I am one of those people who wake up happy; I love the morning. Cardinals sing from the little forest outside my bedroom window, the cat’s whiskers vibrate against the window screen, the dog presses his warm body against my legs. It is a pale, breathless moment filled with potential.
And I am cleansed for it, renewed.
The dissolute acts from the night before are washed from my skin, though my sheets may still bear the iniquitous proof of my debauchery. The morning light purifies, it forgives, it says, Hey there, little lady. Go do it again.
[Ed. note: When I first wrote this I hadn’t read the article. I’ve since read it and its rather appalling claims. However, even having not read it initially, I think it did its job in sparking the debate in my head and that’s still ok for me.]
On Thursday a post was brought to my attention written by a woman I don’t know. In it she was critical of women like me who show their bodies online, the gist being that we are misguided in our empowerment (we’re actually indoctrinated by men into believing that our bare bodies are powerful naked). Some of you have been guessing which post it was and in trying to solve the mystery have highlighted to me other critical posts about women sharing images of their bodies — this woman isn’t alone in her feelings, certainly.
She didn’t call me out by name, but described the Boobday meme I’ve been running for almost two years, and was derogatory in her description of a man she was dating who had commented positively on a Boobday post.
After some reflection I wrote this on the next day’s Boobday post:
Frankly, I can’t believe we’re still having this argument. It reminds me of the whole porn debate, that women who participate in it are somehow undermining the good fight for equality and respect. Well, not exactly. Many women who are in porn go in with their eyes open and with a love for sex and performance. How is that a bad thing? Of course it certainly depends on the woman, the type of porn, etc., but they’re not all barely legal girls with daddy issues and a drug problem and even if they were, they’re entitled to do as they please and not be judged for it or blamed for the downfall of feminism.
Likewise, the images I share come from confidence and joy, not desperation or a need to be loved. They’re controlled and dictated solely by me. No man tells me what to do here. In fact, I share in large part for other women, to show an alternative body shape as beautiful and sensual. Today’s image in particular I chose because of the stretch marks you can see that appeared when I was breastfeeding my baby.
I share my body because I want to and because I can. It’s that simple. I don’t understand what the big deal is to people and why they must generalize about the motivations of those who do. So you don’t want to?? Ok. Cool. So don’t, but don’t tell me why I do it. Tell us why you don’t in a way that isn’t projecting onto us and go about your day.
You’re self-conscious, it doesn’t feel right to you, it’s embarrassing because omg, you’re naked!, your man would get jealous, you’d feel guilty, your mama told you never to do it, whatever.
I like it, it feels right to me, and I can, so I do.
I don’t need to justify the deeper drives that coalesce in this one body to make me into the exhibitionist that I am, that make me promiscuous or bold or strong. I am what I am and I love this woman just the way she is.
I think I speak for many here when I say that owning my body and its sexuality is by far more empowering to me than hiding it. I eschew traditional forms of many things — dating, sex, relationships — so why would I embrace a traditional belief about nudity? Me doing this makes far more sense than not and I’d like to think I am able to show the world that just because a woman bares her body doesn’t mean that’s all there is to her. And, luckily for me, I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words to back that up and they’re all available in this handy dandy blog.
My body and its availability to the public is an extension of my art. I could write the rest of my life and never post another pic and be perfectly content, but it wouldn’t feel complete. This body is part of my larger work and denying that would be first dishonest and second pointless. And why? To agree with some of my sisters that my bare breasts disempower me? No thanks.
Still scratching your head about why it is I do this? You can also read this or you can happily disagree with me and think I’m a slave to men’s knuckle-dragging desires. Either way, I’m not gonna worry about it. I’m just gonna do me and that includes some boobs, a little ass, and a whole lotta words.
I take great pride in my work and feed off its artistry, the response loop. I feel more powerful because I choose to; I am empowered because I process the transaction that way. I hated my body for so long that allowing it to be beautiful fills me with release and strength. People may vehemently disagree with how I feel empowered, but that’s a lot like saying someone else knows when I’m allowed to feel anything.
