The Persian Woman on the Me and My Boi Blog Tour

Me and My Boi Cover

The new queer erotic anthology Me and My Boi edited by the indomitable Sacchi Green was released from Cleis Press this month, and includes my story “The Persian Woman.” Years in the making, you will be delightfully aroused by the plethora of erotica, by all of your favorite queer writers. I’m so honored for my work to be included in this slick, hot collection.

Check out the excerpt below, followed by links to all of the posts on the blog tour, and a chance to win a free copy of the book!

The story begins 

“Go ahead.  Tell me to pick up that glass.”

Nisrine’s molten eyes fill with tears as her gaze drops to the half-finished plate of insert Persian dish here) on the table in front of her.  We’re eating at her favorite Persian resataurant, which reminds her of her childhood.  The way her dark hair pours her neck, down her shoulders, I long to push it back behind her delicate ear.

“There’s a lot coming up for me.  I don’t think I can do this.”  Her tears slip out.

“It’s very simple.  Just look me in the eye, and push your will into me… make me want to do it for you.”

Nisrine and I have been seeing each other regularly for about nine months.  She is very like a child.  She has toys that go everywhere with her, with including a small stuffed tiger.  She likes to make up science terms, and talk about astrology.  She names all of her belongings.  I’m not in love with her, but I adore her.  She fucks with soft quick movements, and she’s one of the few femmes I’ve met who can make me, her daddy, come.

“Pick up that glass!” she commands, like a feisty little dictator.

“Hmm, that was good, think you can slip in some sexy badass Femme?” I purr.

“Pick up that glass, you filthy slut!” She’s imitating every pro domme she’s ever seen in a stupid movie that knows nothing about kink.  I love watching her struggle.

“No, a little softer, more insinuating… make it so I can’t resist.”

“Would you pick up that glass?” Nisrine murmurs, her liquid eyes never leaving mine.

Obligingly, I pick it up, and take a sip of water.

“Now, imagine telling my boi exactly how you’d like to be touched.”

Her gaze plummets immediately, and I take pity.  Reaching across the table, I take her soft palm, turn it over, and stroke the inside.  I look at her, without blinking, and watch as she does that thing I love; her eyes melting as she softens, and I can almost smell her pussy getting wet from where I sit across the table.  My girl.

“You’ll do just fine.  I’ll be right there, supporting you.”

We’d been planning the seduction of my live-in boi Miki for hours, ever since she whispered into my ear that she’d like to try taking charge for once.  I’d chuckled audibly when she asked if she could try to top me, but it got me thinking.  This luscious, sexy woman who’d been trained growing up in the Middle East to be demur, feminine…there was no way she could authentically dominate me.  But what a lovely desire.  My mind turned to my good boi Miki. Maybe, just maybe I could help her to dominate him.

My boi Miki, with the solid broad shoulders of the swimmer that he’d once been, is in collared servitude to me.  Miki would be easier for a novice to top, as he lives to submit.  He’s a ruthless bad-ass housing rights trial lawyer by day, and collared submission gives him a place to set his great fight down, and surrender.  Think Annie Lennox, circa 1988: tall, strong, feminine, masculine, in her uniform tailored suit and tie, and substitute sandy brown hair and green eyes, that’s Miki.

I keep him in strict chastity, and he is never allowed to let his fingers slip down between his legs, to finger his clit, or to touch his pussy lips that are almost always slippery with want and need. He would be thrilled to submit to Nisrine if it was my will.


Now for links to all the other posts in this tour, and the book giveaway info.

Me and My Boi Blog Tour Links

June 12—Sacchi Green— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 13—Annabeth Leong– http://annabethleong.blogspot.com/2016/06/me-and-my-boi-not-just-hair.html

June 14—Anna Watson— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 15—Sinclair Sexsmith– www.sugarbutch.net

June 16—Jove Belle– https://jovebelle.com/

June 17—Tamsin Flowers– www.tamsinflowers.com

June 18—Victoria Villasenor— https://breywillows.com

June 19—J, Caladine—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 20—Victoria Janssen– http://victoriajanssen.com

June 21—Dena Hankins–  http://denahankins.net/my-summer-of-boi/

June 22—D. Orchid—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 23—Pavini Moray– https://emancipatingsexuality.com/ 

June 24—Melissa Mayhew—www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com

June 25—Jen Cross— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 26—Kyle Jones– www.butchtastic.net
June 28—Aimee Hermann— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
June 29—Sommer Marsden— http://sommermarsden.blogspot.com
June 30—Axa Lee— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com
July 1— Kathleen Tudor— www.sacchi-green.blogspot.com

BOOK GIVEAWAY

Anyone who comments on any of the posts will be entered in a drawing for one free copy of the anthology. You can comment on more than one post and be entered more than once. The winner will be announced and notified by July 5, if not sooner.

