Fat in your face! Kapow!

Last Friday, my beloved Ari and I went for dinner at our favorite Vietnamese place in the Castro. We’d put a lot of sweat equity into our house that afternoon, and looked forward to some delicious fresh garlic salmon. We were seated almost immediately, the place was  full and diners throughout seemed to be celebrating the weekend.

Ari left to the bathroom, and as I sat there alone, it was impossible to ignore the full-volume LOUD conversation happening between the two women, one Chinese, one white,  sitting at the table next to mine, about 18 inches away.

They were discussing fat, and how gross it was, and how they did everything in their power to avoid it.

They talked about their starvation diets, about how bad they feel about when their pants are tight, and about their friend Jim’s hilarious love-handles. They laughed loudly at his sensitivity about them. It went on and on.  I sat there, wondering, what is the right way to handle this? There were no other empty tables. I was hungry. I was experiencing intense fat-shaming, and I was paying to be there. I had no desire to gently ask them to stop, educate them about why it wasn’t cool, or engage with it in any kinder way.

At that moment, I was all “Fuck that.”

Ari returned, and something in my face let him know things were not okay.

“It’s so totally obnoxious when people spew their fat hatred everywhere” I said, matching my tone with theirs.

“I know” he immediately replied, “especially when they are cluelessly sitting right next to two fat people who might feel hurt or upset.”

Have I told you how much I love this man? Yep.

We continued, discussing at a loud volume about how to raise our BMI, how to get our fat to jiggle even more, and if we should order 6 or 9 entrees. We decided that we could always order more.

We went on to discuss the sex we would have when we got home, and how he hoped he wouldn’t lose his hand again in my fat folds. About how we’d shower first, to get rid of that noxious smell emanating from our fat. And how then, after he fisted me in my c-nt, we’d eat again.

The voices at the other table were quieter, and for some reason there was no more hate-speech next to us.

I went on to enjoy my meal, and enjoy my partner’s company.

On my way out the door, I stopped and blessed these woman, that they would have healthy, wonderful, smart fat babies to love with all their tiny hearts. 

Not everyone’s form of activism, I get it. Super intense and in-yer-face. But that fat-shaming shit is just so socially acceptable, and so demeaning and hateful.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve just sat there, saying nothing. Sometimes it’s what it takes to get through dinner.  And that sucks. But this time, I felt good about doing something that changed my experience of it. Something that made me feel powerful. Something that didn’t leave me in a melty heap, ashamedly eating my fish. Fuck that and fuck them, for not cleaning up their oppressive bullshit.

I know I’m supposed to have compassion or something for the stupid socialization that they have endured, and how they are acting out violence and hegemony upon their own bodies, but hey, I don’t.

I’ve worked really hard to learn how to not be a hateful asshole. I practice everyday. They can too.

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The Birds and the Bees and the Fucking in the Trees!

When you or a loved one is looking for queer, ecosexual porn to get you hot and bothered, where do you turn?

I know, right? 
If you are like most of us, your poor, sad inner ecosexual don’t get much loving in the media.
Nature is sexy. That’s why they call the big sex talk “the birds and the bees.”  You instinctively knew the sexiness of the Earth as a kid. And now.  You remember it now.
You feel the Eros of the sap as it rises in spring, pulsing through the tree trunks. You experience the subtle pounding in your veins, as the crashing waves of the salty sea are welcomed by the tender shore. You know the silky feel of the river sliding against your naked skin, the hot sun penetrating your pores. You remember the grit of sand against your ass, and the rising of the flesh as cool breeze brushes across your skin.

You know these pleasures. These are ecosexual pleasures.

How do we make love with Earth, our first and final lover? How do we celebrate the sexuality inherent in nature, and manifest it in our own spirits and bodies? Three years ago, I directed and shot a short film that attempts to capture on film our erotic relationship with the Earth and answer these questions. I made this film for you, for us, for all sweet and sexy Earthlings. 

Now, it’s me who needs your help.

Holy MILF Promo img
I’m at a critical moment in the birthing of this community produced and support DIY film, Holy MILF. We’ve raised 30% of our $5000 campaign. In order to complete the final push and get the film into theaters and film festivals for the pleasure of ecosexuals like you everywhere, I need your financial support.
Your contribution will support the final edits, color and sound corrections, and first DVD run. Without these things, Holy MILF will not be able to be shown in theaters.
Your gift is extremely important. Not only is it a way for you to support radical, queer art, it’s also a way for you to bring into the world the kind of erotica that turns you on.

