When I needed a sense of self, I built one out of words. Words make me who I am, I think about my world largely through words – how do I label this, how do I define that. Instead of seeing words as limiting I see them as offering a great means to explore the truth of what I see around me. If there isn’t a definition that fits the thing I wish to name, I give it a new name with a better explanation. That’s how we get lovely words like poly, kink, cisgender. We take a word, make it mean something new, and then we get to explore it.

But I very rarely trust the words that other’s give me. Especially relating to love. Some of the best writing advice I’ve ever gotten was, “Show me, don’t tell me.”

Show me that you love me, don’t tell me. Show me with the way you treat me, let your actions back up the things you say. Show me that even when you think I’m not watching you that you’re still the same person. Show me there’s no duplicity.

It’s easy to say and do the things I want to hear and see when your dick is straining against your jeans to press against my hand, my ass, my thigh. It’s easy to acquiesce and agree with what I say and want with a distraction like that. Show me that I don’t have to get you hard to get you to be the man I want you to be – and that getting you hard doesn’t change who you  are.

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