By Sudipta Das

My early articulation of pleasure revolved more around absorbing joy through identity-affirming experiences within sexual-romantic relationships rather than sexual intimacy itself. Now, as I facilitate sessions on pleasure and love with adolescents, I have started looking at pleasure more holistically in cohesion with desire, feelings, love, and also recognising pleasure as a right. Many of my articulations are also shaped by the givings of bell hooks. In her book ‘All About Love’, hooks talks about how we don’t have a shared language for love — this often makes it difficult to comprehend the commonality of our experiences around love. Similarly, we don’t have a shared definition or language for pleasure, which I look at as an opportunity to imagine and reimagine it as we want.

Conversations around pleasures are often tricky, complex, and messy — especially when we look at pleasure not only personally, but also objectively. Many of us who are Dalit and queer, have migrated to urban spaces and achieved some extent of social mobility through university education, speaking English, and pop culture awareness—we now find ourselves in spaces that have otherwise been unwelcoming — spaces that offer love, dating opportunities, and desire.

Often Dalit-queer experiences are consumed as theory and not as day-to-day praxis. I love how journalist Dhrubo Jyoti says ‘I don’t think there is any intersection. Caste is sexuality and sexuality is caste.’ Dhrubo’s article ‘Caste Broke Our Hearts And Love Cannot Put Them Back Together’ is one of those rare writings that I read in times when I needed solidarity, resonance, and solace. Even within queer spaces, experiences of people from marginalised caste locations are often distant from the dominant narrative of queer-affirmative pleasure-desire discourses. As many of these discourses centre around shaping language above everything, trying to create vocabulary that is shared and homogenous, let’s not forget queerness has always been about bodies — as sites of curiosity and explortion, and as tools to claim visibility, respectability, education, employability, desirability, and pleasure.  Hence, it is impossible to initiate a conversation around Dalit-queer pleasure without understanding the positionality of Dalit bodies within queer spaces.

Body as a site for pleasure 

Bodies of Dalit people are more often seen as sites of oppression rather than pleasure. Even when regarded as sites of sexual pleasure and entertainment, a certain amount of impurity, illegitimacy, and stereotyping is associated with them. More often than not, this gaze is internalised by Dalit-queer people that shapes their own perceptions around their body and desirability.

At times like this, how do we move away from this understanding and locate the possibilities of pleasure that our bodies and minds are capable of creating? Our bodies experience pleasure in complex ways. Many of us also have a complex relationship with our bodies given years of social-institutional-systemic conditioning around beauty standards, oppression, and stereotyping.

While thinking about the body and the spaces we occupy with our physical bodies, Megha*, a bisexual Dalit cis woman living in Delhi, reflects on how she doesn’t looks at herself in the mirror in separation from all the gaze that she has consumed over the years. “The only compliment I received as a child was ‘Your features are amazing, if you would have been fair-skinned, you would have killed it.’ This one statement by a neighbour aunty still haunts me — once I dressed up in a pretty fluorescent yellow skirt and she said ‘If you put this girl in the dark, her skirt will glow with her invisible body.’

‘Now, my wardrobe consists entirely of black or pastel-coloured clothes because I was made to believe bright colours aren’t for me. This, for me, is how the world censors our access to consume pleasure.’

Christina Thomas Dhanaraj, a Christian Dalit woman from Chennai/Bangalore, India, writes about the experiences of urban Dalit women in dating spaces in her article ‘Swipe Me Left, I’m Dalit’. She talks about how Dalit women are often seen primarily as victims, unfeminine, and promiscuous. The lighter-skinned, savarna woman that is pure, quiet, and delicate versus the dark-skinned Dalit woman that’s polluting, loud, and tough—the dichotomy is quite prominent — even in mainstream pop culture media such as the recent short ‘Geeli Pucchi’ by Neeraj Ghaiwan from the anthology Ajeeb Dastaan, it fosters this dichotomy. It perpetuates the idea that our caste is often ‘how we look’.

Kush*, a young queer Dalit trans woman, says ‘There are typically some dominant-caste markers – for example, having fair skin, caucasian features, perfectly cut hair, well-groomed, clear skin, etc. When I am intimate with people having those markers or even surnames that give away their caste location, the way I perceive them is that they are such well-groomed people but that my body probably isn’t groomed enough. Despite me taking a lot of painful efforts, such as hair removal or moisturising — my body can never be cleaned.’

