having sex I was very drunk. That night I had roughly twelve shots, a few beers, and a couple of glasses of wine. The woman that I had sex with had been drinking too, and while we both were under the influence it is still one of the highlights of my sexual life. In that case, I knew I wanted to have sex with this woman, but I didn’t have the bravery or confidence to make a move without alcohol.
My college was celebrating what we called Springfest, so most of my day was spent sitting around drinking with my friends, running from house to house with open containers and laughter spilling over our shoulders. What I remember of that night was not only the sex but the pulsing of the blood through my body, I swear I could feel it rushing through my brain, the cacophonous evidence of my living. The alcohol seemed to light up my body and make every touch more pronounced.
Of course, this feeling of sharpness never lasted very long, because I craved more of it always. I drank until I ran soft and languid; until I could barely stand anymore.
When I had sex under the influence there was a dizziness that I could never shake, but sometimes that dizziness felt giddy and airy. My eyes were all I could feel. It felt as though I were watching a POV version of my life. There was nothing like kissing someone else and getting the faint taste of liquor or wine on their tongue. Or to languish in the building of sexual tension as you both share a drink. Even though I’ve been sober for over two years, it’s still exciting to think of walking into a bar with the intention of meeting someone and going home with them, or inviting someone over for drinks and knowing what you’re in for later.
The problem with drunk sex is that nothing gets easier when you’re drunk.
When I was in college, I had heard through a rumor mill that there were a couple of women that thought they were bisexual and they wanted me to be the first woman they were with. One of them was bold enough to make a move. We were partying together and drinking heavily when the group of women we were with decided they wanted to go to a bar. M was sitting on my lap, and we rose to walk down the hill hand in hand. When we were just inches to our destination, we turned to each other drunk and desire-ridden and decided to head in the opposite direction toward my dorm room.
My head was spinning from the work of the tongue and the alcohol — I didn’t want to stop pleasing her, but I had to stop from time to time to scream into the skin of her thigh.
Once we got back there, things unfolded quickly. We fell onto my little twin-sized bed and began taking our clothes off. I remember thinking M was a great kisser and pretty good with her mouth for someone who had never been with a woman before. She climbed on top of me and we began to eat each other out. My head was spinning from the work of the tongue and the alcohol — I didn’t want to stop pleasing her, but I had to stop from time to time to scream into the skin of her thigh. Things were going fine until M abruptly stopped and started to head naked to the bathroom. I stopped her and we spilled out into the hall with robes barely on, laughing at ourselves. In the bathroom, I sat on the windows ledge and waited for her when I heard an “uh oh” and the sound of a splatter.
M and I were both far too drunk. I ran back to my room to get her things but the booze had finally got to my head, I swerved, knocking into my dresser and the microwave barely balanced on top of it. My body buoyed onto the bed, my back landed on the mattress, and my legs hung off. I passed out that way and woke up in the morning with my door open, everything in my room slightly skewed to the left, and clothing strewn across the floor.
That night was one I will never forget and for all the wrong reasons. It was one of the ones where I vowed to stop drinking, but the next time a drink was presented to me, I took it. I always started drinking to gain that sharpness and confidence, but very quickly jumped passed the goal line. That was until I built up my tolerance and was able to achieve the illusion of control. Drunk sex was my first, and all I could think to engage in, the idea of taking my clothes off in front of a stranger or even someone I vaguely knew seemed impossible without the veil of liquor, its guard and its bolstering.
When I got sober, I was warned that I should stay celibate and single for a while. I was able to hold on to this sentiment for about two months before I got jealous of a roommate who was actively hooking up with someone and decided I should be getting some too. I jumped on Tinder and met the woman I talked about in the last essay, J. J was about my height and incredibly muscular. I led them to my bedroom and we sat on the edge of my bed. We briefly talked about her tour and her band, I offered her a glass of water because the room I was staying in was incredibly hot, and mostly, as a motion to stall taking my clothes off. Without the coursing of alcohol through my body, I found myself playing with my nails and grasping at conversation instead of my usual, self-assured, “did you come here to fuck” attitude.
I was piercingly aware of every hair on my body, especially those hairs in forbidden places. I suddenly became insecure at the fact that I did not shave. My outfit, which I once felt sexy in, now clung to my body in nagging ways. J touched my thigh, it was already after midnight, she gently said: “It’s late and I don’t really have much time before I have to leave again.” We began kissing at that urging, an urgent kiss that fit both of our mouths, her lips were soft and searching. J gripped my thighs with a ferocity my body had never been dealt and I moaned into her mouth. I remember the distinct feeling of wanting things to move slower, but being caught up in the fervor of having a first, and so moving forward.
