How feeling seen can help liberate you in the bedroom

BY THE CHEEKY CHARMER, IMAGE BY KAMPUS PRODUCTION VIA PEXELS

My back arches as I grab the bed sheets, a thin trickle of sweat oiling its way over my skin. Fingers curl amid the cotton, a twisting echo of the writhing sensations building within. Rose’s auburn locks move between my legs, the bobbing of her head sending shivers down my spine. It’s a beautiful sight. One I’ve struggled to let myself enjoy in the past. But now I give myself fully. To Rose. I let her have me like no one has before. My fingers grab her hair, pulling her in. Wanting more of her lips, her mouth, her tongue. Finally, the wave crescendos and breaks, washing over me, washing through me, drowning my hang-ups in a torrent of understanding and sweet, sweet bliss.

I’ve never been able to do this before.

I’ve never let a woman go down on me. Not fully. I mean, sure, it’s happened but it’s not been my favourite thing. Not because it’s not pleasurable. But because I can’t let myself go. I get in my head. Gender dysphoria kicks in when I’m put in a “female role”. Feminised. Emasculated. It’s the quickest way to dent the CC’s swagger (armour – it’s the same thing let’s be honest 🤷🏼).

Like the woman who picked me up and threw me over her shoulders. Which was a surprise to me. One minute I’m standing in her hallway contemplating the meaning of life (what else do you do in hallways?), the next I’m hoisted across her shoulders like a rag doll being rough housed. I guess she thought it was seductive. It wasn’t. It was emasculating. It was a shut down. I lay across her shoulders, stiff as a board, my libido taking a deep dive to nowhere-ville. I guess that’s what happens when you top a top 🤷🏼.

I’ve tried the switch thing with girls before. It’s fine. While I’m the top. But when I’ve let them “do their thing” and “played” the submissive, because I’ve felt that’s what they needed, I’ve zeroed out. Elvis has left the building (if Elvis was a non-binary lesbian with masculine leanings). Somewhere, some part of my body is being fucked. But I’m not connected to it.

It’s why I’ve always reframed sex through a male lens. Cast myself in the “guy” role, pretended there’s more in my pants than just swagger. There’s something too vulnerable about laying myself bare, opening my legs and being reminded that yes, I am a “woman”. It’s the ultimate confusion to my non-binary self, messing with my gender identity, my equilibrium, my sense of me.

Until I met Rose. She intuitively got me from the get-go. She embraced me for who I am, breathing life into my genderqueer self. She knew what I wanted. Needed. The first time we slept together she referred to my breasts as pecs. Nothing was said, there’d been no conversation. She just knew who I was and gave me the gift I’d always wanted.

It’s why I can let her go down on me. Because she’s not seeing me any differently from moments before when I was “the guy” topping her. She’s not misgendering me. I’m still “the guy”. I’m still the top. She doesn’t reframe me through a feminine lens. We both know there’s more than just swagger in my pants.

I’m seen. Emancipated not emasculated.

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