To the explorer within you who ventured here to understand my gaze,
Hey APC! My name is Mimi Tempestt. I’m a multidisciplinary artist, academic, and poet. I’m also a daughter of California. I was born and raised in Los Angeles, and currently live in Oakland. Most of the time, my works are aimed at disrupting negative and stereotypical narratives around the iconography and constructions of black and queer people. And in other moments, I find myself simply writing to measure the moments between each breath. My debut collection of poems, The Monumental Misrememberings , is forthcoming with Co-Conspirator Press in 2020, and I’m glad you made it here.
I’m honored and excited to share my new poems with you. “suites I – IV: a journey of my fat sex” is an exploratiaon of my personal accounts regarding my sexuality. I am a fat pansexual femme, and the practice of this work is simply to be honest about my experiences of having sex. I’m unashamed to say I’ve fucked a lot of people in my life. I’m unashamed to admit this, because fat queer femmes are often held to standards of sexual undesirability or fetishism that renders us to be seen and experienced as objects for consumption and fantasy. To overcome this, I choose honesty and humour in my approach to sex. I love being in my body, and being playfully receptive to sharing it with another human being. I have a duty to express my desires.
It’s during sex (with the right person) that I feel most like myself, but to humble my ego, I’m also honest enough to admit I’ve never been loved out loud. Part of my journey in exploring the complexity of my sexuality is to distinguish between being sexually desired and being loved. In my past (and like most of us in our youths), through my admiration for a crush or simply out of dogged horniness, I conflated being lusted after to being cared for. A distinction that had I learned early in my twenties, would have saved me years in time, emotional confusion and heartaches.
Whether with a man or woman, trans or gender-fluid/noncomforming person, sex is important to me. Sex, with another human being or by myself, is when magic happens. I see sex as an opportunity to be closest to god, and when I’m closest to god is when I’m most free. Although this is my perspective, this isn’t always my reality. In the dichotomy of being fat and confident, I found it profound that in most encounters with a lover, my body often becomes a canvas for their insecurities. Insecurities that settle into the performance of their masculine energies. Insecurities that I am no longer willing to hold space for in my belly.
I’m here to articulate my freedom and my wounds.
suites I – IV: a journey of my fat sex (Audio Recording below)
I. a reminder to stop fucking soundcloud rappers
the roots sprouting from my belly wouldn’t let go they were searching for me in someone new after a weekend of retracing my steps backwards i found my head in his bed again arms tied to his bed post legs suspended mid-air my hips v-shaped with knees at 90 degrees begging revelry driblets of familiar spit sweltered hot into the memory of the sheets
each thrust was a battle against his inertia i could feel the resentment towards his mother the deeper he dug in by then, the roots like varicose veins spread across the bed wicked weeds wryly begging for foundation
begging for seed begging into fertilization
i giggled at the possibility
i witnessed his face turn auspicious he witnessed a false witnessing i moaned to save my credibility he always liked to finish with me on top he never admitted, but i think he enjoyed the weight of my body bouncing bemused on his smaller frame
he liked watching me sweat for my climax the orgasm was always muted a sort of cardio for cum an insignificant death coupled with his hand on my throat the roots wallowed as he masqueraded control, claiming to be my father
in the after moments we usually spent an hour he always refrained from kisses talking about how
his grandmother raised him
II. the fifth planet
i know you like to fuck around with them cis dudes he forgot i was a deity who swallowed planets whole
he casually forgot that i require worship
patience care pleasure respect
his insecurities orbited me he pompously willed himself into my gravitational pull he couldn’t bare the intensity of my eyes, but was unable to sustain from my pussy as our tongues connected i reached for his manhood a casual pleasure gesture a casual routine, he wielded a casual apprehension towards my provocation to expand, turns out he was not so lucky after all when he finally reached inside his fingers burned clean off he left unable to admit i was too hot to touch
III. in bed with another taurus
he noticed i was looking for my next heartbreak
he took his time to penetrate allowing the serpent of my spine to reveal herself
allowing her to uncoil and glimmer those iridescent scales raging pink and green
she flickered at his beckoning a snake charmer he was
hours into the tantra there was a lapse of possibility that transcended this third dimension we forgot we knew
in the morning i rubbed his belly he kissed my forehead and let me down easy
IV. hotline bling
there i was, naked and open — ready for all they had to offer and all that crossed their minds was who came before and who was going to come after
those moments left me wondering: if anyone was going to come at all