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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!

 

Revolution happens when trans-masculine people invite pleasure into their bodies, just as they are.

bridge-to-tunnelI dip my pen into the blood of my heart, and begin to chronicle the myriad of thoughts, sensations, feelings, body epiphanies and erotic somatic learning that happened this past weekend.

It is only now, four days out, that I can bring myself to write of the beauty, the heartbreak, the joy, the community and the exquisite pain that was the first Geography of Pleasure: Embodiment for Trans Guys workshop.

Here’s what I notice: my heart aching mightily with the openness we created together.   I find my heart expanding into love and joy, and contracting into fear and anxiety, in a regular pattern.  I find I want the rawness and intensity of the workshop space in my everyday life.  It is hard to return to dishes, kids, and regular life.

How can I describe how the electricity in the room as we smashed paradigm after paradigm? How to write of the power of claiming our rightful erotic space, as humans who live on a trans-masculine spectrum? How can I describe the utter suffering that the people in this circle have endured, that has impacted every aspect of their lives? And how can I describe the fierceness and righteousness of watching the erotic call each of us home to our bodies, just as they are in this moment?

Truly, I cannot.

But what I can describe is the feeling of success I have as a facilitator of a crucible that created demonstrable transformation for participants. People looked different when they left.  They felt different. They felt like their context around pleasure, their bodies and their relationships had shifted so much that it was difficult to articulate. They spoke again and again of feeling a sense of safety that they had never in their lives felt.

I knew the workshop was going to be potent, but I really had absolutely no idea to what degree we would change everything.

One of my favorite reflections comes from workshop participant Jun C:

“I came in feeling like I had nothing to offer. I now feel like I have everything to give.

“I feel like I finally found the kind of community and connection with other trans-masculine people that I’ve been looking for that I couldn’t find for so long.

“I had initial reservations coming in (didn’t we all?)  I thought there was a very likely possibility that it was going to be some hokey new age-y type thing that usually strikes me as being disingenuous, devoid of real substance, with a false type of enlightenment. I don’t know yet how to articulate the sparkle magic that happened, but I’m so glad I was there.”

This workshop arose from a vision I had of a room of trans-masculine people, working together to banish shame, craft community, and communally welcome into our bodies the pleasure that heals trauma, brings sensation to numbness, and replaces fear with joy.  And this bold vision actually happened.

As a facilitator, my heart grew larger and larger with each story, each sharing, each time I sobbed with the hurt we have all borne. The scars I saw this weekend, (and I saw many,) denote a strength and a resilience, a determination to live in our bodies and to be truly ALIVE, without apology.

Perhaps I will write in greater depth about the specifics of what we did, but for now, I am basking in the delight of a heart full of passion for continuing and growing this work.  We  have already been invited to Portland, New Mexico, Toronto, Minneapolis and the UK.  You’ll be able to track our progress at http://www.geographyofpleasure.com.  I’ll be posting participant written reflections on my blog, as well as spoken reflections on our website and youtube. Stay tuned!

Our dream is for every trans-masculine person in the world has access to pleasure and embodiment, in the body they are in, RIGHT NOW! 

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!

Pleasure and Embodiment for Trans Guys

bridge-to-tunnel

REGISTRATION RATE

Geography of

Pleasure!

Register now.  

Feb. 21-23 in San Francisco

“Geography of Pleasure” is a workshop for those of trans-masculine experience who are curious about exploring their bodies. Did your trans body come with a user guide to optimize your pleasure? Together, we write our own.

In this highly interactive workshop, conducted by trans-masculine facilitators, you get to deepen your understanding of the unique and diverse capacity your trans male body has for pleasure. 

