Natural, Naturally

The first time I noticed I was growing pubic hairs was while in the bath. I was rather young, and hadn’t any knowledge of the changes a body goes through yet (although I was told that when you get your first period, you suddenly evolve into Stage Three: A Woman.)

I thought it was a bit of dirt. Or a drifting hair from my head (and those of you who’ve seen me in real life can testify: I’ve got a lot of fucking hair on my head.) Either way, I wasn’t sure, so I reached out to the supposed bastion of knowledge that was my mother and asked what that thing on my down-there bits was (not like that, of course).

Now, I may not remember this correctly, but I swear to god, she laughed. She laughed and told me, cheerfully, that it was the first of many hairs to come, and that I’d now be growing hair in places. It was part of the progression to Stage Three: A Woman. Mum never had any qualms about telling me things like this, although being from the generation that she was from (born in the Fifties, growing up in Sixties working-class Belgium), her knowledge about sex and the changing body was limited to the bare bones of birds and bees.

But I digress, because this is a story about pubic hair, and to an extent about body hair.

So, now I had a pubic hair. And soon, I had a bunch of them, along with little growing hairs under my arms. I felt rather cool. It was like those hairs proved that I was on my way to adulthood. Never mind the fact that I was, like, ten years old and blooming early.

I had a bit of a time trying to figure out how to keep my hairs in my swimming costume when PE swim classes came around. Not to mention the palaver of the first time I shaved my armpits. That’s a … special moment, right there.

Although the hair on my armpits got shaved plenty of times, I have always been hesitant about shaving my pubic hair. I was (and am) rather fond of it, and don’t see any reason as to why I should get rid of it. I’ve got no problem with the occasional trim, but the few times I have shaved my mons and my pubic area were for very particular reasons – getting prepped for my gastric op or having my pussy cast for the Great Wall of Vagina for example.

There has been a revived conversation on the subject of female body hair as of late – with the likes of Cameron Diaz addressing the subject in her new Body Book amongst others. To that I say GOOD. It’s a subject that needs to be talked about.

As the fabulous Rubyyy Jones said in her discourse on the matter –

The trends of female body hair are fabulous, the discussion is important, and with each article and individual who brings light to this topic we move forward. I’d like to continue to help move the discussion forward too. We move forward because it seems we’re starting to get that it’s a choice. A personal choice. Over time it matters less and less to me what society believes, feel or wants. I got it. It’s a personal choice and my own opinion of me becomes the only one I consult when it comes to my body. This sounds like a no-brainer but when you’ve been programmed most of your life to believe you need to do, achieve, maintain something physically to be accepted as an individual, this becomes fundamental. It has been a very interesting transition indeed.

It’s a choice, indeed. And about a year ago, I made the choice myself – letting my underarm hair and pubic hair grow. I can’t say I’m embarrassed or ashamed about it. On the contrary, I love my pubic hair. It’s soft, it feels lovely to run your fingers through it and it’s a part of me. The same goes for my underarm hair (and the hairs on my legs for that matter).

It’s a choice I made. And I wish I could go back in time to tell my younger self, that self sitting in the bathtub at age 10 that it really isn’t as bad as she thinks it is. In fact, it’s not bad at all. Hair is hair. Whether you shave it off, trim it, keep it, fingercomb it while coming down from a brilliantly sexy session or whatever you choose to do with it. It’s your choice. And that’s really cool.

Bendy Straw

Surprisingly, for a show that’s called Sex and the City, there isn’t that much sex going on. You get the occasional shot of Carrie and the likes moaning under a man, at all times wearing some form of clothing because of the no nudity clauses in the cast’s contracts. It was… well, rather tame.

Thank God then, for Samantha and her joyful bouts of sexual athleticism. Seriously, that woman was bendy as fuck, and I salute her for it.

And if you’re wondering why I’m bringing this up, it’s because I recently discovered that I’m quite bendy in bed myself.

