#PrideMonth: a love letter

Photo of red, orange, yellow, green and indigo round pieces of candy arranged into the shape of a love heart

I’m super fucking queer.

I use the word ‘queer’ deliberately, in the same way I describe myself as a ‘slut’. I know it’s a word that gets whispered behind my back, and occasionally yelled at me in the street. It’s supposed to hurt me, to make me feel like every fibre of my being is odd and unwelcome. Unfortunately for queerphobic assholes, I pride myself on being contrary, so I have stolen the word ‘queer’ with my gay little hands.

When they hurled it at me, I caught it. It’s mine now.


I’m bisexual.

I realised this the moment I found the language for it. Before then, I’d been weighing up my attractions, trying to figure out which gender I fancied more often, more intensely, more legitimately. I thought, for a while, that I was a lesbian who was just really bad at resisting the patriarchal imperative to have crushes on men. Before then, I’d thought I was straight, and that all my feelings of unease and fascination centred around women were a mix of admiration and envy.

I don’t remember where I found the word ‘bisexual’, but I do remember that it felt like suddenly remembering where I’d left my keys, fourteen years after losing them. As cliché as it sounds, identifying as bisexual felt like coming home.

I found the word ‘pansexual’ too, and toyed with that, but my attraction to all genders wasn’t attraction regardless of gender. I tended to have gooey, romantic, heart-eyes-emoji-esque feelings towards girls before any sexual ones, and the inverse when I fancied boys. Something indescribable separated my experiences of attraction to both of the genders I knew about at the time – and when I learned about nonbinary people, I experienced yet another set of feelings about them. (Plus, the pan flag has yellow in it, and I’m not a fan. I’d rather have the jewel-tone bi flag any day, and fourteen-year-old Morgan was very shallow.)

Armed with a word that accurately summed up how I experienced love and lust, I did what any confused autistic teen might do: I researched it. I found lists of celebrities and public figures who were (or were thought to be) bisexual. It was 2012, so I found memes. And, naturally, I found bigots. I had expected to run into homophobia, but I hadn’t expected to run into gatekeeping from the gay community itself. I wasn’t prepared to be told to ‘pick a side’ or that I was ‘actually gay’ and lying to myself. I wasn’t ready to be called ‘greedy’ when I’d had two relationships in my adolescence, one of which only featured a single, brief kiss. I wasn’t expecting to be hurt by people who knew what homophobia felt like.

And this, dear reader, is where this post becomes a love letter.

Because for every one voice that was calling my orientation greedy or fake or ‘not gay enough’, there were dozens more bi people and allies countering their bullshit. I was learning new ways to backchat biphobes all the time. I learned queer history, the split attraction model, new ways to define gender and more through the vocal dissent of people who were fucking sick of biphobia; and, more importantly, I learned that I had hundreds upon hundreds of strangers’ voices rallying around me and defending my existence. I found a community.

It was through this vocal, loving, ready-to-educate community that I ended up finding my gender identity. It took me three or four years after growing into the label of ‘bisexuality’ to realise that, on top of being super bi, I wasn’t cis – and in a lot of ways, it felt scarier. Either online biphobia had subsided somewhat in those four years, or I’d just got better at making my social media environment more welcoming; regardless, I felt very comfortable in my bisexual skin.

But even some bi people were insisting I couldn’t be nonbinary.

I was confident in my belief that there were more than two genders. I’d read plenty of material, ranging from nonbinary people’s blog posts to accounts of olden-days rejection of gender binaries to the abstracts of actual studies on the subject, so I was pretty certain that nonbinary people were A Thing™. The problem lay in whether or not I was nonbinary.

I’ve blogged about my experiences of gender before now, so I won’t repeat myself, but I will add that I was scared of claiming the labels ‘nonbinary’ and ‘trans’ for months. (I still sort of cringe when I call myself ‘trans’, waiting for someone somewhere to insist that only binary trans people ‘count’.) But, again, it was the loud, brave voices of other queer folk that comforted me, and made me realise the importance of claiming words that fit me. I realised that, being white and academically inclined, I could use my voice to legitimise nonbinary experiences; being a human being, I deserved to legitimise my own experiences too.


Again, I’ve managed to prune my social circles and my social media consumption so that a lot of cissexism doesn’t reach me, especially online. I’ve educated some of my IRL friends and given up on others, and I have done myself the enormous favour of swearing off dating straight men. I owe huge portions of my self-confidence, comfort and personal growth to the LGBTQ+ community.

We are brave. We are strong. We are loving.