Apart from these insecurities around our bodies, there is a long-lived history of queer people and/or Dalit people being at the receiving end of sexual violence that further complicates our relationship with our bodies and how we access pleasure. We are often conditioned to believe that our bodies don’t deserve dignity or care. Our pleasure isn’t the priority in a sexual setting.

Kush shares, “In my first year of college, it was apparent I was a non-city person struggling with navigating urban spaces. I used to dress up and appear in a way  that might give away my social location. During that time, I was often desired by rich men. They would pursue me and send cars to pick me up. But in intimate settings, they would be extremely disrespectful and coercive. Often they would slap and choke as a part of the sexual act even without my consent. I couldn’t help but connect these instances with my caste location. It almost felt like my body didn’t deserve dignity.”

Adding to this, Kush also shared how the dynamics change with contexts. “Post COVID, my beard line is almost always covered by my mask, I have long hair and I often wax my full body — these all mimic the ‘upper caste cis woman’ image and allow me to access certain spaces. Because I live in a locality with a prominent presence of the Dalit population around, I often ended up hooking up with someone from my own community. I noticed that if they had more apparent Dalit markers than me, they didn’t expect me to treat them with a lot of dignity. Similarly, when I hook up with someone who is – or who I perceive to be – upper caste, I don’t expect them to pleasure me. It’s interesting how in both settings our years of conditioning unfold.”

Dignity is deeply intertwined with how we experience pleasure – as a source or as a resource. Megha shares, “’As a survivor of sexual abuse, my initial experiences of intimacy – even those where I had consented and exercised agency – were devoid of orgasms. I didn’t think of them as something that I could have. I grew up believing that my body is only a resource of pleasure, something that other people could access from me.”

But our bodies are also sites of euphoria, affirmations, and joy. Many of us do reclaim our bodies and the spaces we physically occupy. So what happens when we are desired because of our bodies and identities?

Moving Away and Moving Into fetishisation

“OMG! You are a Dalit person! Yet so strong, courageous, and confident!’ I hear this regularly. But it is a very romanticised and sexualised perception of me, and one that is not always true. We are more complex, nuanced, and messy than that. The idea of a Dalit woman showing her cleavage, speaking in English, and occupying cis-het upper caste supremacist spaces invites a certain kind of gaze. My idea of taking up space always has been through situating and accessing affirmations within these gazes. I have also sexualised myself — it might appear morally corrupt on the surface, but the deeper you look, the better you understand why some of us might do it. From a person who has never understood what it means to be desired or what it’s like to get this attention — why would I let it go?!

I have never checked the box of a conventional ‘pretty woman’ or had a body that is conventionally considered beautiful. So when I get this kind of validation, I take it at face value without politically, morally, or ethically examining it. If showing cleavage brings me validation, I will do that, but I am also aware of the labour I need to do to ensure acceptance and safety. So now, I also know when I need to detach”, says Megha while talking about being profiled as a Dalit-queer woman living in a metro city.

She also added, “Me taking up space also comes with the cost of profiling me as a character for the easy comprehension of the people residing outside of my lived experiences. The times I try to be otherwise — silent, less-opinionated, vulnerable — I feel invisible in both physical and virtual spaces. This restricts my mobility across sections. In my queer relationships, I always end up taking the dominant role both responsibility-wise and sexually, almost as if it’s a default setting.”

This phenomenon where apart from all the marginalisation Dalit people experience within queer spaces, they are also fetishised for their identities, presents the opportunity to discuss if we move away from or move into fetishisation? There’s a thin thread between preference, prejudice, and fetishisation. If someone’s desire is solely influenced by a person’s single identifier, and they refuse to see anything beyond that, that perpetuates a certain kind of discrimination. This fetishisation often comes from the assumption that all Dalit men are working-class people and hence muscular, manly, and rough-dark-handsome. Dalit women are thought to be unfeminine, strong, and bold. Dalit transwomen are reduced to the “status of beggars or sex workers.” This often evokes a certain amount of desirability amongst non-Dalit queers to fetishise them without any accountability.

In my recent experiences, I have come across dominant caste queer men explicitly writing on Grindr ‘Looking for SC, ST’ or my date telling me ‘Dalit and communist is my type’. That got me thinking – is this desirability a new acceptance? If yes, then what is this unknown crawling discomfort followed by it? When someone says ‘I like your skin tone’ – when our skin carries generations of oppression – isn’t romanticising that also romanticising the years of oppression? But then why do I also feel immediately elated and thank them for complimenting me?

