Tuesday, January 6, 2009
All Knocked Up and No Place to Go
Knocked-up. Preggers. Bun in the oven. The rabbit died. With child. In a family way. Yep, it's all true. I think "knocked-up" is my favorite, and I have been using it ever since I started telling people about my pregnancy a month or two ago.
I waited-out the first three months of my maternal state without telling anyone other than The Mister (who I had been trying to tell even before I got pregnant) and my sister (who I knew would notice my changed drinking habits and make a deal of it unless I gave her a heads up beforehand). It was brutal. There I was, excited to be a mom and share my news with anyone and everyone, and I chose to keep my mouth shut. Honestly, after hearing horror stories of women practically embarking on national ad campaigns to announce their pregnancies only to have to undo it after miscarrying within the first trimester, I am glad I did what I did. But those three months were kinda miserable.
On the one hand it was wonderfully fun to have a secret that just The Mister and me were in on, but I felt like I was lying to everyone else in my life. This was compounded by the fact that I had terrible symptoms that I could not explain without spilling my baby beans. My face broke out like Mount Vesuvius and my ass, not to be outdone by the bumpy beacon of my face decided (with the help of ice cream and candy corn) to stretch past the bounds of hot "baby got back" plumpness to "is she carrying a baby in her butt?" hugeness. I got downright fat. And not in a cute "Oh, look at me! I am a celebrity with chicken legs and a nice round baby bump" kinda way. All over fat from my pudgy acne strewn face to my body's own personal attempt at cankles. Needless to say, all of this left me feeling pretty un-sexy.
I spent a good part of the first trimester of my pregnancy as a recluse. I was embarrassed by my changing appearance, and I doubted I could keep from blurting out my news, if not out of sheer excitement, then in defense of my bumpy-faced, lumpy-assed self. I went to the gym and the supermarket, but found myself avoiding social time with my friends. I stayed home and slept a lot.
Now that I am just over four months into this whole procreation experiment, I am trying to find the sexy in pregnancy. I have friends who gush about how their libido went through the roof while they were "brimming with child." These same friends and others claim that they loved having big, round pregnant bodies. I decided I would be happier if I at least aimed for this instead of spending the whole nine months mourning the loss of my washboard abs. I've been reading all kinds of books about how a mother's mental state during pregnancy can impact her child for the rest of his or her life. I don't want my offspring to obsess about the size of her* ass or constantly be concerned about how others might view her; I've spent the last thirty or so years doing enough of that crap for both of us.
The four month mark has been a turning point for me. As I started to tell people about my pregnancy, my hormones decided to even out thus evening out the texture of my formerly bumpy face. I am still fat, but my boobs are pretty amazing (for me anyway). I have never had boobs to speak of, or a belly for that matter, and I am enjoying stroking both. Much to my satisfaction and delight, my "huge" boobs are busting out of my A cups. Just as I have dreamed of since grade school, my cups runneth over -- wishes really do come true! What a waste it would be to fail to enjoy my temporarily engorged breasts. I better make the most of this cleavage while it lasts; I can't imagine my offspring wanting to breastfeed well beyond puberty. And a belly? I must give myself credit for having had a fairly flat stomach for most of my adult life. It has always been one of my favorite body parts. I am at a point now where I can no longer suck it in. It still sticks out, even when I lie on my back. I better enjoy that, too, because come June it's hello sit-ups and goodbye bump.
Pregnancy, like most things, is temporary. I am inspired to relish every moment that I have left. Hello tight shirt and push-up bra. Hello bellybutton poking out from beneath that tight shirt. I am knocked-up, and I am going places.
*Yesterday's ultrasound showed that my womb is, in fact, inhabited by a healthy and active baby girl.Labels: body image, boobs, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 8:21 AM
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Carpe Boob-em!
When I was fourteen, I remember stuffing balloons down my dress to see what it would look like if it wasn't drooping in the boob region. I gazed longingly at the full-busted image of myself in the mirror . Despite the persistent miniature status of my boobage all through high school, I never went so far as to seriously stuff my bra (in public) with socks or Kleenex or something like that -- I was always deathly afraid of an errant tissue making itself known when I least expected it. I figured having a small bust, although mortifying at the time, was still less embarrassing than inadvertently dropping boob-stuffing for all the world to see.
In my early twenties, I continued to bemoan my resemblance to a flea-bitten wall. I am embarrassed to admit that I once went so far as to order stinky cream and "special pills" from the internet. Those women looked so happy... and so full of cleavage. Needless to say, this investment left me with nothing other than boobs that smelled like the vitamin aisle at a health food store. For months after I had given up on the witch doctor's brew, my bras continued to give me an odor of herbal laxatives. (I haven't ever actually smelled an herbal laxative, but I imagine if I did, it would smell like my boob-cream-encrusted bras).
I have been pussy-footing about admitting it, but once, at personal low, I even tried a torturous suction device to amplify my "assets." While I enjoyed the temporary ta-tas, the results were not lasting, and the process was more painful than the emotional trauma caused by a baggy bra.