Sex with J was hot with its own helping of awkwardness. I remember laying on my back and succumbing to that old feeling of fear of not being able to orgasm. I repeated to myself that it was impossible and I wouldn’t be able to do it. I masturbated, let J touch me, but couldn’t get out of my head enough to thoroughly enjoy what we were doing, how we were connecting. I got her off, and our night ended with a sweet kiss on the front porch of the place I was staying and a promise to connect if she was in town again.
To describe my relationship with alcohol, to say it gave me courage isn’t enough. Alcohol was me, my whole personality was built around being the one that was always drinking wine, the one at the party who fell out of her shoes. From the time I woke up to the time I fell asleep, all I could think about was the fluid levels in the bottles of wine I had at home. My obsession and anxiety welled each time I poured myself a glass, the fear of running out ruled me. I felt entirely inept in everything until I had a drink to calm my nerves, and then another to shake off the jitters, and then another to smooth out the kinks. I had some idea that I had a problem, but being sober was agonizing to me. At the core of my drinking was a desire to be someone else.
I had some idea that I had a problem, but being sober was agonizing to me. At the core of my drinking was a desire to be someone else.
I was always under the influence when I had sex with my first love. Whether it was alcohol, pills, or weed, I always had something in my system in order to feel good in my body. Yes, I loved her, but I didn’t trust her entirely. How could this blue-eyed, fit, blonde want anything to do with me? I had to be drunk to believe it. Once I was on such a different cocktail of alcohol and drugs I began hallucinating in the middle of sex. Often, the combination of intoxicants I was on made it harder for me to orgasm and left me in sexual situations feeling guilty and bereft. These instances, while they caused me shame, didn’t deter me from drinking. I needed to, it was a part of me, I had no other choice but to listen to what my body needed.
The second person I had sober sex with was R. I talked about R in the first essay. We had met on tinder after a brief exchange of championing each other’s fat bodies. The first time we were together, the room was completely dark, which I think aided in my ability to relax in my body. There was also the fact that R was fat, and being with someone with a similar body type made me feel even more at ease. I remember being chiefly excited about R because they are a Taurus, and I had heard Tauruses were especially good in bed.
The stars were not wrong. Having sex with R was much more freeing than the first time with J. I relaxed into my body and let myself be pleasured and explored with a vigor that shocked and delighted me. R devoured me and I held on to the sheets with white knuckles. Their tongue moved in ways that felt foreign and exciting to me, so much so that I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming “what are you doing to me?!” I thrashed around on the bed as R brought me closer and closer to orgasm, finally relenting to their touch and their tongue. When R was done, they came up and laid on me, their arm thrown under my breasts. We stayed there like that for a while, until it was time for me to go home. I still wasn’t keen on spending the night with casual hookups and I wanted to spend some time by myself to think about what had happened.
When I got home, I took a shower to wash the stickiness from my body. In the shower, as the mountains of suds rolled over my shoulders and thighs, I was able to reflect on the beauty of the moment I had just experienced. Not only had I succeeded in having sex with another person sober, but I had enjoyed it. The initial discomfort I felt had disappeared into a few moments of unfettered bliss. The sex seemed to imbue me with new confidence and comfort that I hadn’t felt before. I didn’t feel shame in my body — instead it felt like this was something I could do, more than once, again and again.
There were others after R, but the one that sticks out to me the most is A. I had met A before at one of my performances when they were dating a friend. We followed each other on Instagram shortly after and had cordial if not innocent exchanges afterward. One day I fell prey to the dozens of thirst traps they had posted and decided to make a move when they were back in town. When they did come back, I invited them over to my place.
A was incredibly nervous, more nervous than I was. They talked about horses for what seemed like an hour until I finally broke the air between us and asked if they were interested in hooking up. They said yes, and we started making out on my couch. Their lips were soft and curious; I ran my fingers through their hair and over their back. They asked me if I could take off my dress and I complied. They took off their carabineer and jeans. It didn’t take long for things to progress passed the strength of my little fold-out couch so we decided to take things to the bed.
In my bedroom, we took time to slowly run or fingers over each other’s bodies. They were soft caresses and silent affirmations. I ran my tongue over their tattoos and felt the light hairs all over their body tickle my tongue. We continued this way for a few minutes — I remember feeling struck by how open and vulnerable I felt, allowing myself to be touched that way by someone who wasn’t a long term partner. I topped them, riding them until I was ready to explore more of their body: I marveled at their ass and thighs, left some marks of my own. I wanted to sink my teeth into the smoothness of their skin.
A climbed on top of me and pinned my wrists to the bed. We kissed more, there was so much pleasure in those kisses, so much of me was alive and able to feel them. Nothing was dulled or flattened by the onslaught of drink after drink. I was able to feel every touch, every stroke of their tongue.
