Shannon Bell – feminist poli sci professor, philosophy genius, and erstwhile professional squirter – calls the G-spot the “female phallus.” Or sometimes she uses that term to refer to the entire upper wall of the vagina, a cluster of complicated nerves and erectile tissue rather than a discrete “spot.”
If we can sluice the cissexism off this idea (not all vagina-havers are female and not all female people have vaginas), and reduce it simply to the notion that a vagina might contain a phallus every bit as real, responsive, and stiffen-able as the penis, it becomes revolutionary. It becomes life-changing. It becomes the kind of thought that makes me go “Whoooa” when I’m high and even sometimes when I’m not.
I’ve been thinking a lot about queer sex lately, and trying to parse what it means to me, exactly. Certainly I felt queer when I was pinned under a fragile cis femme in a dainty slip at age 16 while she shoved her strap-on cock inside me. I recall feeling queer when a petite androgyne bent me over a coffee table and spanked me until bruises bloomed on my skin. But I have not always felt queer while having sex with cis men, even though my bi identity means I’m queer in everything I do. You can’t really blame me for feeling that way, when certain segments of the queer community are so quick to call bisexual women traitors or impostors for the high misdemeanor of dating or fucking a cis man.
The two people I’m fucking now both have penises but are not cis men, and the difference is stark. They use their cocks less like oblivious battering rams and more like a finger or a toy: all precision and focus, stroking, noticing, recalibrating. They are happy, too, to have sex involving no penetration at all. Sex that teases me to precarious heights of pleasure through just rubbing and touching and being with me. Sex that feels qualitatively queer.