Art, Anatomy, Touch, Ritual and Conscious Play are the ingredients. This workshop focuses on the entire body and is held in a container that is playful, safe and reverential. All of the myriad decisions trans masculine people make about their bodies in regards to surgery and hormones are honored.

The trans-masculine facilitation crew includes:

Dr. Liam “Captain” Snowdon.  Captain is a trained sexologist and international professor of Sexological Bodywork.

Pavini Moray, M.Ed.  Pavini teaches erotic wellness, intimacy technology and somatic sex and trauma renegotiation.  Pavini is a Sexological Bodyworker, activist and educator on fire about pleasure.

Dr. Ari Zadel.  Ari is a trans physician with a passion for serving trans youth populations.

Dallas Maynor. Dallas is pursuing a Master’s Degree in Somatic Psychology at CIIS.   He is dedicated to accessibility and social justice work.

Register now.  

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.)

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. 

 

 

Trusting Eros: Being Taken by the Fuck (in an alley)

Sex in an Alley“Can you take it?” Togan asked, his hands wrapped around my throat, as he stands above me, gazing down at my face. 

It was hard to answer: my pussy was being seriously banged by Dramal.  “That’s all you got?” I barely whisper, and watch as his face contorts with anger and pleasure, simultaneously.

Yesterday, I practiced being fucked in a filthy San Francisco alley. 

 I don’t typically have casual sex.  My trust issues prohibit it.  The sex I have is connected, meaningful, intimate.  I am incredibly selective about my partners, and tend to have sexual relations that span decades instead of minutes.  My relationships tend to depend deeply this kind of strong trust. Trust allows me to surrender, to open my body and my heart. This is how sex feels good to me.

And yet. There is a part of me that yearns to explore uninhibited, no-strings-attached sex.  The kind of sex where you have to pick the gravel out of your knees for days after.  The kind of sex that leaves the stench of garbage and piss all over your boots. The kind of sex that burns hot, extreme, and strikes like lightning.  Ironically, the kind of sex that is beyond trust. 

Erik Erikson was a psychologist known for his theory on psychosocial development of human beings.  If you’ve ever said “I’m having an identity crisis” you can thank him for that phrase.  He theorized that there were 8 stages of psychological development in humans, and that each stage allows one to master (or not) a crucial life skill.  If not mastered (because the needs around it weren’t consistently met) it can become a core wound, an area of your life in which you consistently experience challenges.

The first stage of Erik Erikson’s theory centers around the infant’s basic needs being met by the parents.  This experience leads to either trusting or mistrusting the world. Erikson defines trust as “an essential truthfulness of others as well as a fundamental sense of one’s own trustworthiness.”

My core wound is trust.  I am petrified of betrayal. 

This fear has haunted me in all of my relationships.  It has been prohibited me from exploring the full extent of my sexuality, because I seek to meet my need for trust in my sexual relationships.  Perhaps you can relate!  I am often suspicious, and can question a lover to the nth degree, until I find the betrayal I am certain exists.   This behavior is not particularly conducive to intimacy, and thus my sweetheart has requested me to examine when I am viewing through a situation through my betrayal lens, and I am attempting to comply, by finding situations where I can practice and be held with love.

This weekend I attended a Body Electric workshop called “Outside the Boxes.”  It was a time for queers and genderqueers of all flavors to explore body, sex and pleasure.  The intentions included to expand Eros through embodiment, especially using breath and pelvic focus.  To discover edges, and to deepen into living in one’s whole body. To participate in communal erotic ritual, in a container that is about presence and Self, as opposed to hooking up and Other. It is an amazing chance for us to do our personal work, in a supported, focused environment.

There were many interesting activities and rituals over the course of the weekend.  However, it is the last encounter about which I write today.  The culmination of this weekend was in giving and receiving erotic massages in groups of three. To tell you about this, I must rewind a few weeks into the past, and tell you about attending an event at the Center for Sex and Culture called “Perverts Put Out.”  Writers and storytellers ply their erotic crafts and share their work this juicy evening.  One of the stories that night was read by local writer Jen Cross, who conducts Writing Ourselves Whole writing workshops for survivors of sexual abuse and trauma.  The story she told pierced into my brain like an arrow shot through an apple, and has remained lodged there in the weeks that followed.