We are also doing real fuckin’ badly on some fronts, like including people of colour, making Pride accessible and eliminating, among other things, cissexism, slutshaming, acephobia and gatekeeping.

I know we can do better than this, because I’ve been on the right side of it. When we put our energy into activism, into educating each other and the cishets, and into being compassionate and welcoming, we can do incredible shit. We can make kids like fourteen-year-old Morgan feel at home in their acne-prone, super-queer skin.

I guess this is a tough-love letter now. Let’s get our shit together, and make each Pride shine brighter than the last. We owe it to ourselves and each other, and I know – I know – we’re capable of it.

Fucking Dysphoria

I stand in front of the full length mirror my Daddy has opposite his spare bedroom. He’s in his office, only a couple of feet away from me, working on something important and grown-up. Sensing me in his periphery, he twirls in his spinny chair and sees me poking at the squishier bits of my body, frowning intently at my reflection.

“Hey,” he says, stern but caring. “Stop that. You’re beautiful.”

Pouting, I ask, “Am I handsome?”

Understanding, he gets out of his chair and moves to stand behind me, putting his big hands over mine – helping me to squash down my chest. “You’re Daddy’s handsome little boy,” he murmurs, kissing my hair. “You’re so cute.”

It doesn’t make the dysphoria go away, but it helps.


Being genderfluid is weird, because sometimes I love my curves. Sometimes I wear things with plunging necklines to highlight my cleavage, or I find the tiniest skirts my local charity shops have to offer, so my butt catches people’s eyes everywhere I go.

Sometimes, though, I hate them.

On those days, it’s hard not to feel hopeless. I know that in a week, or a day, or even a few hours, I’ll swing back around to feeling femme – which means that I don’t consider HRT or top surgery as options for me. I’m even reluctant to bind, worried about harming my breast tissue, making my boobs saggier (as though saggy boobs matter – of course gravity is acting upon them, when they each weigh the same as a small melon). On my masculine-of-centre days, I hate my body, and I hate my changeable identity that leaves altering anything permanently off the table.

 

I only found the vocabulary for my Gender Feelings™ two or three years ago. Before then, I didn’t feel that I had permission use words like ‘dysphoria’, because I believed myself to be cis – just kinda butch, and only engaging selectively with femininity. Being autistic complicated things further – lots of autistic people struggle to perform their assigned gender, or are simply uninterested in it, because performing gender involves understanding a lot of unwritten rules and having half a clue how other people might perceive you. Plus, performing femininity in particular involves a lot of sensory inputs – tight clothing makes me itch like fuck-knows-what, and foundation and concealer make me wish I didn’t have a face at all.

When I came across a definition of the term ‘genderfluid’ after seeing someone identify as such on Tumblr, my first thought was, Wow, I wish I was genderfluid, so I didn’t have to be a girl all the time! It took me an embarrassingly long time to register that that thought alone probably indicated I was genderfluid. If you passionately hate performing your assigned gender and you’re desperately searching for reasons to opt out of it, you might not be cis.

Having a host of sensory sensitivities and a very complex relationship with food and its effects on my body, I had shrugged off the panicky discomfort and bewilderment I felt when I looked in the mirror while presenting femininely. Nobody tells you how dysphoria is supposed to feel, just that it’s bad. Lots of media seems to portray it simply as a longing to look different, but having an eating disorder meant that I couldn’t find the source of my desire to be flat-chested and without hips.

It took me maybe a year to piece together my Gender Feelings™ into a coherent identity. I tagged my selfies on Tumblr as ‘they/them’ to see how it felt; it turns out I liked it a great deal more than ‘she/her’, which felt clunky, like a pair of shoes the wrong size. I borrowed clothes from my boyfriend at the time; he was six foot something, so they all swamped me, and I found I loved the invisibility it granted my boobs, with my little arms sticking out of sleeves and fabric draped over my arse.

At some point, I came across Bex (of the Dildorks, whose work I link to a lot in my posts), who was transmasculine and who was just starting to take testosterone as I was discovering their online presence. Looking at (and crushing on) people like Bex, who were wearing shorts and didn’t have enormous bushy beards and six-packs, I realised that I’d been buying into the same narrow, cis and heterocentric, and outright damaging ideals of masculinity that I would so vocally denounce when other people were harmed by them. I insisted on my tumblr that boys were allowed to cry and wear makeup, but I wouldn’t let myself do those things – because, I suppose, I didn’t really believe I ‘counted’ as a boy. Finding role models, especially transmasculine ones, expanded my understanding of gender expression and of masculinity.