Your gift of $40 will give you the opportunity to download and view Holy MILF,  before it is ever released in theaters! (or choose another hot-n-sexy perk!)

I am deeply committed to bringing to visibility queer ecosexuality for you, your pleasure, your desire and our planet. Saving the planet through pleasure is not something I can do alone, however.
The Indiegogo campaign is here, where you can watch the silly promo video, as well as the beautiful official trailer. Please donate what you can today. The campaign ends this Sunday, 2/22

Your donation will make a world of difference. I promise you.  Click on the link below to visit and donate to get Holy MILF on the screen.

View and Donate to our Indiegogo Campaign!
VISIT OUR CAMPAIGN!

 

A Valentine’s Day Love Letter to My Fat Body

Love letter to my fat body

Dear Body,

I write to you from the garden of the home we share.  The radiant oranges and yellows of the nasturtiums splashing their outrageous beauty everywhere remind me of you.  I thought I’d write and tell you the truthful yearnings of my heart.

When I see you walking with your back straight, your chin raised toward the sky, rolling that big gorgeous ass, I think to myself, “You, YOU are a new paradigm of beauty.”

Your abundant beauty belongs to you.  All those curves and rolls and solid flesh. That way you disregard all the ways you are supposed to be beautiful, and make your own rules instead stuns me with delight. It is a miracle to witness you, to watch your strength and determination, as you live so fatly and fiercely. I know they said you wouldn’t.

I watch you, out of the corner of my eye. I watch as you dance and spin, cutting crazy moves on the dance floor.  I watch as you make raunchy love.  I watch as you gather children, lovers, friends and enemies into your embracing arms. Sometimes, you are so exquisite that I lose my breath.  My heart pounds like its gonna burst out of my chest with an explosion of love and glitter.

When I see you like that, I lose all of my fear. I feel full of confidence, knowing you are mine.  You have been so patient, waiting as I’ve come to know this.

When you pull your tight black tee-shirt over your head, fasten your studded belt around your thick waist, I know you are not concerned about what anyone will say.  Your flesh is molded into the shape of erotic luxury and perilous pleasure.  I love the way you own your desire. You are subversive and dangerous, just by your lines and shape.

You are ripe and delicious, like some rare succulent fruit.  When you let me cup your heavy breasts, stroke your skin with rose oil, and dip my fingers into your secret places that you only share with me, I know pleasure beyond any other.  Can you feel the breath of my adoration humming along your skin?

You are my miracle of beauty and life. I desire to dive deeply into you, to utterly lose myself inside of your wild, free form. Inside of you, I will find home, I just know it.

Big Fat Love,

Pavini Moray, Sexological Bodyworker

P.S.  May I suggest writing a Valentine’s Day love letter to your own body?  Send them to me, and I’ll choose several to publish right here on this blog!

These boots were made for walking: Fluevogs, Sex, Divorce and San Francisco.

I moved to California in 2004, from a homestead in the backwoods of the North Carolina mountains where I literally baked my own bread each week. I could never have imagined all the ways San Francisco would infiltrate my skin, my soul, and my sex.  It ended my marriage, and brought me into my true partnership.  It turned me queerer than I’d ever dared to express before.  It radicalized my life. San Francisco has been, and continues to be, my totally  hot transformative lover, like no other.

Today I’ve been pondering what it is that my child self wants.  Making room for the desires of that girl, and trying to give her space for play and trust.  This afternoon, she has called out for dress up. Boots, in particular.

And although it feels incredibly vulnerable to share, here’s a little post-holiday gift for you.  I wrote this poem in 2005 about the pair of Fluevogs I bought that eventually changed my life. When I wrote the poem, I didn’t know all that would happen, but you’ll notice that somewhere I had a strong inkling, or at least some forshadowing.

As it turns out, I’ve ridden those boots home to a sexuality that continuously expands and furthers my expression of my deep, animal nature.

Back in 2005, my then-partner told me I looked like a prostitute (he didn’t mean in a good way) the very first time I wore the boots.  I was heartbroken.  But something raw and powerful inside insisted I wear them anyway. Ultimately, that moment informed my decision to leave my marriage and reclaim myself.  I felt a distinctive “fuck you” to those threatened by my sexuality.  I continue to feel that way.