Nothing was dulled or flattened by the onslaught of drink after drink. I was able to feel every touch, every stroke of their tongue.
Sober sex has become the only way I have sex now. It not only allows for deeper intimacy between me and my partners, but it allows me to revel in the experience of giving and receiving pleasure. When I used to have drunk sex, I often would find my mind hovering above both of our bodies as I watched myself please another person. I was just a vessel of other people’s desire, I was hardly my own person with fantasies and needs. I often found myself ignoring what I wanted and instead, being what another needed me to be. I felt so detached from myself and what I wanted that I gave in to whatever was asked of me. Drunk sex was my way of being just a body without any emotional reckoning.
Even one-night-stands have a spirit to them, but I wasn’t willing to confront that until I stopped drinking. When I did, I was finally able to place my mind right within my body, to touch and be touched without fear. Having sober sex was a way for me to unravel the contempt I felt around my body and my sexuality. Having grown up in an environment where exploring myself was seen as a sin, when I did start to have sex, I still carried some of that bias with me. It was ingrained in the way I viewed my own nakedness and that of others. I thought I had to get drunk to overcome it. It took getting sober to get to the center of these issues and start to pull back the hard shell of it.
When I’ve approached mangoes in the past, I’ve always viewed the pit as a problem. A tough, white, barrier between the flesh and the juice. I always wanted more of the fruit and felt that the pit was taking up much-needed space. Now, I am able to see that the pit is meant to hold the fruit together and to protect its most precious asset, the seed. I used alcohol as a means to protect myself, from my body shame, my sex shame, my fear. The pit of mango has its use, just as alcohol had its use. Once they both have been used as proper protectors, it is time for them to be discarded. Before that can be done, the flesh needs to be stripped away, torn away by the teeth or a knife. We must reveal the strength beneath, reveal its purpose, its tawny white husk, and meditate on why it is there.
This is the second essay in Anatomy Of A Mango, a series where Dani peels back the sweet, tart layers that have led to her “fruitful”, healthy sexuality.
Sex, for me, is very much about the exploration of another body and how that exploration leads to a different understanding of myself. I consider myself to be quite in touch with my own sensuality. I am, in turn, very in touch with my sexuality and what it means to be sexy. This assuredness didn’t just come out of nowhere, I had to work for it. Seek it, fight for it in my own way. I am a fat, Black, lesbian woman; four identities that have been notoriously met with hostility and violence.
In sexual relationships, as I said in the last essay, women of these identities are often put into boxes of either a mammy figure or a fetishized body. The question of personhood is not given space in these kinds of encounters. Being of these identities can make it difficult to accept oneself and value your person, your body, your happiness. Having sex in this body, I have come to learn a lot about myself and what I will or will not tolerate. Being someone who has shared my body with many people, I can tell you that through each one I have journeyed to an understanding of my deepest desires and what fulfillment I want in my life. This ventures beyond sexual fulfillment and extends into almost every aspect of my life.
One of the ways in which I have sought and found comfort in my own body was through random hookups and unattached sex with multiple partners. We live in a culture that sees sex between unpartnered individuals as void of substance and any real value. Monogamous, long term love is believed to be the only way to engage in healthy relationships with others. It is the natural end to a life of “dating around.” However, I have learned things from hookups just as I have learned from long term relationships. Even little love affairs that last two weeks or only one night can be educators.
However, I have learned things from hookups just as I have learned from long term relationships. Even little love affairs that last two weeks or only one night can be educators.
I am always seeking more self-knowledge, but I’m not necessarily ready to enter into a serious relationship with someone. I want to continue to have fun and engage in smart, safe, hoe activities! There is so much we can open ourselves up to when we start to question the mode of relationships we are supposed to value most.
This time we find ourselves in the fall of 2014. After a brief battle with homelessness and graduating from college, I set out to live on my own for the very first time. I had a seemingly legit job. The house I moved into was owned by a nice enough white lady who put one of those HRC equal sign stickers on her fridge when I moved in. I felt like I had finally found where I was supposed to be. I threw dinner parties and made custom cocktails for my friends. It was, on its surface, a great life.
One day at work we had done a little “get to know each other” training about how we deal with conflict. I forget most of what this thing was about, but the gist was that if you responded to conflict in a certain way, you were supposed to stand in a group with others who matched that. I stood in my selected group and watched as a short, Black woman with locs danced across to her side of the room with people that “gave in” during a conflict. She quipped, “ask my girlfriend, she always gets what she wants.”
My attention was immediately captured. Not only had a spotted another gay in the room, but she was cute. She had a girlfriend, but that was of no consequence to me. (I was a different person then, living a vastly different life. I’m not exactly proud of that but it is what it is.) We’ll call this woman C. C and I met and hit it off pretty well from the beginning. I liked her sense of humor and that she seemed incredibly into me, so very into me, in fact , that soon her long term relationship was over and we were spending time talking outside of work. C was really beautiful, and I was flattered to have someone spending so much time thinking of me. At the same time, I was courting two other women from our workgroup, but it was C that caught me.
