I pulled apart the fat rolls of man once. There was puss in between the skin. And I found him beautiful.
I’ve stood admiringly in front of a man with scars all over his body. Seen tiny penis’ masked behind mountainous bellies. A micro penis. Legs with veins that had exploded underneath the skin. Shaven men. Unshaven men. A 13 inch penis. Penis’ that bent up, sideways, and one that had been broken. And when my Father could barely stand up, I helped him bathe in the shower.
There was not one time that I thought about these men’s social value. Or questioned if they were attractive.
I was consumed with wonder.
I’ve dated male models, rich men, a homeless man, men with bellies soft like pillows, men up to 16 years younger or 25 years older than me. I’ve dated men of every color, penis size, and from myriad countries. And at no point did I ever look up at them, naked above me, and think this man is not enough.
Who looks at a sunset and says, “that is not enough?” They were letting me in. Letting me touch them. I was being welcome into their most inner world.
Tonight a friend told me how rare that is. He was trying to pay me a compliment, but it went sideways. I could feel clearly how society had divided me into differently graded objects that a man could use to increase his social value and prowess. And a grief in me opened up that I had forced silent. It was a cavernous pain.
And I sobbed
For everything that strips people of their wonder.
For every man that has forgotten the worth of his body.
For every billboard, ad and porno, that depicts my body as something to be compared, used, traded up, or seen as unsavory.
For every person who feels that they do not “deserve” pleasure or vibrancy because of their body
For everyone who settles for being accepted instead of savored
I had a photographer tell me once that every model was beautiful. That the quality of the photo depended on the photographer.
Let’s stop taking ugly photos of ineffable beauty.