As a transfeminine person who has also socially transitioned, Kush looks at pleasure beyond physical intimacy and feels it is more psychosocial in nature. She says, “When someone fetishises me as a transwoman, I am euphoric because this person is thinking of me as a woman. It affirms my identity.”

There are large numbers of men who like going down on transwomen but not on cis men. It might be because the feeling is strange, new, thrilling. For a very long time, I had this fantasy of somebody going down on me while I wore sexy stockings under my skirt. In my mind, the image is that I am a beautiful girl and this guy is going down on me. And this is why I perhaps look at being fetishiszed as a manifestation of my fantasy.

The larger notion is such that chasers might want sexual intimacy with you but might not want anything romantic or serious. I have come across such chasers who have also become lovers. So I don’t have a binary opinion of fetishisation.

While talking about being fetishised, Megha says, “I look in the mirror, and I don’t like my body. I go to this person. This person fetishises my body, my dark skin tone, my pigmentations, my septum ring, everything, my entire character. If I take that away from them, are they going to look at me the same way? My fetishisation by both men and women as a ‘black, fat, bold’ woman is the only thing I have. Am I ready to give up on that? Perhaps no. Even if I want to give up on playing this character and become submissive, become vulnerable, it’s often followed by the fear of my identity crisis kicking in.  My entire identity has been shaped around my marginalisation and my response to that marginalisation. Who am I if not this character? More than my lovers, do I even want to look at myself in my most authentic state which has a long-lived history of self-hatred, rejection, and not being desired?”

Inviting vulnerability as a practise of pleasure 

We don’t talk enough about vulnerability and marginalisation.

Being vulnerable is about being our authentic selves with all our realities, histories, flaws, — and sharing that with lovers, talking about fears, expressing discomfort.

Often when marginalised people show their vulnerability it is seen as cribbing or weakness. Over time, many of us also have acquired the skill to censor the parts of our beings that might be discomforting for people at positions of power. Instead, we mimic a certain kind of caste-class-gender performance to gain acceptance. While at it, is it possible to experience pleasure without being vulnerable?

Megha reflects on how she hasn’t ever been completely vulnerable with anyone while being intimate with them. She says, “I enjoy sharing a space with someone, being intimate, talking, but at the same time I have also noticed a pattern where I consciously make a choice of being with my lovers for some hours and not throughout the day because I am afraid of them seeing me completely — all my flaws, emotions, vulnerabilities, and ‘not so strong’ aspects.”

Though the outside world might look at Dalit-queer issues as focus areas, we the people who are navigating within the spaces, breathing within our realities, and figuring out day-to-day praxis, know our lives aren’t only about raging, educating, and articulating our feelings in tangible statements for the perusal of people residing outside of our marginalisation. Our lives are also about pleasure, euphoria, rest, and joy. We also exist beyond and between Dalit suffering and Dalit resistance. It is exhausting to look at ourselves only through the dichotomy of undesirability-fetishisation.

Kush says, “The structures have conditioned me. Change the structures. If you want to fight the fetishisation, first fight the dehumanisation of caste and gender-sexual minority groups.”

These structures aren’t created by us, so the primary responsibility for dismantling them should also stay with people in positions of power and privilege. Equally, the creation of spaces that allows us to be vulnerable should be a collective responsibility. We can’t self love our way out of systemic oppression. Many times, idealistic behaviour is expected from marginalised people, but that takes away the tenderness that realistic behaviour could offer. Vulnerability allows us to bring our imperfections, mistakes, insecurities, and anxieties around our bodies and intimacy with us. It helps us connect to our gut feelings while being present in our physical bodies and in the moment. Vulnerability helps us shift from fear to security. It fosters collective healing. Vulnerability affirms identities, bodies, and experiences.

As we think of vulnerability as a practice to experience pleasure authentically, Megha says, “The day my two experiences — when I am alone, having wine, touching myself lying on my bed as well as when I am with my lover — will mirror each other, I will call it a day!”

(*Names have been changed to ensure anonymity.) 

This article was written as part of TYPF’s digital campaign for Pride Month in 2022. The #PrideInPleasure campaign highlights experiences of pleasure that do not find representation in mainstream media, and amplifies queer voices from the margins.