It happened earlier in the week, during a bout of very intense and very passionate fucking. I’d placed a pillow under my hips, to give him a deeper angle of penetration, because that’s something we both like.

What I didn’t bank upon was suddenly being able to keep my legs in the air. Or swing them around him. Or just basically doing anything that’s proved physically tasking for me before.

Needless to say, I felt a bit like a legend. Like I’d won one over on myself.

It’s a small thing, but it made me feel good.

On Nude Beaches and Old Memories

When I was growing up, in that halcyon era we call “the nineties”, there was a growing fascination with sex and nudity and all the relevant subjects. In my  memory, this was mainly played out on TV, in documentaries and series that dealt with the spectrum of sexuality in some way or another. Needless to say, I was incredibly fascinated. Maybe even too early in life,  but the fascination was there (still is).

The thing that possibly fascinated me the most was the existence of the nude beach in Bredene. It’s the only nude beach in Belgium, and for some reason, I kept hearing about it. Might be one of those things that was covered in the documentaries I mentioned.

Anyway. A couple of years ago, I actually found myself in Bredene, on a class outing. Of course, there was much healthy sniggering about “can we not possibly go to the nudey beach, please”, because we were 13 and we were idiots.

And of course, we knew exactly where it was. Every time we passed it on the tram, there would be even more healthy sniggering.

Now I’m older, (sort of) wiser, more (or less) mature… but I still can’t help being fascinated by the concept of a nude beach. Just people walking around there, in all shapes and sizes, but nude. Bits out and about.

I know, it’s not a hard concept to grasp, but you have to admit that it’s fascinating. Who are the people who are so comfortable with their own bodies that they see no issue in walking around naked on a beach filled with other naked people?

I admire that, you know.

My Titties Are The Core

Something’s up with my breasts. My titties, my magumbos, my nunga-nungas. My (Innocent Lover)boy entrancers. Something is most definitely up with them.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with them, mind. Apart from the occasional pains during my period and the after-effects of a shoulder injury shooting through, my breasts are fine.

And that’s why I think something’s wrong. My breasts have never been fine.

They’ve always been saggy, out of place, non-symmetrical and wonky. Most bits of them just hung under my arm. I spent years without a good bra because no shop clerk with a tape measure could figure out what the hell my breasts were all about.

And then I discovered that all I needed was a good bra and some self love.

The bra was acquired first, on a shopping trip with my mum, uncle and Loverboy late last year. I’m sure you’ll have heard the story. But anyway, bra happened. At first it was a bit weird to wear a bra again, after being so long without one. But I got used to it, and my boobs got used to it too. Which resulted in me staring in the mirror the other day thinking… well, hey, well hey, my boobs are okay.

My tits are more than okay.

My tits are fierce.

My tits are powerful.

My tits are the core which carries the motor that drives my body.

I think my boobs, tits, juggs, nungas or whatever you call them are pretty damn nifty. How I came to think that was a long process that involved the right support and the right kind of love (and the right kind of attention from Loverboy’s mouth and hands).

I still think something’s wrong though. After all, it can’t be possible to love my breasts this much? They’re still a bit saggy, a bit tubular, a bit non-shaped. But I think that’s why I love them.

They’re perfect in being imperfect. And they look damn fine in a hot bra.

My titties are the core. Damn straight.

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(c) J.E Boyd

 

The Art of Growing Old Gracefully

On down days like this, there are fortunately some things that never fail to make me laugh.

One of those things that I’ve come to cherish and that never fails to put a smile on my face is my aunt Rosa. She lives about two blocks down, on her own, in a tiny house. This is not just any tiny house though. No, this is the house where antique paraphernalia came to die. I shit you not when I say that you can barely move for tat.

But amazingly, that makes me love her even more.

She talks smack about her weird neighbors. She watches Project Runway. She is the only person in my family apart from my mum that I wouldn’t mind showing the blog to.