Realising that I didn’t have to look like a PhotoShopped cis dude on my masculine days was liberating.

I Googled words like “twink”, looking for boys who looked like me. I found that there were ways to express my masculinity without trying to be a clone of my boyfriend, or of Vin Diesel, or Buck Angel.

I could be me.


I kept dating straight dudes for a while.

They insisted they respected, believed in my nonbinary identity. And they insisted that they were attracted to me – sexually and romantically. And they insisted they were 100% heterosexual.

It hurt a bit.

Actually, it hurt a fuckin’ lot, but I didn’t want to admit that at the time. They still touched me like I was a girl, no matter what they said about my gender. They cupped my breasts in their hands, kissed my neck softly, held me by my waist or my hips. They caressed me.

It’s difficult to explain this to cis people, especially straight ones. There’s just a very different vibe when someone thinks you’re a girl. Even if you’re having rough, kinky sex – the places people touch you are different. The language they use is different. The aftercare they give you is different.

Even when straight dudes are excellent at interacting with my front hole, they call it my ‘pussy’. They do deliciously evil things to my nipples, but I’m distracted when they compliment my ‘tits’. I know that when they call me a slut, whilst I like it, they mean a girl slut. There’s something in the way they say it. I spend the whole interaction a little sad, a little distant, feeling disconnected from myself and from my partner.

Sex with people who know I’m not a girl is just better. It’s not nauseating, and it doesn’t leave me feeling miserable, confused, hurt and unseen, and it’s so good because I’m actually in my body, enjoying everything that’s being done to it.


My Daddy slides his hand down the boxers I’m wearing, pulling me closer with the arm that’s around my neck. His fingers brush the thing a medical professional would label my ‘clitoris’.

“Look how hard your little cock is,” he teases me, as I squirm against him. “Does Daddy choking you turn you on, little one?”

I nod against his arm, whimpering. “I – um, I don’t think I want, um, PIV today.”

“That’s okay.” My Daddy’s hand comes out of my boxers, and he pushes his wet fingers into my willing mouth. “You have a vibrator, and you have other holes Daddy can use.”

I watch myself sucking on his fingers in the long mirror in front of us. My scrawny, pale legs are shaking a little from the strangling. My curvy body is dwarfed by my Daddy’s, but I’m focused on my face.

I look like a twink.

I look boyish.

And I look fuckin’ hot.

3 Misconceptions (and Corresponding Truths!) About Threesomes

Recently, whilst rereading my own old fanfiction (a masochistic practice in its own right), I came across an author’s note wherein I came out to my readers as bi and announced that I had a new girlfriend. At fourteen, already braced for biphobia and objectification, I asserted that, “No, I’ve never had a threesome and I never will.”

Fourteen-year-old Morgan was wrong, because nineteen- and twenty-year-old Morgan went on to have a lot of threesomes.

Fourteen-year-old Morgan also carried with them a host of misconceptions about the nature of threesomes, so I’ve decided to unpack a few of them here for y’all, in case you still hold them, or you know a fourteen-year-old fanfiction writer who does.
Misconception no. 1: Threesomes are “porny”.

I can’t think of a more refined way to phrase this notion – that a threesome will always be like the ones you see in mainstream porn, featuring two skinny, conventionally attractive cis girls worshipping the cock of a muscly, conventionally attractive cis dude. There’s usually an undercurrent of objectification (the patriarchal, unnegotiated kind, not the deliberately kinky kind), and the idea is that the dude in the scene is such a stud that he can “obtain” and pleasure two girls at once.

Obviously, some threesome setups do involve two cis girls focusing their attention on one cis guy, and they can be fun and hot (as long as they feature more communication and fewer jelly dildos than your average PornHub stock). But, if there are elements of “porniness” that put you off, there are ways to threesome without them. You can, in fact, bang two people at once without bad jazz playing in the background, and it is possible to fuck people without objectifying them – or with consensual, negotiated objectification roleplay.

Additionally, you can have threesomes that aren’t the typical FMF deal you’d find in bad mainstream porn. Which leads nicely onto the next point…
Misconception no. 2: Only bi/pan people can have threesomes.

First of all, hypothetical misconception-haver, you have overlooked one possibility: three people of the same gender all threesoming together. Just a big ol’ pile of boobs, if you’re a lesbian, or a cornucopia of cocks if you’re a gay dude. It is very possible to have a threesome wherein everyone involved identifies as gay.

