Here’s the prompt: Create two lists — ways that you/s/he/they are beautiful and/or sexy, and then, ways that you/s/he/they are not beautiful and/or sexy. Take a few minutes to create each list, separately.
Then combine both lists into the first one: both lists are ways that you/s/he/they are beautiful and/or sexy — in all their complications. Start you writing using an item from each list, thinking about what beautiful or sexy means… and follow your writing wherever it seems to want you to go.
Here’s my response to this exercise from last night’s Declaring Our Erotic workshop:
This is what her sexy means — she will remember exactly what you did in the kitchen about the dishes and the cleaning up and there’s no way she’s going to spread her lips or legs or anything until you talk it through — it’s the most ingrained lesbian thing about her, regardless of the gender of the person she’s fucking: processing as foreplay. Although, to be honest, she probably learned that from her stepfather — and that’s another thing she’s going to invite you to consider sexy: the possibility of a reference to incest at any given moment, because it’s of the air she breathes, and she sometimes can’t remember that it’s not the air everyone breathes, consciously, all the time.
Her sexy is broad-thighed and sharp-tongued, it’s round and furred and unslinky, it protrudes and gets hard and slick at all the same time. Her sexy is loud, it’s chatty, though it doesn’t always tell you what it wants — but it’ll write it down for you, though. Just give her a pen or an eyebrow pencil and she’ll happily straddle your ass, bend down over you til her tits just brush at your flesh, and then scrawl out the longing that’s so licking at her fantasy. Only thing is, you’ll have to find a way to read it yourself.
Her sexy is frustrating and complicated, likes to be snared in a puzzle, likes to think something through: that extra effort, it helps to still the parts of her mind that otherwise go lifting back to the first time she did whatever she’s doing with you, since the first time she did just about anything she could do with you she did with him (or rather, he did to her) many years ago. It’s just that way.
Her sexy is confounded and confounding, lost and found in used denim and hand-me-down tank tops, it’s unjeweled and a little glittery and it likes to eat, is covered with ink stains, is often happier curled up with a good dense book than stepping through the land-mine field that is her sex — but then sometimes, sometimes, her sexy is ready for you, unabashed and plain, her sexy is wearing regular old underpants and nothing fancy anywhere and you’ll wonder where that illumination is coming from, you’ll wonder why your heart is pounding, you’ll find yourself suddenly trying to figure out if she’ll let you slide the palms of your hands anywhere against her skin.
Her sexy is too self-conscious and then also entirely uncoordinated, is the wrong shoes to go with that bag, is last season’s last season and doesn’t really even know what that means, is too brash and hairy and tangled with brawn and you’re trying to determine where the grace came from. Her sexy is taking with its mouth full, her sexy is untamed and unnameable, her sexy isn’t the part that wears the ring but is the part that runs rungs around any attempt to classify or condone, is impolite and doesn’t even know the meaning of ladylike, is sweaty and bleeds on the sheets, is too busy for you until she stops and puts her back against the wall, or to rock you back there with one fine kiss — and then her sexy has eyes you thought you knew but are razoring through your frustrations, loosening that ricocheting and complicated need that you, too, have had tangled and lost, thick, inside.
Thank you for your words today, for the ways you step into and embrace your complications. I’m so grateful for you.