She’s also an octogenarian great-grandma.

The quite-frankly astounding thing is that this doesn’t even faze her. Mum and I see her nearly every day, pushing her trolly (usually loaded with MOAR TAT) and trawling all over town.

She is lines and wrinkles. She is modern wisdom with an old soul.

And I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone should age as gracefully as her. She clearly loves life and all its foibles.  I love that she actually comes to our place to kvetch about the couple next door to her being completely insufferable. She cares not for their crap, and I FUCKING LOVE HER FOR IT. 

That’s why something about today’s episode of Doctor Oz irked me.

He had a feature about what you should do to “turn back the years” and look younger before it’s too late. He goes on to recommend a shit-load of creams and lotions and potions (and not to forget every single supplement in the world) to keep you from looking slightly older than you were a while back.

The best thing is, apparently this shit starts at AGE THIRTY. That’s right, after 29, you should start to get completely paranoid over lines that may not appear for another twenty years.

Why all this scare-mongering?

Why should we be afraid of something that will eventually happen anyway? Why is it apparently uncool for an older woman to look like an older woman?

Think about this. All the money you spend on creams and fillers and that shit could be spent on doing something you’ve always wanted to do in your life. It is never too late to fulfill your dreams, so why not do that?

It’s lines and wrinkles. It’s not the worst thing that may or may not happen in your life. Wear them with pride. Flaunt your wisdom.

And be a little like my aunty Rosa. She’d love it.

Get Naked and Celebrate

So, dear readers. This week is quite a special one for me. It’s the one year anniversary of a very important day. No. It’s not the one where K-Middy got married. How would that be important to me, I wonder?

(author’s note: I was barely conscious enough to sit through the whole fucking thing!)

It’s the one year anniversary of my gastric bypass operation.

When I think about that whole day, I remember being suspiciously calm about it. I had been suspiciously calm throughout the entire process. The physical exams, the talk with the psychiatrist, all of those went so smooth. So, it felt only natural that I was calm. There was no point in freaking out, I guess. I mean, that only serves as a massive barrier once you get to the OR.

(author’s note : how I managed to stay calm during a potentially life-changing gastric operation, but cried my eyes out when I got my wisdom teeth pulled is beyond me.)

A lot has changed since that day. I feel more comfortable about myself now. So comfortable that I’m thinking of doing something daring for the sake of the blog. After all, I wouldn’t be half as comfortable with myself without having you guys around me.

So as a thank you, look out for some sexy pictures coming your way. And the best thing is… you get to decide what you want to see! If you have a request for a picture, and I can fulfill it in some way, leave it in the comments! I’ll see what I can do.

Let’s make this Saturday a sexy one!

Medicated Musings

So, I’ve done some musing whilst under heavy medication. Unfortunately, my plan of coming up with the next Xanadu went awry, as eventually the meds wore off and the Golden Palace disappeared. Shame. Would have been nice.

There are some things that are still lucid in my head, so, I’d like to share them with you.

I’ve learned that it’s completely okay to not give a flying tosspuppet about the world around you. Okay, I love being social, I love all my friends to death and I really fucking love just going outside. But sometimes, vegging with a book, wrapped in a blanket…. yeah, that’s good stuff. Not thinking? Switching the brainbox off? Brilliant. Do it. DO EET. It allows you to take distance from things going on in your life and see them in a new light.

Being alone from time to time is really quite wonderful. No matter how much you love your friends (and believe me, I love them A LOT), sometimes you just need to switch off Twitter. Yes, I said it. Switch off Twitter. Go outside, catch rays and that. If it’s raining, go stand in the rain and do a dance.

Something else I realized is that, although I’m such a fan of snogging and touching and caressing, I don’t really think I need sex right now. Which is a strange thing, considering I’ve spent more than 700 blog posts preaching to the Choir 69.

I don’t know. Wait. I do. I actually do know, for once! What I need, right now, is just intimacy. Strokes and whispers and the snogging, touching, caressing.