The first time I invited her over to my house we had discussed chocolate and wine, and so it was the theme of the evening. She brought the chocolate and I supplied the wine. The sexual tension between us was palpable. I didn’t stop to think that maybe she’d need some time to recover after ending a long relationship. I didn’t think about anything but getting her into my bed. Eventually, I had enough of laughing and leering at each other as we sipped from our wine glasses, and so I asked, “What did you come here for?” She laughed and suggested we move the party upstairs. I happily obliged and led her into my bedroom where it didn’t take long for us to fall into a makeout session.
Kissing C was a little like drowning. I liked it and hated it all in one swoop. It felt vulnerable and raw, and so I turned my face away and proceeded to kiss her neck, allowing my tongue to flow over her deep brown skin. C was the first squirter I had been with, and I learned that day that making a woman cum imbued me with an incredible sense of power and dominance. Once I got going it was hard for me to stop. I wanted to hear her whimper, scream, beg me not to stop. We fucked without abandon for what seemed like hours.
I was the dominant partner and I loved being in control. I loved that she was bratty and teasing, but would eventually do what I told her to do. When I made her beg, she begged. When I told her to crawl, she would crawl on her knees toward me, she wouldn’t touch me until I told her to. When she did touch me, my body felt alight with desire. There was a flare in the pit of my stomach, the flames flashing, and licking, the more desperate she was to touch me the more excited I grew.
When I made her beg, she begged. When I told her to crawl, she would crawl on her knees toward me, she wouldn’t touch me until I told her to. When she did touch me, my body felt alight with desire.
C and I would continue to hook up on and off for about two years, even after we stopped working together. Our end was fairly terse, she got into another relationship but still wanted to sleep with me without her partner’s approval. By this time I had changed my life quite a bit, and so being the other woman didn’t sit well with me. I politely declined and we haven’t spoken to each other since.
When I had entered a sexual relationship with C, I was still very young and struggling with insecurity. She once called me out and said I was “addicted to being wanted” and that was true — I wanted that outward approval and the desire of others to feel okay with myself, I needed it. My inclination toward self-hate was strong and I completely relied on the validation of others to fuel me. Whatever confidence I portrayed was surface level, it did not sit or permeate the flesh.
What C did for me, though, was capture my delight for dominance. Always a soft-spoken, kind, person, I expected sex to be me succumbing to the wants of my partner. I was surprised to find myself so comfortable stepping into the role of top. I found that it was a role that suited me greatly, and so I was able to carry it through many more relationships. Being a femme top is something I love having as a part of my identity. It defies “traditional” modes of sex and relationships, even in some queer circles. Knowing that I could take a dominant role in sex made me more comfortable taking those roles in other areas of my life. In work, I sought more leadership roles and was able to come out of my shell so to speak around the students and parents I worked with. I wasn’t just the quiet one anymore, I could take charge and be in control when it was called for.
There are many rules to having safe hookups, many of which I have broken. Don’t meet someone alone at your home for the first meet up? I’ve done it. Tell a friend your location/who you’re with? I keep my hoeing pretty private (save this essay series). Even with my risky behavior, I’ve had thoughtful experiences that have taught me a lot about myself and the kind of sex I like to have.
About two years ago, I met J on tinder. J was in a great band who happened to be touring through my city, and was looking to have fun. I, of course, offered myself as the fun. I enjoyed offering myself as fun for many touring bands. At the time I met J, I was housing insecure, “subletting” a room from someone I didn’t know. This fact was a source of embarrassment, but when J arrived all of that embarrassment disappeared. J did Muy Thai which I found out from browsing her Instagram. Her body was incredibly strong; when we made out I climbed on top of her and she squeezed my thighs with her hands, marveled at my tits, let me wrap my hands around her throat. She moaned with pleasure as she searched my body and asked what I liked to do.
We eventually agreed on getting ourselves off separately then coming together at the end. We practiced orgasm control and denial, finally being pulled back to each other’s bodies and having orgasms together. Before we came to this conclusion together, J had violated a boundary. She tried to do something that is a huge no for me in any and all sexual encounters. I jumped back, shocked and hurt, she immediately jolted up and apologized profusely. It took me a minute to get back from reeling over the incident, but I was able to within a matter of minutes. This was an awkward and triggering moment, but not one it was impossible to recover from.
