My dear queer slut chimera body
My body is a territory. A place traversed, claimed, gazed upon, desired, sometimes rejected
but always there. I’ve hated it, corrected it, staged it. I’ve sculpted it, abandoned it, offered it.
I am queer, I am a slut, and my relationship with my body is a polyamourous story of
liberation.
Being queer means being exposed from the start: to the outside, to norms, to gazes. From a
young age, I was made to understand that my body didn’t fit in the right boxes. Too
effeminate, too thin, not strong enough, too expressive. Too visible. I was taught to control it,
to hide it. But soon enough, I realized that my body would be my first tool of revolt. That I
could reclaim it, show it, offer it according to my own rules.
Being a slut, for me, isn’t a provocation. It’s freedom. My body is a space for pleasure and
connection. I love sex, I love touch, I love intensity. My body allows me to explore, to feel, to
exchange, to forget sometimes. It is the place of a language that only touch knows. It is
alive, vibrating, open.
But this relationship is also full of contradictions. There are days when I look at myself and
doubt. Moments when I don’t feel good enough, not beautiful enough, not young enough. My
body carries fatigue, the marks of time, the accumulated scars. It carries the memories of
wild nights, lonely mornings, unfulfilled desires.
And yet, I come back to it. My body doesn’t lie. It guides me, reminds me that I’m here,
present. It makes me vibrate, laugh, sweat, tremble. It is my anchor, my refuge, my stage.
Every intimate encounter is an act of affirmation: I am here, I feel, I desire. And I no longer
apologize for it.
Being queer and a slut is also political. It’s existing against the grain of what’s expected,
against the patriarchy, the hegemony. It’s refusing shame. It’s giving value to what others
would reduce to “too much.” It’s making the body a manifesto. I fuck, I love, I feel: these are
my soft weapons against the cis hetero normativity.
Today, I try to love my body with more tenderness. To treat it as an ally, not an enemy. To
respect it, even when it gets tired, even when it doubts. It has allowed me to survive, to exist,
to love. It is imperfect, but it is true.
Also, in the eyes of my partner, my body is perfect.
Queer, genderfluid, fem, slut, playmate, a lot of proteiform identities.
I’m a chimera.