A seemingly straightforward question, one that many queer women, femmes, and non-binary people are asked with relative frequency. The act of which sometimes feels aggressive, sometimes invasive, and sometimes salacious. It depends who is asking, in what context, and what it is that they’re really trying to figure out.
So, let’s suppose you’ve asked me with genuine curiosity, with kindness, with just an ounce of desire. Let’s suppose I’m feeling generous, and contemplative, and perhaps a little masochistic.
Supposing all of that…I guess I’ll tell you.
There isn’t a whole lot to it, really. It’s not all overlapping legs, and hair brushing across each other’s faces. It’s not just fingers, and hands, and lips, and fingernails on soft skin. It’s not all strap-ons, and vibrators, and spitting in each other’s mouths.
It’s some of that, though. Maybe less, maybe more.
It’s also glances across the room at your best friend’s party on a Friday night. The space between you occupied by everything you both want, but never say out loud.
It’s a fingertip drawn across your thigh in the dark, surrounded by everyone you work with.
It’s in the sound of the door being locked behind you, in an apartment you don’t belong in, but are invited anyway.
It’s in the realization that everything of hers is somehow different from everything of yours.
It’s against the wall at your favourite dive bar, the beat of the music swallowing the beat of your own heart as your hands take what’s given to them.
It happens behind a pop-up art gallery in Toronto after a concert, unaware of how many people are watching.
It happens after long periods of not happening at all.
It happens on your couch because your boyfriend is out of town.
It’s in hurried text messages, sent from the bathroom because it’s the only place you can be alone.
It’s in a messy apartment that you largely ignore, because you’re there to feel like someone else.
It’s sitting on the subway, legs crossed, heart pounding against your jacket, heat rising. You get off a stop early just to walk it off.
It’s the wondering. Oh god, there is so much wondering.
It’s in staircases and elevators, hushed, and hidden just barely enough, driven by the rush of being seen.
It’s on a strange bed in New York, thighs between thighs, hands on the back of your neck, stopped only by the threat of being caught.
It’s in dreams long before it’s in reality.
It’s wrapped in confusion, and shame, and longing, and hysteria.
The lust, at first, is unparalleled; a great unthawing. You drown in it. You die and come back to life. You cleanse something dark inside of you. You meet yourself for the first time, every time. Even in the shame, there’s glory.
It is fire incarnate.
It fades over time. The loss of intensity feels like the loss of a vital organ. It feels like failure. It feels like the end of time. It feels like you’re broken.
You search for the heat, finding it moments at a time, in places that should remain hidden. You cross boundaries in the hopes of revealing that familiar glimmer, begging to bask in its light for just another moment. You ache. You drink too much. You sway toward oblivion. You decide you can’t do it this way any more.
You free yourself. You mourn the loss of the fight for freedom. You dream about how it used to be. The dream is always better.
You slowly start over. You become a humbled student of your own desire. You listen to the whispers instead of waiting for a scream. You let go of expectations. You realize how much damage previous fires have ravaged. You finally start to heal.
You meet pleasure, oozing and glowing like honey. You revel in it. You become sticky and delicious. Someone new asks to taste how sweet it is to be loved by you. You say yes.
Yes!
Yes!
Fuck yes.
But, queer sex is not just moans, and wet sheets, and saying fuck a lot. It’s not just tops and bottoms and switches. It’s not just harnesses, and safe words, and packing.
It’s some of that, though. Maybe less, maybe more.
Perhaps, simply, it is the sum of its parts, dismantled and recreated over and over until it finally feels like it belongs to you. It’s a puzzle only you can solve if you’re willing to search for pieces that were scattered for you. It’s a great undoing, and redoing. It’s looking at yourself in the mirror and asking what else needs to be freed. It’s…an act of rebellion.
Does that answer your question?
Author’s Note: I am a queer, cis-woman and this is written based on my own experience. Queer sex is many things to many people. This is just me.
