Lingerie and My Gender

If you follow me on Twitter, you may have seen some photos of me in lingerie. You may have enjoyed them a lot, and I hope you have. You may also have wondered to yourself, “How does all that work with being nonbinary?” and if you have, this post is for you.

My gender is complicated. I find it difficult to explain to cisgender people, and even some binary trans people, how my gender feels. I find it easiest to explain in somewhat abstract terms, with reference to fairies and princesses, but a lot of people don’t know what I mean when I say, “Today, my gender is a boy princess,” or, “I’m an ineffable, ethereal being whose gender is as intangible as the wind.” Nonbinary people often do, and I’m grateful for that, but it’s hard to put words to my gender in a way that doesn’t make me sound, um, nuts.

That said, I’m moving away from the idea that I have to justify my gender identity to anybody. Being nonbinary doesn’t necessarily mean gender neutrality; for me, it means genderfluidity, which includes moving from femme to masc to too-tired-to-have-a-gender to gender experiences I don’t yet have the words for. That means, surely, that I’m allowed to express myself in as femme or masc or tired a way as I like, and that includes lingerie.

Lingerie doesn’t make me dysphoric. Knowing that people will read me and my outfit and my body as “female” makes me dysphoric, sure, but bits of fabric on their own don’t. I wear lingerie a lot in kink spaces, where people’s approach to gender is a lot more forgiving than it is in the wider world, and I thrive on the attention that my outfits garner me. In some ways, it’s an affirming experience, and one I treasure.

Lingerie, for me, can be femme or masc. When I see a man in lingerie, I don’t see the lingerie as femme; I just see it as a way to highlight that person’s body, the curves of it, the enviable strength in testosterone-influenced thighs. When I’m feeling masc, lingerie can either feel neutral, or it can feel like a small, sexy humiliation, a vulnerability, a way of someone (or multiple someones) seeing my body, eyeing it up and evaluating it… It can feel sexy in a dangerous sort of way to be masc and in lingerie. I don’t play a lot with forced feminization, mostly because I’m not prepared for the dysphoria I imagine it would bring me, but the humiliation comes from much the same place: a little alarm bell ringing that says, People are looking at me! I have toyed with the idea of forced feminization, and even wondered whether it would make me feel more masculine, since I would be starting at a place of not-feminine, but the risk of psychological hurt and weirdness keeps it in the “Maybe” section of my Yes/No/Maybe list.

I do experience some femininity, though, and lingerie is super affirming for those days. Pulling on stockings or wriggling into a lacy bodysuit feels like suiting up into my superhero identity, Confident Morgan, who likes their body a little more than I do and who can seduce anyone, given enough time. I often do my makeup along with wearing lingerie, painting myself into the ultimate, glittery femme fatale. I think I like the performativity of it, and again, drawing eyes onto me to make me feel either empowered or vulnerable. I also think it’s very cool that lingerie gives me access to both of those emotions, depending on context (including my gender feelings for that day).

The short answer to the question at the top of this post is, “It’s complicated.” Gender is complicated, and lingerie will remain gendered in our culture whether I experience it that way or not, meaning that other people will perceive my gender in a particular way when I don my latest Lovehoney purchase. But I love playing in that space, both as a way to affirm my inner femme and as a way to subvert people’s gendered expectations of what lingerie “means”, especially when I feel like a fairy prince in my new negligee or bodysuit.


Wanna help me buy more lingerie, so y’all can see more photos of me wearing it? Head over to my Ko-Fi or newly relaunched Patreon to support my work!

The Devil Is In The Details: Fingering

Welcome back to my miniseries, The Devil Is In The Details! Today: fingering, and everything I love about it.


Y’all didn’t think I could write about everything violin has taught me about sex without being inspired to write about fingering, did you? Because, you know, I love being fingered. Truthfully, I would take a good fingering over a good dicking down nine times out of ten, because being fingered is one of my favourite things of all time.

My hands are small and my fingers are short, so I can’t reach my anterior fornix (sometimes known as the A-spot) by myself. As you can imagine, this is hugely frustrating, and leads to a lot of wanks wherein I either use toys or give up. Having somebody else, who can position their wrists at angles my cunt and I can only dream of, fingering me means that I can get my A-spot absolutely annihilated. Fingers are also just more subtle, more nuanced, more flexible than dicks or most toys, meaning that I can get my A-spot annihilated just like that and squirm against someone’s capable hand.

Oh, and I like to squirm. I like being fingered with such ferocity that I pull a pillow over my face to disguise my animalistic noises and weird, semi-pained facial expressions as the intensity of the sensation mounts. I like being held down by one hand or arm while the other works furiously to make me wail. I like the precision afforded by fingers, because that precision can be used aggressively to make me writhe and grind and even try to pull away. I like to be fingered in a way that makes me see stars. I even like to have my cunt torn, and to find traces of fresh blood in the cum I wipe away from my vulva once we’re done.

The hand is nuanced, though, which means that there are other kinds of fingering I like as well. I like the gentle, exploratory kind, where a thumb delicately circles my clit and one finger slides straight into my wet cunt. I like having my cunt torn, sure, but I also like having it slowly, lovingly stretched out, finger by finger, as I pull my legs further apart and my clitoral hood out of the way to help. I love the feeling of being slowly filled, of the gradual change in pressure as more fingers enter the mix.