In the post-capitalist-frenzy of the holidays, may my humble offering remind you that we can always travel home again, and sometimes the ticket is even for sale.

Buying the Boots on Haight Street, 2005

These boots are San Francisco.

As the striding, heel-crushing totems work their black magic,

supple black leather, long lines, heels curving up like city streets,

I tell my companion I am not ready to ride these.

As the striding, heel-crushing totems work their black magic,

my fingers trace these routes.

I tell my companion I am not ready to ride these

She says I will not wear these boots until I wear these boots.

My fingers trace these routes

like streetcars of desire.

She says I will not wear these boots until I wear these boots,

and there is longing, coveting, desiring.

Like streetcars of desire

carrying a bad-ass passenger,

There is longing, coveting, desiring

to be the woman who owns these boots.

Carrying a bad-ass passenger

Up, up, up, up

Oh, to be the woman who owns these boots,

pouring my legs into the casings, making me taller, badder, readier.

Up, up, up, up,

supple black leather, long lines, heels curving up like city streets,

and pouring my legs into the casings, I am taller, badder, readier.

These boots are San Francisco.

The Day I bought my Fluevogs (looking a little apprehensive.)
The Day I bought my Fluevogs (looking a little apprehensive.)

Is this what I want? Adventures with Wanting, Yearning, and Craving

Is desire at the root of everything human?

(We all come from desire.)

I wake up today (everyday,) and not a full minute goes by before I’m thinking about what I want.  Coffee, return that phone call, text my crush…. and the list goes on.  Every moment of every day, thinking and feeling into what I want.  Sometimes getting what I want, sometimes not.  Sometimes able to ask for it, sometimes, the desire smoldering inside.  Doing all of these human dances, with desire as my constant partner.

It’s got me thinking, this desire thing.

What is it? It seems like every big religion’s got the word on Desire.  Recognize this one? “And the woman saw that the tree was good to eat, and it was desirous for the eyes, and the tree was lovely to behold.”

buddha_stars1Buddha teaches that attachment to desire is the root of suffering: The second noble truth the origin of suffering:  Within the context of the four noble truths, suffering (dukha) is commonly explained as craving.

  • Craving for sensory pleasure
  • Craving for Union (togetherness)
  • Craving to not feel painful feelings (not aloneness)

 

 

 

 

ChinnamastaShakta Tantra (the Hindu variety which I practice) resolves the fundamental dilemma presented by being human and having desires and those desires causing suffering by directing human desires towards liberation rather than repressing them. This philosophy argues that trying to deny certain desires only empowers them further. Rather than repress potentially harmful impulses, Tantra tries to harness them in service of setting ourselves free.

Of course, Christianity gives a narrow container for the expression of limited desires, and seeks to control through fear and punishment all desires that fall outside that purview.

Pagans seem to welcome desire and pleasure, and don’t fret too much (maybe not enough) about the impact on our spiritual development.

In my admittedly very limited knowledge of Islam, it seeks to provide a code for the expression of human desires, seeking balance between wanting and fulfillment of wanting.

Judaism prescribes a law-filled code for the fulfillment of desire as well, that at least includes pleasure.

None of these ways of engaging desire really work for me.  They seem like how it could be, or should be, or an idea…. but not personal enough. My own experience of desire is so complex.  It is often glorious, often painful. My desire ignores codes, rejects shoulds, and is often the antithesis of what is culturally conditioned.  I wonder if this is not the experience of most of us?

Every person I have ever worked with or discussed sexuality with has expressed their desire in completely unique, and specific-unto-them terms.  The only common thread is the liminal, and ever-changing nature of desire, and its insatiable quality.

I want permission for my desire.  This process you are reading is about me giving myself permission, and hopefully giving you permission.  Imagine, all of us, simply wanting what we want.

I desire things that I am not supposed to desire.  I desire much that my socialization tells me are taboo, wrong, disempowered, disgusting, shameful, abhorrent, too far from common decency, too powerful, too violent.  I notice my desire like hunger.

Last week, I noticed the gnawing in my belly.  I tried to fill it with too much Halloween candy. I tried to fill it with socializing, with sex. I tried to fill it, and then I stopped.

Just noticing the hunger, noticing the emptiness, is so hard. It is so terribly hard to just sit with it.  My mind clamors: Try a beer. Try some cuddling.  Try a bath.  Soothe it, dissipate it, quiet it.  Somehow lessen the ravenous void of its immense gaping maw.

