What My Pansexuality Means To Me

Earlier today I was looking at my life with regret.

Regret unless it leads to something corrective or self-enhancing is about as foolish, pointless, just plain ugly way to spend your time as I can imagine.

Not that it isn’t a sadly quotidian act.

I was smoking a cigarette wishing I’d never met Charles. My regret was born of that cigarette.

Before I fell in love with Charles I’d killed that bad habit. I’d cast off much the stupid behavior I fell into when the death of love trashed my heart.

Not that I can blame him. I’m the one who fell. I’m the one who must rise back up.

Wishing you weren’t your past is wanting suicide. If you are anything it is all the things you’ve been and done, each combining trivially or significantly into the - tautologically - into who you are. Over an interestingly lived life you can be many. But at any given moment you only get the current model.

Later I ran across a naked photo of a woman on a web page. I smiled at the harmony of her form. Last week watching a particularly terrible movie I was happy to see the pretty young man’s smile.

Didn’t feel any lust in either instance. But thinking about it cheered me mightily.

Having arrived at a state where I can take deep joy in human beauty: any gender, even genders that aren’t recognized; with or without desire is a happy place to be.

Most any day gives me a glimpse of someone to enjoy. I’ll never know them. I’m just seeing the outside. They may be superficial, wicked, terrifyingly stupid. I’m an impartial observer of the surface.

Every permutation of human beauty does really gladden my heart.

And that is one of the reasons I value my pansexuality.