Additionally, you can have a threesome that involves someone of the gender that you’re not attracted to without it magically making you bi or pan. I’d recommend you lay your metaphorical cards on the table very early on in pre-threesome discussions if that’s the case. For example, some girls won’t want to threesome with a straight girl and her partner; some people just plain don’t want to be in a sexual situation with somebody that can’t and won’t be sexually attracted to them. You have to give your potential threesome participants the chance to make an informed decision.

Assuming you’ve had a good ol’ communicative chat with the people you’re gonna bang, you have two options: to get sexual with the party you’re not attracted to, or to solely focus on the one you do fancy. Let me make one thing clear:

Touchin’ some genitals doesn’t make you bi.

Touchin’ some genitals doesn’t make you pan.

Touchin’ some genitals makes you this: a person who is touchin’ some genitals.

Maybe you finger a girl because your partner really wants to see you do that, and you’re not attracted to the girl (and have made her aware of this) but you enjoy having power over a person’s bits and turning your partner on.

Maybe you play with somebody’s dick because you’re spent, but you want to see a vagina-holding participant with jizz all over xir face.

Maybe you just interact with the person of the gender you’re attracted to, but having a third party in the room gives the whole scene a voyeuristic charge, and grants you a second pair of hands for anything that might need fetching, spanking, lubing, groping, etc.

Either way: people who are 100% straight or 100% gay can have amazing, fulfilling, incredibly filthy threesomes. The key is to be upfront and not a douchebag.

And, because I know firsthand what it’s like to feel insecure and Not Kinky Enough™, I would like to remind you: if you don’t want to have a threesome, with same-gender participants or with someone you don’t fancy involved, that’s fine too. I promise. And, if you have a threesome once and you hate it, it’s okay if you don’t do it again! There is an entire world of sex stuff to dabble in, and if you feel like threesomes and moresomes aren’t for you, you’re still Kinky Enough™ (whatever that actually means), you’re adventurous enough, and you’re entitled to your boundaries. Always.
Misconception no. 3: Threesomes are/are not as fun as they’re cracked up to be.

A two in one! This misconception has been cheekily slipped into a threesome article, but really, it’s applicable to so many sex/kink acts: the idea that you can glean – from porn, from other people’s shared experiences and from mainstream media portrayals – information about the inherent enjoyability of something without having done it.

Ya can’t.

Some people will insist that threesomes aren’t as great as porn etc. makes them out to be. There is a lot that porn doesn’t typically show us: you have to do twice the communication than for partnered sex, and with each added party, the chances of somebody getting elbowed in the face or headbutted by accident increases exponentially. Threesomes can be logistically tricky – where do I put my leg? How can I reach this person’s balls with my tongue? Where did we leave the goddamn aftercare snacks this time? – and I’d posit that a bad threesome is less enjoyable than bad partnered sex, simply because there are more potential points of failure.

People who rail against threesomes are usually speaking from personal experience, though sometimes they’re talking theoretically, because threesomes are a limit for them and they feel the need to justify it. They might be monogamously-inclined, they might be overwhelmed by the idea of more than one partner in a sexual situation, or they might have bought into the idea that a threesome is objectifying and misogynistic because of the threesomes you see in porn. They don’t owe you an explanation for their aversion to threesomes, but it’s worth considering that everybody’s life experiences are different, and it’s likely that you won’t feel the exact same about threesomes as this theoretical naysayer.

Conversely, you can’t assume a threesome is going to be awesome just because everyone says that they’re great. Like any other sex or kink thing, it depends on a huge number of nuanced factors: the people involved, the chemistry between those people, the headspace each participant is in, the location, etc. etc. forever. Mainstream porn is particularly bad for portraying threesomes as the height of cis male desire, but there are plenty of other places you might find threesomes put upon a pedestal.

The truth is, some threesomes are fucking brilliant, and some just aren’t.

Like any other sex experience (or sexperience… no? I’ll show myself out), a good threesome hinges on a combination of good chemistry and great communication. I’d recommend a group chat for pre-threesome negotiations, or at least all three of you meeting in a space that isn’t sexually charged, like a McDonald’s (unless one or more of you has a Big Mac kink, which is valid), and discussing Yes/No/Maybe lists, fantasies, triggers, barriers and STI statuses – at a minimum. The more y’all talk, the more you’ll get a read on your threeway compatibility, and (hopefully) the more excited you’ll all get about your upcoming shenanigans.


Have you had a threesome, or is it something you’re interested in? What other misconceptions do people hold about three-player adventures? I’d love to hear from y’all in the comments!