Body Rules: There Are None

Since the impressionable and unforgivingly awkward age of fourteen, I’ve been making a point to “check in” with my body every time I undress in order to bathe. It began as a task that, although I assigned to myself, I ultimately dreaded partaking in. My knees would curl inwards in a cowardly fashion as my immature eyes made contact with the parts of my budding physique that I despised the most - my widening hips, filled over with proceeding stretch marks, the mocking of the useless skin hanging from my forearms - all of it was difficult to make due with. As each year passes and leaves its undeniable mark upon my stature, this routine chooses its days in which it becomes easier to complete. And with it, I have learned about one of the most horribly vulnerable endeavors I will ever experience within my adult life: nudity.

Whether it's in an intimate escapade with a partner, or simply staring myself down in the mirror, being stripped and lacking the comfort that clothing can provide to soothe my rearing list of insecurities can be a subsequently large pill to swallow. Existing in the new age of social media has had an immense impact on the ways in which I regard myself - on the ways I perceive and explore my body, as well as how I allow others to see it, too. It feels as though there is always, always a better option. A better option as to who my partner could be fucking, and most certainly a better option as to how I could be presenting myself to my awaiting audience of 600 followers. It’s exhausting to want to be promiscuous when you’re only comfortable in your own skin a mere 50% of the time. 

One of the few life lessons I’ve had a grueling taste of in my eighteen years is that skin and sexuality bare a deeply embedded connection to one another. As an openly queer woman, this correlation has been polluted for me, personally, by the filthy yearnings of the patriarchy and its loyal subjects, including the men who evaluate womxn as nothing more than their disposable play-things, and the womxn who shame members of their own team by spreading the diluted, entirely fucked up message that somehow expressing one’s eroticism concludes to ‘self-deprication.’

It is a relentless battle when approaching the age of sexual maturity between craving the unforgettable sensation of skin-to-skin contact, and yet, barely being able to stomach the concept of another human being witnessing you at your most ill-protected state. My first sexual escapade that I ever engaged in was a total shitshow, to say the least. Cumbersome, vapid, and painful, all in the same fifteen-minute time span, and I refused to remove my shirt for the entirety of the encounter. I have a vivid recollection of feeling as though I had done something terribly wrong after the fact - like what I had done was almost sacrilegious, despite the fact that I had never held any kind of massively “sacred” disposition to my own passion-driven acts. This apprehension that held the capability to sink my heart deep into the pit of my stomach was derived directly from the internalized prenotion that I should never hold any torch of pride towards my figure, and that sex is inherently a ‘shameful’ thing to desire. 

As a result of both the systemic misogyny and the contortion of the nude female figure that has been loudly portrayed in the media for centuries, it has become far too easy for even the most confident of feminine beings to belittle themselves behind closed doors. Nobody ever wants to admit that they see themselves as “flawed,” though most everyone does in one aspect or another. 

With that comes an endless amount of “rules” I have subconsciously set for myself due to the societal standards of how, as a ‘lady,’ I should behave, that I work against on a daily basis: Don’t be too hard, or soft - don’t be too excited, or too sexual, but just sexual enough. Everyone wants a “freaky” girl, but you must somehow be a virgin, too. It is completely tireless, but I digress. The point I am desperately attempting to convey to whomever may be reading this, is fuck it. Post that picture, masturbate, tell your person what you want them to do to you, and you to them. And, most importantly, allow yourself to exist. 

You are allowed to exist.