Related to power, there’s also agency. I am lucky to be an American woman and am theoretically safe from recriminations. The idea that women who exhibit their nude bodies demoralizes the feminist agenda or erodes the progress we’ve made smells an awful lot like slut shaming. If only we didn’t show off our bodies, then men would respect us! No, men should respect us regardless of how we present ourselves. If we lie, cheat, and steal disrespect all you want, but because I show my tits is not commentary on my character. I still help little old ladies, rescue bees from the pool, and give back incorrect change that was in my favor.
Over time women’s chastity and modesty have become intertwined with respectability, but how does that work? It’s why breastfeeding women are driven underground. God forbid any part of a woman’s body be exposed to even feed her baby. I can’t swallow that; I say my body, my rules.
I disagree that what I do with my body has any negative effect on other women. The people who choose to behave badly are the ones who own that blame. I’m just over here in my tiny corner of the internet having a good time. If some asshole decides to spew misogynistic bullshit everywhere because he saw my tits and it made him angry/uncomfortable/irate/offended/turned-on/whatever then that’s him. Do you blame the match or the dickhead who flicks it into dry brush for the wildfire?
I know I have a growing voice in a small community and I take the responsibility seriously. I write to educate, to show a different side of an object of desire. For example, I write often on Instagram about the ridiculousness of unsolicited dick pics because men see my photos and apparently can’t execute any self control — victim blaming at its finest and reducing men into raging, horny ids who can’t control themselves when they see a woman.
“Damn baby ur so fine thought you’d want to see what u did to me.”
No, I didn’t do that to you, sir. You’re a healthy man who reacted to stimuli and then you chose to assault me with that image. I never asked to see the proof of your health.
I understand that the sliver of myself I allow the world to see might be confusing to some, but that’s only if the lens through which you’re viewing me is skewed to see only modest women as those worthy of respect and honor. An immodest woman, however, is fair game for anything and that, my friends, is a dangerous thought and what scares me the most because in the end even immodesty is subjective as any rape victim or receiver of any unwanted attention can tell you.
The idea that women exercising their freedoms to express their sexuality, sensuality, or art are working against the grain of feminism or empowerment is preposterous. Sex and our bodies are not the only things that make a woman feel empowered — they’re just a couple — and some of us are fighting the fight this way because it’s what we do best.
Other women can fight it in the courtroom or on the streets or at round table debates on their college universities — I’m not strong there, I’m strong here — and they can live a more modest life than me all the while brilliantly articulating all the injustices of sexism. I’ll reach the other half with my nude body and thoughts on the patriarchy. Why can’t we do both and show what real sisterhood means? You do it that way and I’ll do it this way.
Having said all of that, here is my modestly immodest photo for Sinful Sunday, yet another meme which encourages people to drop the shackles of shame and fear and self-recriminations and bare it all in the name of art and joy.
Enjoy, you knuckle-draggers. I’ll be over here educating passersby on what equality really means.
Click the lips to see the other dissolutes out there flashing their bits.
Mid-date, I sent a message to my friends that went something like this:
Please oh please oh please oh please let Bones’ bone be huge!
And then a bunch of little prayer hands because I meant it.
I have shelved my eternal lust for giant cock and have found great pleasure in men less endowed than what I fantasize about, but I really wanted this man to have the kind of package that shoots me over the motherfucking moon.
He was dry and witty, culturally sensitive, intelligent, good looking. Short.
This was our second date in 72 hours. After he drove me home the first night and I leaned in for a kiss the archaeologist said, “You’re a really good kisser.” I had similar thoughts and tucked back in against his full lips and scruffy beard.
It wasn’t passionate, exactly, but it was charged. If we kissed this well, what else could that mean for us?
I ran up the stairs knowing his eyes followed.
When he arrived 5 minutes early to our second date my hair hung in long, wet ropes. “I told you not to be early!” I laughed when I opened the door. He immediately kissed me hello.