By Meghna Mehra

Since the beginning of my dating life, I struggled to understand how people find sex pleasurable. I had no idea that asexuality is a thing until I studied more about it during my second year of college while simultaneously reading about the queer community online. I wish I knew sooner about asexuality as it would have saved me from a lot of harassment and heartbreak. A lot of partners would often ask me why I do not want to get sexually involved. I had no answer to it. Being a sex repulsed asexual (not all asexuals are repulsed by sex), pleasure looked different for me than my partners, who were mainly heterosexual men.

There is a power dynamic in heterosexual relationships which I realised while being the asexual party in these setups. Women are often told to have sex for the pleasure of their partners, regardless of how they themselves feel about it. I felt that it was an undeniable fact that I will eventually have to have sex just for the sake of my partner. But because I refused to bow down to this power dynamic that is established in heterosexual relationships, I faced many years of abuse. If I knew at that time that I were asexual, I wouldn’t have dated these people in the first place.

The abuse could easily have been avoided if the abusive person would have understood asexuality and its vast spectrum. While writing my research paper on the impacts of patriarchy on asexual individuals, I discovered that this was a shared experience among those asexuals who are sex repulsed as well as those who simply choose not to have sex. For instance, I learnt from various case studies of asexual women that they are often forced to have sex with their partners. Women are told that it is necessary for them to procreate. But this is toxic and causes real harm to them. On the other hand, for asexual men, the pressure to have sex is associated with notions of masculinity. Men also faced virgin shaming and felt emasculated by other men for not having sex. This included both homoromantic and heteroromantic men being shamed for not having sexual attraction or simply avoiding sex.

I suffered enough to understand that sex for many people is not only about pleasure, but also about overpowering someone. Especially in the case of men, who sometimes tried to force me to have sex so that I could ‘become’ heterosexual. For them, sex is a treatment and asexuality is a disease, a phase, or a lie. It is everything except a valid sexual orientation in their eyes. Dating apps have added ‘asexual’ as an option but people still refuse to accept it. We need proper awareness about not only asexuality but the whole LGBTQIA+ community and the nuances of queer identities.

I still struggle in my love life due to the stigma and lack of awareness around asexuality. There are instances where my former partners who knew about my orientation agreed to date me and later started invalidating me by trying to initiate sex, emotionally blackmailing me, or pestering me to have sex. One person went too far when he asked to have sex while I was severely injured. It made me realise how much women have to endure, asexual or otherwise. These experiences were detrimental to my well-being but I overcame them by working on my mental health.

I once dated an asexual man and felt a wonderful kind of peace. It was so soothing and was the kind of relationship I had always craved. There was no underlying pressure to have sex, no manipulation, just pure care and affection. We parted ways due to cultural differences and because he wanted to get married sooner than I did. But I wish him the best and I still hope to find a relationship like that in the future with someone who understands me.

Pleasure has different meanings for different people. For me, pleasure comes from food and other things rather than sex. For example, a cuddle gives me more joy than the act of penetration. I grew up discussing sexual pleasure with my heterosexual friends. It was during my teenage years when I felt that I was a late bloomer, somebody who might find sex fascinating after a certain age. But I was wrong. When I entered college, I still didn’t feel sexually attracted to anyone. I found people beautiful and cute, and I enjoyed the company of men while going out on dates, but whenever the sex bit cropped up in a relationship, I was hesitant. It was my second year in graduation when I realised that I am a sex repulsed asexual – and this realisation changed my life for good.

I was able to connect the dots with my feelings and understand why I refused to have sex – I simply did not desire it. I also realised that sexual attraction and romantic attraction are separate ideas, but which are often used as interchangeable terms, hence leading to the confusion I felt when I was younger. I understood this during an ace meet and by my personal experiences where I would crave romantic love but not sex. For me, pleasure comes from spending time with my loved ones, from trying different cuisines, from reading books, from listening to music, and much more. But never from sex. It was something I loathed.

People exist all along the asexual spectrum – asexual, graysexual, demisexual, and more. And asexual people experience different kinds of romantic attraction, including homoromantic, panromantic, and aromantic. This entire spectrum needs to be understood by allosexuals for awareness because there exist many myths related to asexuality. For example, asexuality is often used interchangeably with celibacy, even though celibacy is a choice and asexuality is a sexual orientation.

