Unapologetic Flesh

My sexuality isn’t something I tuck away.

It’s not a secret I hide behind small smiles or polite silence. It’s woven into me—the way I move, the way I kiss, the way I express it in everything I do, the way I can’t help but crave connection that’s both skin-deep and soul-deep.

I’ve learned not to be afraid of wanting.

Not to be ashamed of needing sex the way I need air. When I want someone, I show it. In the way my eyes linger, in the way my body leans closer, in the way I express it, in the way my hands don’t hesitate.

Sometimes it’s tender—the kind of sex where every touch feels like a promise, every kiss like it could heal something broken inside me. Other times it’s raw and rough, sweat-slick and urgent, like I’m trying to climb inside their body just to feel how alive we both are. I don’t pretend otherwise.

What I want, I ask for.

What I feel, I express.

If I ache, I let it be known.

There’s no shame in being turned on, no guilt in loving the way a man’s breath catches when my mouth finds his skin.

My sexuality is mine—it doesn’t exist for approval or applause.

It’s how I claim joy, how I burn off pain, how I remind myself I am alive and worthy of every ounce of pleasure this body can handle.

I don’t filter it.

I don’t dilute it.

I live it—messy, hungry, soft, wild.

And I’m not afraid of a damn thing it brings out of me.