No Permission Slip

This isn’t a statement or a position. I’m not naked for confidence, art, theory, or rebellion. Clothes are optional and my body doesn’t require commentary. There’s no metaphor here, no lesson waiting underneath. Sometimes nothing happens — no meaning, no desire, no transformation. Just skin existing without purpose.

I’m pansexual, but the word came late. Not because I needed time to accept it, but because I didn’t need language to live it. Attraction was never organized around gender, and intimacy never followed scripts for me. I don’t escalate naturally. I distinguish closeness from attachment, care from ownership. This is not a declaration or a defense — just an honest account of how desire, relationships, and privacy have always worked in my body.

I stopped imagining a reader before I stopped writing. Not as resistance, but as necessity. The moment an audience appeared in my head, the text tightened. Sentences became polite. Meaning shifted from experience to explanation. When no one is watching, explanation loses urgency — and something denser becomes possible.