When you realize that you don’t remember the last time you masturbated, you can either do one of two things. One is to grab the nearest sex toy and fuck yourself silly with it, many times, to make up for the imbalance in the universe. Two is just… shrugging. I think that’s what I did. Just shrugged and said, “Nah.”

“Nah”. Is that what sex is to me now? Just… not even a word? Just a sound? Either way, I’m just not that keen. Is this one of my fases where I go completely off sex and stuff? Or is this just something that is there? Do I really not need it?

Do you ever really “need” sex in your life, I wonder? I’ve always considered sex more as a want. Feel free to discuss.

The main thing I learned during my medicated black-out is that I need to be positive. Which is quite frankly fucking mission impossible sometimes. But, as I said in the last post, I’ve achieved a state of calm. I still get irked out by little things though. Just… noises. Words, things. Not being able to wash my hair because it might trigger the hives. It’s irksome, but I have the feeling that I’ll live through that.

I feel like a reasonably strong woman. The sexy times will come, I have no doubt. But in the meanwhile, I just need to keep myself going.

Random pic is random? Of course.

When The Itch Needs Scratching

So, here I am, again. Well, I’ve been here all along. It’s just that I haven’t posted as much this week. I know. For shame, spankings needed, yaddah-yaddah-yaddah. Listen, if you were in my position, would you rather sit, dosed up on antihistamines, in front of a computer, typing that you’re itchy and bored and sleepy? Or would you do the decent thing and give your body some rest?

It’s been quite a week. A massive, sleepy and blurry trip on medication. Very Fear and Loathing-lite. Or not at all, if you think about it. There’s nothing remotely literary about waking up at 4 pm to find your legs full with red bumps. Even less so when you’re doing a phone interview at the same time. I feel like a twit for actually saying to the woman on the phone that I “appeared to have broken out in some kind of rash”. I fucking hope she doesn’t transcribe that!

The hive-attack did have a nice side-effect. I’ve now started eating healthier and thinking healthier. There’s nothing like a trip to ER to put every silly little worry in your head to rest. I took a walk around town with Mamma B today, and it felt incredible. Plus, I was wearing The Heels, so everything was just a bit more awesome.

The hives aren’t going to go away permanently, from what I gathered. I don’t know if any of you gorgeous people have experienced it, but advice is welcome. All I can think of is keeping up the healthy eating and thinking (although the thinking isn’t going to make the UNGODLY itching go away).

There’s this strange calm that comes over me, after a few days of something like this. I start planning things; lovely things that make me look forward to the next week, month, six months, and so on. I feel like a normal person. Which is good, considering the fact that I mostly felt like an overworked nutcase for the past few weeks.

I know I promised to tell you about sexy things. Keep hanging in there, because it’s coming.

But can you blame me for feeling less like a wanton sex goddess, and more like an albino dalmatian this week? Seriously, it was like little patches of itch had manifested on my body. My legs still look like mini- warzones.

I’ve never cared this much about my body. You always tend to shy away from thinking about it when you’re not “up to a standard” with other people. Bullshit, of course. You are allowed to care about your body. In fact, you should bloody well, anyway! I’ve neglected myself for years, and now that I’m treating my body right (ergh, listen to me…) I feel so much better.

The reason I put that bit between brackets is that I really don’t want to be a whinge. It’s just that it’s true. Treat your body right and it’ll give you strength to work, walk, dance and all that pleasant stuff.

I genuinely hope that I’ve not put you off me or my entire blog by just saying this. Because I’m going to say it more. I bloody love eating fresh soup or getting out and taking a walk (in The Heels) because it does my spirits and my body well. It makes me not think about bad things. It makes me feel quite alive, actually. So, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take myself for a stroll around the park more often.

Right, update-y time then! I’m working on a musing on my breasts, which is something I’ve been meaning to do for a while now. I don’t know how it’s going to turn out. Might be good, might be a piece of plonk. Either way, it’ll be here, so be on the look-out for it!