She told a kinky tale of mindfuck: a submissive boi being taught a lesson on manners and assumptions about power and gender. As if I were there, I saw it… in a crumbling alley off of Folsom… the three of them locked in a gritty urban embrace of filth and power.  In my mind, I watched the scene unfold: the boi choking and gagging, learning to deepthroat from a woman wielding a large silicone cock while Daddy watches on.  Boi assumes Daddy is in charge, and he’ll get to play with him if he tolerates the attentions of the skirt.  The mindfuck is that actually the Top in the situation is Mommy, schooling the ignorance right out of the boi’s disgustingly stupid head.

Back at the workshop, I’m asked what my intention is before getting up on the table.  The truth is, I want the kind of internal trust that would let me experience being that boi in the alley.  It’s not that I want his role, I don’t want to be someone’s boi, per se. It’s just that I want to be able to open my body, beyond trust, beyond safety, and know that I’ll come out the other side intact.

I choose my partners.  They are edgy, genderqueer and I’ve watched each of them get fucked in turn, both preferring hard fucking and not so much the lovey-dovey.  I haven’t met either of them before this weekend, and while I have an affinity with them, I’m scared as I walk towards them.  They are waiting, blindfolded, at the massage table, for us to make our choices.  Perhaps I should choose less dangerous types for partners, perhaps picking instead a gentle older woman or a young sweet femme. I head towards the tattooed and muscled pair, my hands sweating.  They uncover their eyes, and I see them appraising me, wondering how this will go.  I don’t expect either of them to turn down the volume of their Eros, I just pray I can open to receive it. 

I tell them the story of the alley.  I tell them my intention is to practice having sex in an alley.  I see the diabolical light enter into Togan’s eyes.  I know I am in a safe container to practice this, but it’s still scary.  Dramal’s touch is gentle at first, and I want more.  Each time he asks me, “Is this okay?” until I say that I actually don’t really want him to ask me… and he gets it quickly.  “I’m asking you once and for all, do I have your permission to Handle you?” he whispers scathingly in my ear.  My yes is weak on volume, but it will do.

Their touch is strong.  I fight against it, and the slickness of the oil and sweat covers us all as we wrestle and fight.  I’m laughing, mocking them into giving me more, making it more real.  I want them to Want to do this, want to force their touch on me.  My face, smashed into the table, searing hands around my throat, fingers slamming into me.  It’s not exactly pleasurable, but there is something here, something erotic beyond what I can name.  It’s brutal, primal.  I check in with my pussy: “How are you doing down there?” and my pussy screams back “Shut the fuck up!  This is amazing!”  I smile, inspiring more force.

I see the rats, smell the garbage, feel the rough pavement beneath my ass.  I use my imagination to practice being in this scene.  I allow myself to become that boi, taken and used. It is delicious.

Sex in an Alley

When it’s over, we collapse against each other on the table, panting, sweaty, spent.  I wonder how it’s been for them, if they felt the animal of Eros as I did, or if they were just good at crafting this kind of experience so that I could play with what happens in the space that is beyond trust.  They wrap me in sheets, and stand with their attention focused on me for the next ten minutes as I dream and fly.  Smiles and giggles come and go… I feel so happy, so free.  I have opened my body to two people I don’t know, and probably won’t ever see again.  I have trusted in my own ability to stay present.  I have travelled a new road of Eros, that was often beyond what I would have named as my desire, and found it exquisite and satiating.  It’s sex, but not how I’ve known it.

This is the kind of trust I want in myself.  I want to be true to all of my desires. I want to explore my edges and beyond, trusting that I will never fall into victimhood.  I burn with the need to expand my erotic capacity.  I like practicing.  I don’t know when I’ll be ready to enter that wretched alley and have that kind of sex.  I trust that I will know when I am ready, and I trust that when I do it, Eros will take me exactly where I am meant to go.

If you are interested in exploring trust, and wanting to learn how to expand your capacity for it, plan to attend the Intimacy Technology class I am offering on Monday, October 28.  We’ll practice trust skills in a gentle, supportive way (in my living room, not in an alley!) and you will be in choice about all activities we do.  You can register here for Terrifying Trust.  

They’re Genitals, Not Gender!