When this moment happened with J, I was so surprised by the force with which I had said no. The way both my voice and my body reacted to protect me from a boundary being violated
When this moment happened with J, I was so surprised by the force with which I had said no. The way both my voice and my body reacted to protect me from a boundary being violated. After that we were able to have a fulfilling sexual experience, but only because I had communicated my need at the moment and didn’t just suck it up and take something that I didn’t want. In the past, I would have cut sex short after something like this. We had done a bad job of outlining our do’s and don’ts before we actually had sex, so I decided that conversation was the better alternative.
During that experience, I learned the importance of having those conversations, that even if you are in the heat of a sexy moment you should still stop to have a dialogue about what you can and can’t do. Having these conversations makes it easier to enjoy the body of another without mishaps that can turn into triggers. It also can add to the building of anticipation and desire between the people involved. When I think back on my night with J, I remember it fondly. Later, her band was back in town and we talked, but a night of partying steered her in the opposite direction. I often fantasize about our paths crossing again and the thought stirs me.
Before J, there was H. H was named after an R&B and soul diva which was the first thing that drew me to them. There was a particular photo in their Tinder bio that struck me and left me a little starry-eyed. H and I talked very briefly. They were only in town for a little while and so we decided it was best to get straight to business. We didn’t meet up in person in a public place beforehand. I invited them to my empty apartment within hours of that first message exchange. H was more masc than most of my partners, but the attraction was intense. We exchanged brief hello’s and then I led them upstairs to my bedroom. There was no fumbling over how to get started, no shyness or reservation: we sat down on the bed and began kissing.
I had plans for that afternoon with H. I decided that I was finally going to center my desires. We talked breathlessly over the things that we could and could not do, still kissing and removing our clothes as our boundaries were laid out. I straddled them and rode them until my thighs began to shake, I felt diligent and powerful in my focus to make them cum, hear their cries of pleasure. I jumped off and proceeded to go down on them, asking if they wanted fingers, they moaned yes and I proceeded to reach toward ecstasy. With my tongue and my hands, I was able to bring them to orgasm. I relished in the tightening and pulsing around my fingers, the explosion of wetness and tremors.
After I was done making them cum, they asked if they could return the favor, and I coyly said yes. They scooped me from under my body and threw my legs around their neck. H went down on me for at least an hour before I finally came.
It was the first time anyone besides myself had ever succeeded in bringing me to orgasm.
I remember the feeling of the orgasm mounting in my body, the warm rush of fluid, my shaking thighs. All of my muscles tightened around the scream and I laid back on the bed exhausted. I felt like I had accomplished something monumental. After many partners who hadn’t succeeded in bringing me to that point, I had started to believe that orgasms were impossible for me. This was not due to my partner’s lack of desire or diligence. I had an acute problem with relaxing enough to be pleased. People trying to pleasure me made me tense, my mind wandered or focused too intently on the task at hand.
For a long time, I had sex just to bring other people joy, because other people wanted me and that was enough. I didn’t want to be touched or paid attention to — in some ways, sex was a way for me to disappear into another body. I didn’t want to be seen, I diminished myself to an experience for other people. When I made the shift to bring my own pleasure into the conversation, things finally started to change for me. I began to love my body and see it as something worthy of feeling bliss. The sex got better and more fun. The people that I laid down with had mutual respect and care for me.
My body has always been a tough place to live in. From battling fatphobia to physical and sexual trauma, it had never fully felt like my own, the skin and fat and bone of it all felt foreign and in the hands of someone else. Having a body like mine, one steeped in a political and personal history of violence, it is often hard to imagine how that body can be met with anything but harm. So when I go into these sexual encounters and am touched with fervor and delight, how can I help but feel as though it is a radical act of reclamation, even if I only know very little about the person? Bodies like mine aren’t often included in conversations around sexual freedom. I am supposed to hide, to not believe in my own sexual prowess and power. We own our bodies, and who we get to share them with can be an important emotional step toward self-confidence. It seems contradictory to say I learned how to view my body as my own by sharing it with strangers and friends, but it is a truth that I revel in.
We own our bodies, and who we get to share them with can be an important emotional step toward self-confidence. It seems contradictory to say I learned how to view my body as my own by sharing it with strangers and friends, but it is a truth that I revel in.
Being a person who has a lot of sex comes with its own stigma. Especially as a lesbian, for whom the stereotype is that we get into long, committed relationships and stay until things get toxic. I’ve only had one real relationship and the rest of my sexual life has been hookups or one night stands. What I love and learn about these encounters are the parameters of my body, its strengths, and boundaries, what pleases it. I get acquainted with what I desire in a more intimate way, what I like to touch and taste. Random sex and hookups (when done safely) are great learning experiences on top of being fun and sexy!