“I know, but you’ll live.”
I set him up with a beer and the dog and dried my hair. We played Jenga and drank until it was time to head to the movies. His heavy hand rested on my knee and he held my hand. I leaned against him and smiled, stole more scruffy kisses.
Later, at the bowling alley, I shamelessly flirted to distract him at darts. “You’re using your breasts for evil!” he accused. I couldn’t argue.
At our lane there was an easy rivalry between us now since I had won at both Jenga and darts. The alcohol flowed with the jabs and laughter.
We walked home and our clothes flew off. I heard the jangle of his belt and the stiff slide of denim before I saw him jut out. He was big – quite big. It was if the emoji gods had heard me after all.
I had to scramble to find my Magnum condoms, long since hidden away from my time with The Neighbor. He rolled one on and pushed into me and I felt that body-splitting hug from the inside out that I so crave.
We moved against each other like choreography and came in rushing rivers. His dense weight upon me made the bed screech in protest and I was sure we were disturbing the peace. But we didn’t care.
He pounded into me, flipped me over, pounded some more. Hair wrapped around his hands like reins, my round ass impaling itself on him. Our kisses were firecracker smacks now, not unlike his hand on my flanks. His height perfect for slamming into me while latched onto a breast. Candle light flickered against our pale skin and the fan whirred above while we tangled like the drunken heathens we were.
I fell asleep after he’d cum twice and me more than I could count. His hand was in mine.
Some time before dawn he woke me up with warm, strong fingers touching me here and there. We moved against, in, and around each other blindly. He filled me up again, another golden wrapper ripped and rolled, dropped and forgotten like Gretel’s crumbs.
He ripped me apart this time, my own wetness no match for his size this time. I moaned in pain and pleasure and begged him to cum even as my own orgasm washed through me like a long, low bay. We fell back asleep entwined until it was time for the sun.
This time I played with his uncut sheath, licked and slid it under my grip. He moaned and shivered and threw me off. Rip, roll, drop again.
He bunched me up into a ball beneath him and drove deep. I cried out as each thrust caused a ripple of stinging pain and swooping orgasm. “I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna cum!” he said and at the last second he pulled out and in one easy motion removed the condom and came all over my heaving belly. He cleaned me up and laid back down beside me.
We closed our eyes and he appeared to fall asleep instantly, his steady breathing a far cry from the activity behind the blackness of my lids: this feels nice, a man is in my bed overnight!, he feels good, this is so comfortable, I’m freaking out a little, no – wait – not really, just relax, go to sleep. Eventually, I shut down and slept for a few more hours with his warm body beside me.
When I awoke next he was tapping my nipples and poking my lips. I swatted him away and he chuckled. “I’m starving,” I said, “Do you want to have breakfast?” He checked the time and said he should probably go, but he didn’t leave. Instead he lingered and pestered me some more and we talked about nothing and just touched one another. Finally, I said, “Well, I’m gonna make some bacon and scrambled eggs -”
“Ok, ok, I’ll stay,” he interrupted.
While I made breakfast he put on his jeans and lounged on the couch watching re-runs of Saturday Night Live. He’d offered to help, but there was nothing for him to do. It was odd to have him sprawled out so comfortably, the dog asleep at his feet, while I puttered in the kitchen.
We ate and he began to clean up then put his shirt on. I wore a white t-shirt and some pajama pants to cook in and I sat next to him on the couch where he was putting on his socks, my long legs bare and my breasts visible beneath the thin material.
His devilish grin belied his words of imminent departure and we undressed each other quickly. I was too tender for him to touch, but I was determined to push on. A nice long blowjob and a little K-Y jelly later and we were cumming together. He pulled out, peeled off the rubber, and spurted hot globs of cum nearly to my chin.
I panted and put a pillow over my face. It was all too much. Too many orgasms, too much touching, too much fun. My grin left a wet spot on the pillowcase.
