Divine Feminine

The goddess and I meet in secret corners of my home. The utility closet beneath the stairs. Under the couch. The sliver of space between the stove and the counter. 

I write her love letters in eyeliner. Her reverence gouges my skin; claw marks rake down my belly, my hips. I shear away the hair from my breast and the goddess and I kiss in the foggy mirror.

She finds me when I need her most.

Tonight, she finds me in the bathtub. The cramped room is bathed in darkness. My candle—a simple votive for her holiness—fizzled to smoke long ago. The red wax hardened as I rested my aching body in the hot water. The sharp smell of citrus fills the room.

I don’t need the light to see her. Even in the black, I know the hum of her presence. Goosebumps dot my arms despite the stifling heat of the room. This makeshift temple to the divine feminine. 

She slips into the bath with me without a ripple. Like she’d always been there. Velvety bubbles slide against my freshly shaven legs as I instinctively draw my knees to my chest. Hairless, I feel at peace for the moment. Like she had deemed me worthy of her touch. 

Eyes closed, I see the goddess in full flesh. Soft cheeks and pumpkin-colored hair. Brown eyes like lightly toasted marshmallows. Her cherubic features belie a plump, curvy figure that inspires sin. A mirror reflecting a wish fulfilled.

Her touch is cool water in a desert. I am soft in her grasp. A thunderclap of pleasure surges through that alien appendage between my legs. The water splashes gently as she guides my hand, stroking my not-quite-clit. I stiffen; grow thick in my grip. Our hands mimic each other. Almond nails, painted drops of crimson. 

My free hand glides along my budded breasts. Their bloom halted when I abruptly quit estrogen. Too many drunken calls from my mom begging to know why I thought I knew better than God. It was easier to give up than fight for my right to exist. A fingertip traces my elongated areola. Why did I ever fear my breast growth? I was touched by the goddess. Began to look like her. And I turned away. Is it too late to go back? Too late to embrace the feminine? Or did I let the bully win, too afraid to challenge what society expects from me. Am I trapped now?

Breath catches in my throat. My penis head buzzes. Our thumb pad presses firm circles around the gland. Salted dew welling up from the urethra. We coat the head in a slippery sheen. Our breath morphs into a high-pitched whine. Pressure builds at the center of our molten core. 

“Fuck,” I gasp. Our husky, pleasure-steeped voice ricochets around the room.

I want to stroke myself vigorously. I want to concede to our passion. I crave abandon.

But the goddess reminds me to wait. She doesn’t let me barrel toward orgasm, wasting this vital moment together. This is an act of devotion. A moment to love the body that I scorn so harshly most of the time. This orgasm is not some itch to scratch.   

I attempt to relinquish my cock, but the goddess won’t let me. She implores me do not run from this pleasure. My strokes simply slow. Each pass down my length becomes achingly calculated. I let loose a long, body shuddering whine. The bubbles jostle and fizz in my wake. 

I need her. My legs tremble as they arc high above me, toes pointed like a gymnast. Every stroke is agony. Le petite mort.

I need her. Not just her touch, her kiss. Her lingering presence isn’t enough. I need her inside me. To wear my skin and bless it.

I need her.

Until we are me.

The goddess strokes herself in a small apartment bathroom in Chicago. Tears stream down her cheeks as she careens toward orgasm. With strangled breath, she holds on for dear life. 

Until she finally relinquishes control. In a crash of ecstasy, the world falls away. Doubt. Shame. Fear. It all evaporates in a torrent of bliss and astral space. 

Semen tumbles end over end in the waves. The bath water sloshes violently as I struggle to catch my breath. The bath mat is soaked, as is the towel I’d left on the floor. My body quakes with aftershocks. 

I sink back into the tub, knowing cum will cling to my legs. 

The goddess has left and I wonder if this is what Johns feel like when their hour is over. I mourn.

Doubt creeps up my spine and burrows itself into my brain. My masturbation sessions are the only time I allow myself to feel like a woman and it makes the moments after feel hollow.

Those who seek to destroy trans people tell me that this is nothing more than a fetish. As semen adheres to my toes, I believe they must be right. As the goddess retreats, I listen to her detractors once more. It's hard to push the voice away when someone states your fears as fact. I don't want shame to take me. Not tonight. 

The goddess will keep visiting me, no matter how many times I forsake her, curse her name, or push her away. I don’t want to die without them knowing the goddess and I are one and the same. When all my worries wilt and scatter to the wind, will they call me by her name?