I hope it’s true for you that you have had at least one or two splendid, marvelous lovers from whom you’ve learned much of the good stuff you know about sex.  Could be they taught you about anatomy (yours and theirs) pleasure (yours and theirs) or predilections.  Or a plethora of other superb sexual things you now know because of this person.  Think for a minute about who that person is for you, and what juicy, resplendent tricks you know because of them.

When I think back over my life, there are three lovers who stand out.  In memory, they are surrounded by a golden aura of bliss, but in actuality something about their body, energy and feel happened to correspond to what I respond to most.

This morning, I was lying in bed with #3, and I was thinking about all of the things I’ve learned from him.   (This isn’t gonna be an overshare, I promise, so stick with me.)  The thing that I’ve learned most from him is that my genitals don’t equal my gender.  Ok, I live in San Francisco so DUH but hold on.

WARNING: WORD GEEKERY NEXT TWO PARAGRAPHS

If you are unfamiliar with etymology, words transition and evolve through languages.  Often beginning with Greek, moving to a Latin root, then passing through Old French or Old or Middle English to arrive at a current spelling and meaning.

The word “genitals” and the word “gender” originate from the same Latin root: “genus,” which can mean ‘descent, family, type, race, stock, kin.’  Both ‘genital’ and ‘gender’ began in the Greek with the flavor of generate, create, and family lineage.  Both moved through the Latin, and branched around the 12th century with the French picking up “Gender” c.1300, “kind, sort, class,” and the word genital emerging from the Latin.

Beginning 15th century, “gender” was used in English in the male/female sense, and mid-15th century genital was used as a noun meaning ‘sex organ.’  Fast forward five hundred years to the early 20th century, when the word ‘sex’ took on erotic qualities.  Gender came to be the common word used for “sex of a human being,” often in feminist writing with reference to social attributes as much as biological qualities.   Thanks for indulging my research-word geek-historical context seeking self.

NOW BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING

Using the word “genitals” to describe the sex organs between my legs delights me.  Without the qualifiers of “female” or “male” genitalia, all I’ve got is genitals!  It’s what my lover has, and it’s what you’ve got.  Genitals.  If we strip gender away from genitals, suddenly there are many more possibilities to interpret each other’s and our own sexual organs.  Suddenly, my gender (outward presentation, how I interface with the world) can influence the ways I engage with my genitals.

In the case of my lover, he genders (verb) in the world as male.  I can use the way he genders as I interpret and engage with his genitals.  (Instead of the reverse, where I look to see what’s between his legs, make a judgment and then apply a gender to him which may be inaccurate.)

Gender is often more mutable than physical body parts which can require hormones or surgery to change.  People who identify as ‘genderqueer,’  play with gender and feel a spaciousness when it comes to defining their internal experience of gender.   Instead of having to ‘choose’ just one gender, we move along a gender spectrum with a degree of fluidity about our identity.

Imagine when you were a child, you were told you could only choose one favorite color, blue or red.  And you decided that you just wouldn’t decide!   Instead you moved between loving blue and all its shades, loving red and its hues and all the variations in between.  And if someone looked at you and said “That child is a blue-lover” you could agree.  And if someone looked at you and said “You must love red best” you could agree.  And inside, all the while, you dance and move and play with those colors, and all the other colors as well.  That’s kinda like being genderqueer.

Playing with gender can give one many options when it comes to happy genital time, aka sex.   Sometimes I fuck, sometimes I get fucked.  Sometimes I’m a damsel in distress being ravished by a handsome stranger, and sometimes I’m the handsome stranger doing the ravishing.  It’s not my genitals that wear a pompadour, sport the rock-a-billy, don the thick gold chain and cruise the strip in my cherry ride.  That’s my gender.  But I’ll tell you what:  my package sure does love to come along for the ride!

My.genitals.do.not.construct.my. gender.  Get it?

I’m grateful to my sweetie for all that he’s taught me about genitals and gender and many other pleasurable and satisfying things, which I may share with you at a later point.  I’m grateful for my own explorations with gender, and all of the fun I’m having along the way.  Now that we’ve got your pink bits sorted out from your gender, go ahead and write that fantabulous lover of yours an email and let them know you’re grateful for their teaching.  And let me know what they say!