The flesh of a mango is, of course, the part that brings us the most pleasure. Slipping off the red skin gives way to a sudden, electric orange. It is firm, sweet, and giving. The way the texture of each piece almost matches that of the tongue. There is an explosion of tartness in my mouth each time I eat one. When I reflect on the moment that mango became a sign of sexual freedom for me, I remember the plate of fruit slices before me, how I used my teeth to pull away the meat from the skin. How sticky and slick my fingers got as I held each piece. With each consumed, the desire began to mount in my body as I imagined eating something else. I love the way some strings of it carry and get stuck in your teeth, the way the scent lingers long after. Even if a hookup only lasts one night, its effect can stick with me for months, or even years afterward. The velvet of each interaction sinking into the core of me.
This is the first essay in Anatomy Of A Mango, a series where Dani peels back the sweet, tart layers that have led to her “fruitful”, healthy sexuality.
In the summer of 2016, I was a young, fat, Black dyke on the hunt for community. I spent most of my time with the kids at the non-profit I was working at, and during my off time, I had been living with a slew of strange roommates that I didn’t get along with. When I finally found roommates I liked, who were brave enough to explore our community, they came back to me to rave about a community living house they had found with cool, queer, leaders.
I was the kind of roommate who kept to myself and my little room. After work, I didn’t really hang out much except to maybe head to a bar or share a bottle of wine every now and again. My new roommate, however, was in the service industry and so knew where every party was. He always brought home expensive wines and beautiful people. His girlfriend at the time was a friend from college so we would all hang out, talk shit, and get high. This particular community they had discovered, centered around food as a mode of connection. Members of the household would take turns making meals for themselves and members of the larger community of surrounding neighborhoods.
I notoriously don’t like to eat around others, and was originally skeptical of trusting (mostly white) strangers with preparing food for me to eat. Hearing that the community was headed by lesbians that used to be a couple was enough to get me off the couch and into their door. I sauntered into that house weeks later in a thrifted crop top, flowy shorts, and a necklace that read “Dyke” in bold blue lettering. It didn’t take me long to make that place a home or to start sleeping with the head of the community.
She was the type of woman that domineered conversations, often the center of attention, and happy to occupy that space. When we were just getting to know each other, I innocently texted her that I had gone to the grocery store and found some really good mangoes that I was enjoying eating. She replied:
“Don’t mangoes increase the length and intensity of your orgasms?”
On our first official date, we ate mangoes and drank wine on my couch and had hot, incredibly sweaty sex in my converted closet bedroom. We didn’t make each other orgasm the first time, but it was still one of the best sexual experiences I’ve ever had. When I eat mangoes, I still think about her. I can vividly remember that encounter: the touch and taste of another woman coupled with the tartness of mango still on my tongue. I can’t help but associate mango with sex in some greater way now. The dewy, tender texture of the fruit, the deep red or green skin, the way it gives to the fingers. I once had a friend text me and ask which fruit is more sexual: mango or grapefruit, and its mango, its mango.
I can vividly remember that encounter: the touch and taste of another woman coupled with the tartness of mango still on my tongue. I can’t help but associate mango with sex in some greater way now.
As a fat woman, summers are always hard for me. The heat makes me want to strip, but the size and shape of my body make me want to hide it. After college, I put on weight suddenly, due to battling an eating disorder for most of my teens and early twenties. Growing up as a fat kid, I had begun to tie my sexual attractiveness to my thinness. So, putting on that weight made me feel so incredibly vulnerable, so stripped and bare that I couldn’t be missed. My skin felt taut and a blazing red. Sudden weight gain, especially when coupled with an eating disorder, can be one of the most disorienting experiences for anyone to go through. It felt like my clothes had stopped fitting overnight, and that all eyes were on me when I entered a room. One of the biggest challenges I face to this day is that I cannot bear to be seen. It’s a constant fluctuation between attraction to myself and finding who I am utterly repulsive — with the latter coming on like strong, persistent blockades.
Overwhelmingly, the messaging we place on fat bodies is one that is diminishing. We are told that we are unattractive; when we eat what we want, we are scolded. When we eat within different dietary restrictions, we are laughed at out of a presumption of futility. The same goes for whether or not we are actively exercising or not. The general attitude towards fat people is that whatever you are doing it is never enough, because why would you be fat if what you are doing was working? Fat women are stripped of our sexuality through being made into mother figures, that maternal situating often paired with becoming an emotional dumping ground and a stripping of personhood. If we are not desexualized then we are fetishized by chasers who want to fuck is in private, but not claim us in public. Despite notions that we are more progressives and tolerant than our straight counterparts, these dynamics can show up in gay relationships too.
My first sexual experience with a woman was with another fat woman. She was my good friend’s sister, who had come to visit him while we were still in college. I remember her face was bright and heavy-eyed, she had lighter freckled skin with tightly coiled sandy brown hair. We stood on the steps of my college’s ABC house (Association for the Advancement of Black Culture) when I coyly asked if she was into women.