Dad’s not at all well, I think. He’s… doing odd stuff. It started with going to bed at 5pm. Then, he began to mill about in his room, apparently rearranging his sheets. Now, it’s come to him going to the loo, several times, using up nearly all our toilet paper. Yeah, I don’t really know what to think of it. We’re talking to his psychiatrist very soon, so that might offer some help.

I’ve cut down on all the work I wanted to do, and narrowed it down to what I really think I can write in the given space of time. So, if you want to hear about my works in progress, check out my other blog in the sidebar, for updates of a more writer-y persuasion.

Random picture to end on? But of course.

Cos Chris Pine looking like a rentboy will never grow old. *contented sigh*

Don’t Get Cocky

I must say that TMI Tuesday this week did inspire me. I’ve done a lot of musing about cunts, and in particular, my own. But I’ve never really thought about the cock.

The penis, the dick, the discostick, whatever you want to call it, it’s there. It comes in various sizes and shapes, and it’s generally a really lovely thing to look at.

Personal opinions do vary on how a penis looks its best. I read a description of a flaccid penis that made me weep a bit. “Like God had a bit of clay left and stuck it on at the end.” or something to that liking. I call bullshit. Yeah, an erect penis is one of the most glorious things you’ll ever see. It will turn you on and leave you wet, but what about a non-erect one?

It shows that someone is willing to be vulnerable when revealing their flaccid penis. There is a certain beauty in it, and I like looking at it any way it is, flaccid, hard, anything.

I don’t want to rub salt in the gaping wound that is the “Does Size Matter ( ©”) discussion, but I just want to put my own two cents in. Although I haven’t seen a penis up close, I think size shouldn’t matter. What it does is more important. You know what? Size doesn’t matter. Big or small, every penis is beautiful. Keep that in mind, lovely lads 🙂

(authors note: I feel like I should burst into a chorus of “Every Sperm is Sacred” from The Meaning of Life)

I shall include this map of the anatomy of a penis, found on Google Images. If it’s not accurate, feel free to give me a nudge and I shall strive to find a better one.

You’ll find that a penis is fascinating both on the outside and inside….

I’d like to conclude with a message, inspired by a friend of mine. Lads, check your balls regularily. If something’s off, haul ass to the doctors. It pays to be concerned about your health.

 

Embarrassing Body

Bear with me, readers. I’ve got something on my chest and it needs to not be there anymore. If you’re disgusted, fine, skip this post. But if you want to listen and maybe relate in some way, do read on.

Everybody has their embarrassing body-related problems. I hear it every day, see it on the telly. Bodies tend to go wonky. In some way, my body is a bit wonky too.

It started just…. randomly. One day, on a school trip, I found that my pants were wet. I didn’t know what it was. Had I unconciously wet my own pants? Bladder infection? No idea what was going on. It was an overnight trip, and I didn’t have an awful lot of pants with me, so I changed into dark shorts, lest it happen and show again.

Back home, I got tested for a bladder infection and given pills to combat it. It got better, or so I thought.

It was only the start. It was an on and off thing, and I kept thinking it would go away if I’d take the pills. But a year and a half ago, I started leaking urine. It got to the point that I had to go to the pharmacy and ask for pads. Keep in mind that this happened on holiday in London. At the time, I was also dealing with the most embarrassing part of obesity, namely sweat-related rashes in the folds of skin (which is one of the main reasons I got the operation). It wasn’t a happy holiday.

So, for more than a year, I wore pads every day. And I got quite sick of it. So I decided that as of the first of January, now 8 days ago, I would stop wearing them. Unfortunately, I started leaking again, and have since put them back on.

I don’t know where this came from. Might be another effect of the obesity. I hope it will go away with the pounds I lose.

So, everyone has their own little body niggles. I’m no different. I hope that sharing this was not in vain.