He laid next to me and I told him how impressed I was with his pull-out-and-cum-all-over me move. He said he’d seen it done once in porn. Then we high-fived each other and he got up to leave for real.
After he left I walked gingerly to my room and laid down and that’s when I noticed the strip of golden wrappers at the foot of the bed. Later I’d find wrappers on the dresser and by the bedside table, little shiny reminders of Mr. Bones’ big bone.
Click the lips below to see who else is being Sinful today!
In my online profiles I have pictures, but I always fear they’re more flattering than I am in real life. I know my angles, how light plays a factor on impact. That’s not me, that’s just smoke and mirrors!
So I go out of my way to describe how I view myself and I’ve come up with “softly athletic” as the two best words to describe me. I have muscle and you can see it, but it’s encased in soft flesh. My ass is round and jiggles just a little. I’m thick and strong, a former athlete of one kind or another over the years and currently I challenge myself to ache from head to toe with exertion be it from push-ups or core-buring thrusts against a lover’s hips.
This body of mine is divine and with each passing day and week I seem to fall more in love with it as it continues to inspire me to stretch into it and use it in magical ways. Size doesn’t matter, only how it feels, and it explodes with joy and weeps with passion and carries me to and fro with swinging limbs and swaying hips.
May you all enjoy your vessels half as much as I do mine, softly athletic or otherwise.
Click below to see who else is playing along for Sinful Sunday:
It crawls through my veins like poison, this burn, this viscous lust.
Once a month at the trough is a cruel joke. Three times in a lone weekend whips it into a frenzy. It is not slaked. I am an ocean with no shore, my waves crash against nothing.
I am untouchable in too many ways. I haven’t thought of him in days, weeks maybe. Too many hours I’ve forgotten what I wanted with him.
Closeness, to breathe his breath, to hold my hand on his warm, broad chest, the spring of curls beneath my palm to softly remind me of our differences. To awaken with the sun caressing his face, his icy blue eyes softly gazing at me behind his lashes, our days laid out ahead in a lazy trail of orgasms and fucking brunch. To feel the sandpaper stubble of his shaven head and the odd giddiness of adult love.
His absence has allowed for light, but I choke on my independence, my fear of that same closeness I longed for with him. I am at once repelled and drawn toward the false hope of intimacy. I want to argue, but have no one to rail against.
I taste my thirst for a man in my tears, in the wetness between my legs. It spills out of me, this urge to put another human being deep inside of me, to lose myself in the power of his drive, the punching of his hips. I drown in its depths, even as it singes the pathways to my heart.
Please, someone, put me out of my misery.
Click the lips to see who else is playing along for Sinful Sunday:
I’ve been struggling with body dysmorphia this week because I missed a birth control pill. One stupid little missed pill — which was quickly made up for — has thrown me into a chaotic, emotional pit of self-disdain and complete confusion.
On the one hand, my heavy breasts please me, on the other the crease in my waist disgusts me.
On the one hand, my soft, athletic body titillates me, on the other I wish I could shrink it.
So today as I thought about taking pictures in the morning light — a treat I haven’t had the pleasure of in far too long — I plotted ways to hide from you all. And then as quickly as the thought came I forced it out. Home girl don’t play like that.
I lay on my bed and smooshed my breasts together and held the camera from above. I was pleased at how my form looked, round and inviting. I got up and thought I might try using my timer.
As I set the phone on my dresser I was taken with the simplicity of my form, the mundane activity I viewed as I prepped the position. I moved to redress and stopped. There was an image I had never seen: me just being me, a person getting dressed, not posing, not trying to be sexy.
I let the camera’s timer do the rest and I forgot all about the crease in my waist. Fuck that awful voice in my head. Just FUCK IT.
Now I’m going to go make some bacon and black coffee on this bright Sunday morning and cuddle with my little one. I have a lot to be thankful for, including this strong, unique body that never lets me down. Crease and all.
Click the lips to see who else is playing along for Sinful Sunday!