“I like girls, I like guys, I’m kind of into everyone.”
Later that night we partied hard as we usually did in those days. We ended up crashing in the basement of the house with her friend. Somewhere in the night, we laid down next to each other, each of us so aware of the other’s body. My head still lightly spinning from the alcohol and the drugs, I stared out the window as her fingers slowly started to trace my back down to my thighs.
“This is it,” I thought “I’m gonna have sex with this woman.”
I tentatively rolled over to face her. We kissed; it felt warm and natural, a kiss far above the many I had shared before. We stumbled to our feet still gripping each other and she led me by my wrists to the other room where there stood only a table and a deep-seated, rounded chair. I thought I would take control in the moment — my desire for her, and for the experience felt all-encompassing — but she pushed me into the chair without hesitation. Our clothes came off in a blur; when her mouth found my breasts I screamed and she quickly covered my mouth. Our bodies, so similar in shape and color, collided together and fit perfectly. It was like we already knew each other so intimately.
She touched and kissed my stomach and I felt butterflies instead of the intense impulse to recoil. I held her hips and pulled her deeper into me. When her head finally descended between my legs, I held it there as if my life depended on it. It was the first sexual experience I had where I felt okay in my body. Up until then, for whatever reason, I had only had encounters with conventionally thin people. This was not out of my lack of attraction to different bodies, but they seemed to be the only ones interested in me. Having put on weight, I thought no one would find me attractive again, and being proven wrong was blissful.
There is a different level of intimacy and affirmation that I have found when having sex with other fat people. Thin people approach the fat body like a series of insecurities. They see the swell of a stomach or rolls of fat on the back and assume that you hate those parts of your body, and so they touch those parts of your body with that malice or avoid them altogether out of fear and repulsion. It comes off as shame at being attracted to you and your body.
In the latter days of our relationship, the sex with the community leader became marred by this shame. She started making unwarranted comments about the way I ate and how much food I consumed. Suddenly, it was “too hard” to make me orgasm so she stopped trying. I would lie in the dark and touch myself next to her while she dozed off to sleep or lazily played with my chest if I asked her to. She was conventionally attractive in every way: white, blue-eyed, fit. She would often suggest we go on a relaxing bike ride, then spend the grueling twenty-mile ride out in front of me, not caring how far I fell behind. Our relationship had become toxic, she could only see the differences in our bodies instead of the powerful intimacy we had once shared. The dynamics in our emotional relationship filtered into our physical relationship which is when I knew it was over.
Many thin people can’t do so because that would mean letting go of the myth that they are more desirable, more deserving of love, and superior to their fat friends and lovers.
The fact that our sexual relationship was once fruitful is proof that fat and thin people can have good sex, but there has to be a fight to address internalized fatphobia. Many thin people can’t do so because that would mean letting go of the myth that they are more desirable, more deserving of love, and superior to their fat friends and lovers. Holding on to that superiority, in a way, makes sense. When you’re gay, you often feel disempowered in the world. If you’re fit and gay, you hold on to the thing that gives you access to power the most — just as white gays covet their whiteness. One of the issues with holding on to that sense of superiority in sexual relationships is that it makes you bad at sex.
I’ve had bad sexual experiences not solely based on my thin partner’s incompetence and narcissism. It also, in part, had to do with my own insecurities about my body. I was never more aware of the scope of my body than when I was with smaller people. Thoughts would race through my head: are they going to make a comment about my body, am I sweating too much, if I get on top will I hurt them? The messaging about fat bodies had gotten to me.
The intersections of my life as a fat, black, woman came to a head during experiences with sex and dating. With smaller people, I often relegated myself to the realm of a goofy Black friend and not someone that they could actually see themselves with in public. Having been a person that was once skinny, I thought I would be more attracted to me and so other people would fall in line. That wasn’t the case. Even as I went from a size 16 down to a 2, I couldn’t grasp on to the confidence I thought I had worked hard for.
When I made the slow trickle back up to a size 14, I would wear the same black hoodie and sweatpants in public even on hot summer days. I ate in secret and often in excess, I addressed my every move with derision. Being fat, I had to learn how to shrink myself, to become invisible in public spaces. That meant wearing nondescript clothing, curling into a ball on the bus so other people weren’t afraid to sit next to me, being painfully mindful of how I looked while eating in public spaces (and also more often than not, eating in private.) In sexual and romantic relationships, it meant completely ignoring thin and muscular suitors out of an assumption that they would never be into me. On dates, I would wear my best clothes but make sure my arms and legs were covered.