I derive pleasure from living life on my own terms. This is more pleasurable than any act of sex for me. The fact that I can read a book, enjoy being alone, drink coffee, or try different foods is pleasurable to me. I hope one day people understand that there are different orientations and a wide spectrum and there are different ways to experience pleasure. Some asexuals who have sex may find it pleasurable and I am happy for them. People all along the spectrum are valid, as identities and beyond. I wish more asexual people get to know about asexuality sooner than I did because I spent eight years in absolute confusion, abusive relationships, and a mess of a love life. I came out as asexual publicly in the hope that fellow asexuals would know that they are just as valid as everyone else.

This article was written as part of TYPF’s digital campaign for Pride Month in 2022. The #PrideInPleasure campaign highlights experiences of pleasure that do not find representation in mainstream media, and amplifies queer voices from the margins.

By Nu

After three years full of rejection, sexual violation, ghosting, and romantic cynicism from different failed pandemic situationships, I’m convinced that the only disability affirmative sexual experience I’ve had is the one I have every night – with my vibrator. There’s something about the isolation that makes you feel comfortable with being completely alone. In a way, I’m glad I’ve been single these past three years, ever since the pandemic began. I’ve been in love once, and it was good while it lasted, but none of my average ex-lovers embody the energy of this hot pink pocket vibrator that fits so perfectly in my hands. The vibrator has 5 speeds, and at each speed, I imagine a different person – a future lover perhaps. That’s the thing – such a situation leaves plenty of room for imagination – to imagine future lovers I’m yet to meet, to free myself from past abusive experiences in relationships, and to convince myself that I’ll finally meet someone that doesn’t have all the red flags that my exes had. To imagine that I’ll finally break the pattern.

Or maybe I’ll die here, in this bed, beside this vibrator, as I see the abled queer community – another community I don’t feel like I fit into – laugh about queer references, reminisce about queer bars in parts of the city that I haven’t even heard of, and die before I reach my ultimate level of queerness.

The only reference point that I’ve had my entire life is that of able-bodied gender. I perform able-bodied gender everyday. Queer icons on screen have taught me how to be queer in their way – an able-bodied way. They’ve taught me how to strut, except that I can’t strut with my Forrest Gump shoes. They’ve taught me how to dress up, except that many clothes are inaccessible for my physically disabled queer body. Hence, I’ve learnt to be queer in an uncomfortable way. Not my way, but their way.

As I watch Euphoria and see Jules and Rue kiss, I bury my head deep inside my pillow and hug my vibrator. I want what they have, but what is it about this bed and this vibrator that makes me think that this is enough? That I’ll never need partnered sex again? That I could spend my entire life in this bed with my vibrator, my favourite book, and of course, my favourite chaotic gen z television show?

Oh my god I’m going to die alone.

The pandemic forced me to become productive in isolation – to become something other than an average student with abandonment issues and a traumatic past, to make something out of my trauma and to carve out an identity. Otherwise, of what use are marginalised identities in a capitalistic world, unless they make art out of their trauma, right? They don’t let their trauma just be. Instead, they make their trauma useful and worthwhile, they make their trauma work hard so that it satisfies the Diversity and Inclusion world which rewards only certain identities whilst shunning away others. The world wants to know – in heavy detail – the intricacies of the sexuality of a marginalised person. The world expects us to be open books – to put our sexualities out there. Somehow, we owe the cis hetro-patriarchal ableist world all these answers.

How has my pleasure travelled, evolved, or remained static over the years? How has my access to pleasure as a disabled queer woman changed? Why do I ask so many questions?

To dream of an alternate gender reality, different from my current circumstances, to look at and affirm myself in the mirror, to put my sexual needs first, to have the space and agency to dream of my utopia, to have the resources to capitalise on my trauma – these are all privileges I possess.

As I stare at my crutch, I remember the access it has given me – to explore the city, eat my favourite meal at my favourite restaurant, or go shopping for lingerie alone. It has also given me access to bad, awkward dates, but that’s no one’s fault. If you asked me to draw my pleasure portrait, my crutch would be the centre of attention.

Recently I started illustrating my ideal partner – in a world which is not designed for me or my codes of intimacy, how exactly do I give myself the space to dream and hope for love? How exactly do I identify and acknowledge my needs? How do I know the next person I’m going to talk to on a dating app isn’t going to be an absolute asshole? Or even worse, an abuser? Every night, I sleep cuddling my copy of “All About Love” by bell hooks. Sometimes my cuddling partner is my vibrator. I don’t really like sharing the bed with anyone as I’ve been sleeping alone for the past 24 years. So do I actually really need partnership?

