My Inner Thighs, Striped Like A Tiger

My fingers trace them lovingly

Photo by Edewaa Foster on Unsplash

I wear them like a badge of honour, though I didn’t always. They cut across my inner thighs — veins of gold in marble. As though a large cat became too playful, and stroked me with claws too roughly. You might not even notice them, unless I encouraged you to look closer. Unless I invited you to touch them, reverently.




We publish essays, and poetry about sex, sexuality and erotic relationships.

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Danielle Loewen

Danielle Loewen

she/her | reader | queer feminist | recovering academic | body lover | gamer | poet & fabulist

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