Wanting is terrifying.  It is the rawest, most bloody form of nakedness that I know.  Wanting without a tether, without something at the end of the desire, is what lies at the root of the hungers we try to feed through addictions.

This is what I want, right now.

I want her. I want her precious, big-eyed vulnerability.  I want her tenderest tears and fragility. Her badass intellect. Her heartbreak. Her need.  I want to make her come and cry, and then wipe her tears with my hair. I want her to want to give her orgasm to me. I want to cut her heart wide open, and take it from her chest, licking the dripping blood off of it (this is a metaphor.) Or maybe I just want her to text me.

I want him. I want his fierce submission. I want his most vroom vroom passionate passion to have room to express.   I want him to have the flexibility to turn his crazy erotic energy up and turn it down, at will.  I want to see him naked, dancing, feeling completely free within his bondage.  I want the intensity of his James Dean eyes turned on me, his unfettered desire throbbing and thrumming as he awaits my instructions for the afternoon. I want him to serve me lunch.

I want to build a container (a world)  in which you never again question if you are wanted or desirable.

I want to be able to name my desires freely.  (Ironically, while writing this a dear one emails me.  In that moment, I find I want him, too, and write and say so.  Naming my desire is terrifying.)

I want reassurance that my desires are not too big, too disturbed, too insatiable.   

I want to feel poignant, intense feeling. I want to not be separate, insecure, alone.  I want erotic community.  I want magick and synchronicity.  I want clean underwear.

I. want. to. be. taken. care. of.

There are other desires, things named and unnamed, that I will probably never do or have.  I name them (and ask you to know that there are others I am not naming here) because I don’t want to offer you a diluted version of the truth of my desire.  I don’t want to give you lukewarm permission to be fully, completely in your base human desire.  So here is what I also want: I want to sell my body, to make them pay for it. I want to tear and bite with my teeth, rip with my blade.  I want to hurt.  I want to humiliate and I want to worship. I want to lay my body down and open, prostrate myself in front of the Divine, and offer the service of my meager life.

And it never, ever completely goes away, no matter how close, how intimate, how much power exchange, how much energy, how many orgasms.  The wanting remains.

I feel so humbled by the power of my desire.  I have spent years trying to quiet it.  Trying to feed it.  I have this big, fat body to show for it, all my wanting.  While there are certain standbys for bringing comfort and offering temporary satiation, I find that even they are growing old and cold and less effective, as I get closer to being able to express the heart of my desire.

What I am learning about desire, as I give myself full permission to want what I want, is that it almost never is what I expect it to be.  It is continually surprising and an elegant mysterious process of uncovering what I want in each moment.

Internally, my experience of my desire is sweetly familiar and freshly distinctive and exceptional.  I notice I can’t breathe deeply.  The best I can do in that moment is to say, “Sitting here, next to you on this couch, touching your hair, I am feeling desire.”

Of course, the next logical question is “What is your desire?” and it is here the breakdown and the loss and the grief occur.

I can only express around the edges of my desire.  It is not because I am shy, or inarticulate, or unable to tell you because of shame or repression.  It is because when I try to put my desire into words, there is something essential I cannot capture.  Using words, I cannot put my yearning into pure form.  There is something lost in translation.  And no matter how close I get to expressing what I truly want, when you give it to me, there is always another translation gap which I also grieve.

So many different, intricate dances with desire.  What I’ve never done is just stay open to it.  What is on the other side of this yearning?  What is it to not know the answer? What is it to wait, hungrily waiting?  What is it to acknowledge that the want in me is the want of the very universe, exploding itself into being?  What is it to allow feeling that power, to feel the hunger that will never, no matter what, stop?  And even as I contemplate, and practice, just sitting with the wanting, there is that within me that wants to want.

You ask me what I want.

But my dear, although I can never tell you, of course I want you. And I want you to want to be wanted by me.  I can’t tell you in words.   But my eyes, my eyes can tell you.  My eyes can tell you, without losing the pure raw brutal power of my lusting want, my aching need, my unadulterated desire.  I want you. Just look in my eyes.

Tell me what you Desire. 

Pavini Interviewed: Listen to the Podcast!

A month ago, I was interview by Sexologist Anya de Montigny on her radio show “The O Word.”  I talk about genderqueer awesomesauce, trans and fat sexuality.  It’s kinda long, but if you’d like to listen, here’s Pavini Moray, on the “O” Word.