As I wash my vibrator in warm water, I wonder – is this the extent of intimacy that I’ll get in this lifetime? What about all those great love stories that I see on television as I eat my 8th cup of ice cream? Will I ever fondly remember my relationships with other people, or will they just be memories of abuse, despair, and disappointment?

My disabled fingers get fueled by my singlehood and create imperfect, chaotic art. I write countless narratives of loneliness and peace. I don’t feel like going on dating apps nowadays, I’d rather be alive for my work, my friends, and my colouring book. But sometimes, I reprimand myself – “I need to atleast get laid and enjoy my 20s” (a lesson I’ve clearly learned from romcoms in the 2000s) – and then I cringe as I realise the world wasn’t designed for a disabled woman’s needs, even if that need was just casual sex.

Disabled intimacy during a pandemic is so paradoxical, and yet ever so present. I call up my ex at 4am and we have car-park conversations, except we aren’t together in a car, we’re on a phone call. Sometimes I pleasure myself and think of no one in particular. I’m still learning how to be perfectly single, but what is perfectly single anyway? What is perfectly disabled anyway? What is perfectly queer anyway?

Yes, I need someone to help my disabled limbs go to the movies. So I must take a friend. Oh, I need a partner to support me physically and emotionally. Oh, I must dress in a way that is attractive to him, behave in a way where he thinks of me as the ideal able-bodied wife. I must disregard my queerness and adhere to his standards. Dependence belongs in my nature, I must get used to it, but at the same time, feel guilt and shame in my disabled bones. I must please a man, endure his abuse because otherwise he’ll go away and I’ll have no one anymore. I must base my entire identity on being, loving, living with him.

It’s an important decision to be absolutely alone. To relieve yourself of the pressure of being wooed, of being adored, of taking comfort in the grief and of getting used to comments saying you’ll either die alone or become a lonely cat lady. Loneliness has always been a dominant word in my life.

Being a lonely isolated body is uncomfortable. Nobody likes being one. Everything happens in pairs, how does anything get started with a single person? What about the pop songs and movies that have deeply been ingrained in my brain? What about my dreams that have been built around finding “the one”? What about my favourite Taylor Swift songs? Were they all wrong?

But I refuse, I disrupt, I rebel, I relax in my loneliness, in my solitary, in my yearning. Communication and intimacy have always followed able-bodied codes for me which has been terribly discomforting. I’m no longer waiting for pleasure, waiting for that holiday, waiting for a person to go with, waiting for the recognition of “the one”, waiting for a destination. I’m rioting, and I’m gone.

This article was written as part of TYPF’s digital campaign for Pride Month in 2022. The #PrideInPleasure campaign highlights experiences of pleasure that do not find representation in mainstream media, and amplifies queer voices from the margins.

This comic was conceptualised, designed, and curated by our very own EQUAL fellows Lucky and Kalki as part of the Loud and Queer programme at TYPF. The comic is a useful resource for trans* persons navigating the legal process of changing their gender identity markers on official documents.

This handbook is a useful resource for young development sector practitioners, activists, students, researchers, or anyone else with an interest to build their understanding on the basics of gender diversity. The handbook is easy-to-read and lucid, taking us back to the very foundations of our fight for trans* and queer rights.

In 2022, 26 young people across 19 states got together as part of TYPF’s EQUAL (Expanding Queer People’s Access to Leadership) Fellowship, through which they built their capacities and knowledge on legal rights and entitlements to negotiate with multiple stakeholders to ensure the safety and protection of queer-trans* people. This document illustrates the fellows’ journeys and the social action projects that were undertaken by them throughout the course of the fellowship.
Artwork by Taranbir Singh Sawhney.

This resource thrusts conversations about transmasculine persons’ pleasures, sex, and safety firmly within the highly medicalised (read: boring) world of sexual health. It is a pleasure- and identity-affirming accompaniment for transmasculine persons as they explore their bodies, identities, and sexualities. It provides contextually relevant information and knowledge on the safer sex needs and issues of transmasculine persons with a focus on diverse Indian contexts, experiences, and languages.

With the publication on safer sex practices for transmasculine people, we also created a short documentary which showcases the experiences of transmasculine people and transmen in the cities of Indore and Guwahati.