I’m not entirely clear on how I made the switch from black sweatpants to the bold woman that showed up to a stranger’s house in booty shorts. I think, in part, I was just hot. Sweating away the hours was miserable. I do know that one thing that helped change things for me was consuming media that had bodies that looked like mine. The body positivity movement really started gaining steam as I exited college.
Following Instagram and Tumblr accounts of fat women of color not only helped me to see my body type reflected in ways that were powerful and sexy, but it also began to chip away at the fatphobic idea that fat = not healthy (later on I would adopt the idea that whether or not fat people are healthy is of no consequence, that even if we only eat “bad” foods we are still deserving of respect and to be left the fuck alone.) Their bodies were struck into yoga poses or spread in glorious, sexy positions. It was like the world had begun to shift, or at least, the world I was creating for myself.
Not long ago, I had a hookup with another fat person. We met on Tinder, where the first line in my bio used to be “don’t talk to me if you hate fat people.” They responded, “who hates fat people, I will fight them!” which made me laugh because they had huge cheeks that gave their face that cherubic innocence. I had just ended a relationship and had my heart wrecked by a rebound. One night, they invited me over to eat Oreos and watch movies with them and their roommates, we were basically neighbors at the point so I walked over in dowdy dress, not sure what to expect.
The evening went on and eventually, their housemates trickled out of the room and to their own beds. I stayed, with my legs crossed, and decided to make my move. I plainly asked, “did you invite me over here to make out or not?” They seemed flustered by my boldness but quickly replied yes, and so they pulled me into them. In what was one of the most dyke-y sexual experiences I’ve ever had, we had sex on their bed with a dog and cat watching from their separate posts in the room. I straddled them, letting the plush curl of their lips find my neck, my nipples, the folds of my stomach. We had a brief struggle for the top, my desire to be explored and pleasured overcame me and I allowed myself to be put on my back.
I once wrote that the point of touch is to be made, to have your body outlined by your partner. When another fat person touches me, it is to be made whole.
On top of me now, they kissed me, and they were fucking good at it. Their tongue traced my lips and met my own. They hurriedly took their own clothes off and I could make out the glory of their body in the dark. All of it moving toward me in a way that made my stomach jump with anticipation. Our stomachs rubbed together as their fingers found the space between my legs, tickling and teasing until I begged for more. When they began to use their tongue it felt as though I couldn’t catch my breath. As if the bed itself were unstable and falling. It wasn’t long before I had an orgasm, screaming into a pillow so as to not wake their roommates.
These experiences with fat people are always grounded in a space of affirmation, whether moved by tenderness or roughness. I once wrote that the point of touch is to be made, to have your body outlined by your partner. When another fat person touches me, it is to be made whole. They do not try and leave out the rolls, the stretch marks, the softness, and dimples. There was no shying away from the form that night. There is nothing sexier than that: being fucked and fucking someone who is secure in both of your bodies.
Being that we are currently in the midst of a global pandemic, I haven’t had any particularly grand hookups lately. The last one I had was probably in March before things really gained steam. I’ve gained weight recently, and I am again in a space where I am battling the impulse to demean myself — those old ideals do not disappear overnight. What I can do now is lean on my fat friends, look at our lives, and the communities we’ve built and feel joy. Here’s the thing: even in my worst moments, I know I’m hot. I know there are people who would fuck me at any weight just to say they got the chance to. It probably sounds arrogant as hell but I’m entitled to that arrogance. When you’ve been put down for most of your life you get to be a little cocky every now and again.
When I’m feeling a way about my body I take a long shower, put on some oil or body butter, and spend a good chunk of time in the mirror looking at the things I do love, and giving love to the things I struggle with. I put on my favorite lingerie and take nudes that I send to crushes, former and possible future lovers. These singular moments with my body are a way to view myself as sexy, not attached to anyone else, not basing my attractiveness on other people. That way, when I do come together with another body, it is with self-assured confidence that isn’t reliant on the assumed opinions of others. But it is in those moments, with others, where my body can become lively again. Where I can feel and be felt, realized and reddened with heat and sweat and slaps. Sex with other fat people is where I can begin to heal and decolonize my desire — to become more of myself, rolls and all.
When I touch the skin of a mango I think about the flesh inside of it, how my fingers press into it softly when it is perfectly ripe. I think about how easy it becomes to push back that skin to reveal the glorious fruit beneath, its fullness and tartness. Its smoothness gives way to the anticipation of being fed. The bright colors, how the red blends to marigold and surrenders into green. Just the gradient of color makes you hungry and expectant of something sweet. I’ve taken to thinking it’s synonymous with pleasure and weight. Its heftiness is so pronounced as it swells in my hand. Oftentimes, the heavier the mango, the sweeter it is, coupled with the sharp scent it emits from the stem. I try to take this attitude and turn it toward my own body and the body of my lovers, to treat us like fruit that is wanting to be tasted.