Oh, and let’s not forget: I love fingering other people. I love sliding my fingers into other people’s cunts and tapping on all their favourite spots, like their body is a piano and their moans are the music I’m managing to elicit. I love pushing my finger delicately, oh so delicately, into a person’s arsehole, feeling it twitch around my fingers with knuckle-bending pressure, and exploring as carefully as I can. My fingers are sometimes too short to reach A-spots and prostates, but that doesn’t necessarily amount to being a problem: I can use my fingers to tease, to get just close enough to make you want more, to bring you to the edge of pleasure and hold you there. The feeling of tightness around my finger(s) and the feeling of power over another person act as two sides of the same dizzying coin, and I feel like a sex deity when I make other people beg for more.

Then there are, of course, more details on the periphery of fingering. There’s the mess, of course: getting fingered the way I like to be fingered usually leaves cunt juices all over my vulva and inner thighs, reminding me either of how much fun I’ve had, what a dirty little slut I am, or both. I love sucking my wetness off of other people’s fingers, tasting my own arousal (and judging how hydrated I am, because vaginas are magic). Like I mentioned in my erections post, I love finding the hard knot of someone else’s clit with my mouth, and I also love finding it with my thumb – and on top of that, I love the sponginess, the give in vaginal tissue as I start to stroke someone’s favourite spot. I love every noise that I draw out of everyone I finger, even if I can’t bring myself to like my own fingering noises. I love how sore my hand joints feel after properly finger-fucking somebody, like the sign of a job well done.

I love every element of fingering, and now I kind of need to add it to my to-do list.


If you love fingering as much as I do, or if you loved reading about me loving it, please consider supporting my work via Patreon or Ko-Fi

I Gained Weight And The World Didn’t End

Content note: This post talks about disordered eating, the fact that I’ve gained weight and the disordered thoughts that this has triggered. It also has loads of pictures of my naked body! If any of that is going to be difficult for you, give this one a miss and look after yourself 💙


Like a lot of people during lockdown, I have gained weight. This is a normal and natural thing that happens to our bodies during times of stress, and I’ve been hella fucking stressed. Moving deeper than that, it’s just a natural thing that happens to our bodies when we put more fuel in than we’re using right now; our bodies store extra energy for later, because they’re clever like that. It’s normal. It’s natural.

The naked body of a white, mid-sized person (Morgan) who has boobs and a vulva pre-installed.

It’s not the end of the world.

I’ve gained weight because I’ve been exercising less and maybe eating a little more. That’s okay. Even though this weight gain has coincided with the coronavirus pandemic, which feels like the end of the world, my weight gain is entirely neutral. It’s just a thing that happens, like time passing or rain falling.

It’s not the end of the world.

I don’t know whether I can call myself a recovered anorexic, because my, um, anorexic brain always insists that I never got skinny enough to have “real” anorexia. My periods stopped for a little while, and people told me I looked unhealthy, and I was definitely exhibiting the behaviours of an anorexic person… and yet, of course, my brain insists that I wasn’t ill enough, because anorexia makes you push yourself beyond every limit in front of you. All I can say with authority is that I’ve been to a lot of therapy about the eating disorder I supposedly don’t have, and I’ve picked some stuff up. Like: our value as people has literally no relation to the size we are. Like: I probably want to control my weight because it’s the only goddamn thing I can control.

Like: it’s not the end of the world if I’ve gained weight.

I keep telling myself that. Nothing has changed as a result of me gaining weight except that some of my clothes don’t fit me. Downing Street hasn’t exploded. The White House is not burning. My support network still loves me. Right?

It’s one thing to recite to yourself things you brought home from therapy, and quite another to actually believe them. To me, my weight gain doesn’t say, “You put more food in your body than you currently need to use, so your body stored it for later,” in the entirely neutral tone that a therapist might use. Instead, it says – my anorexic brain says – “You have lost control of the world around you. Your body is morally wrong, and you don’t deserve to feel comfortable in it.” And that activates my fight-or-flight reflex.

The thing is, it gets tiring, being in fight-or-flight mode about your own body. I’m sick of looking at my own body and seeing the enemy. I’m sick of putting on clothes that are a little tighter than they used to be and having to talk myself out of disordered behaviours. I’m sick of feeling the world end every time my tummy folds in places it didn’t used to.

Anorexia and disorders like it make you believe that you don’t deserve food. You don’t deserve to be nourished, to be safe, to exercise your human rights, because your body is morally wrong. You are taking up too much space. You are ruining everything.

Except: you’re not ruining anything. It’s not the end of the world.

Being convinced that I deserve nothing, and especially not something as fundamental as food, makes me reluctant to ask for things. But right now, in this moment, I think I need to ask y’all for support. I need to ask for reassurance. I need to ask for compliments on my new, marginally bigger body.

The naked body of a white, mid-sized person (Morgan) who has boobs and a vulva pre-installed.

I need you to tell me that it’s not the end of the world.