So here I sit, miles away from being able to hold out hope that puberty might actually set in, and too afraid (and proud?) to go under the Pam Anderson and Jenna Jameson knife. I have finally realized that no matter what I do my boobs will always be bigger or smaller than someone else's. If I am constantly comparing, I will never be happy. With that in mind, I am currently on a quest to embrace my boobs as they are [block out mental chiding about what a small embrace that would be]. In that vein, I have found some things that help me feel at one with my cleavage, or lack there of.
My favorite boob-ego salve (that doesn't even smell like vitamins) is the song "The Boob Fairy" by Deirdre Flint. This clever singer/song-writer makes my small bosom swell with pride. By coming out of the closet with her own less-than-ample rack, Deirdre inspires me to do the same, and even encourages me to sing along with her torch song for the boobies that never really were.
Another thing that gets me feeling more boob-positive, is when I see other women, both media divas and my peers, embrace their natural not-quite-Dolly-Parton-ness. I was inspired recently when I learned that the beautiful Keira Knightley refused to let the movie marketing mavens digitally alter her chest to make it appear larger in publicity photos for the upcoming movie, The Duchess. Apparently, she'd been dissatisfied with her electronically inflated bosom in posters for a prior film.
I know hoards of women who, like me, are members of the itty-bitty-titty committee. Heck, my membership is a birthright; thanks to my mom, I was automatically enrolled. It can be entertaining to commiserate with petite peers, but they also inspire me. When I see them looking super hot despite the lack of ample perkiness spewing forth from beneath their collar bones, I feel all warm and tingly inside.
While I admit to being, at times, a small-breasted woman undercover (the cover being push-up, ultra padded, chicken fillet-ness), it has recently come to my attention that there are other ways to go about accessorizing my small chest that might be more enjoyable. Designers are finally getting hip to the fact that not everyone is equally endowed, and new designs reflect this. Lula Lu offers a wide variety of bras and undergarments that aren't so... wide. This cute shop, which happens to have its brick and mortar home practically right in my backyard, sells delightful and, dare I say, sexy lingerie geared specifically toward the multitude of women who have a handful or less [ignore that little voice in my head chanting: "Two! Two! Two boobs for the size of one!].
I checked out Lula Lu's website, and I was thrilled to see all sorts of fabulous stuff that looked really sexy on their petite models. I even learned what a bralette is.
Wow. I have to say that I am feeling better already. I am all boobed up and ready to go! Let's see, first load the car with a gaggle of my fair, flat-chested friends, then sing-along proudly to Deirdre Flint whilst on our way to a shopping spree at Lula Lu, followed by a screening of The Duchess! Go, boobs! it's your boobday! Now if only I could figure out what to do about my ass...
Labels: body image, boobs, clothing, hero, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 11:22 AM
If I Could Do it Myself, I would
A guy friend of mine just started a blog all about cunnilingus. His goal is to help other guys not suck so much... or maybe "suck" more? Bad. I know. I am sorry. It's late. Anyway, he asked me to share whatever insight I might have on the subject. I agreed because, second only to being able to preform oral sex on one's self, is having an educated partner to do the performing. I don't know that what I have to say on the matter is that earth-shattering or mind-blowing (heh...), but I figured I would share it here, in the name of education.
I have not always been a fan of receiving oral sex, believe it or not. I am pretty sure it was my own mental shit, but it took me a long time to feel comfortable with it, let alone let loose and climax.
Here are some things I have learned from experience over the years:
1. Listen. When going down on a woman listen both to her voice and her body. She's giving you a ton of clues.
2. Don't force it. This goes along with the listening thing, but some of the most uncomfortable sexual situations I have been in are when I am giving strong signals with my body and even explicit ones with my voice that are not being heeded. If a woman is pulling you up by your hair or telling you to stop, STOP!! If I don't feel like you are listening to me while I am exposing the most vulnerable part of my body to your face and teeth, there is no way I can trust you. If I can't trust you, there is no way I can enjoy myself. It is also not likely I will let you go down there again in the future. I need to trust the person whose face is between my thighs.
3. Suck. I think some guys are afraid to suck. Literally. They want to treat the vagina like a delicate flower, and I can appreciate taking it slow and being gentle, but having my clit sucked can be great fun and highly stimulating.
4. Avoid the "pussy dive." It is my experience that guys can get into a blow job or other penile stimulation instantaneously. This does not apply to most women I know. It takes time. If a man dives straight for my crotch, I am left wanting to defend myself, not wanting to spread my legs and let him lick me. Take your time. Teasing is highly underrated.
5. Clit-o-vision. Because of what they've read and heard, some guys go straight for the clitoris and don't let up. There are at least two problems with this. First, the clitoris is an extremely sensitive part of a woman's body. Prolonged manipulation (especially before full arousal) can be annoying if not downright painful. The second problem is that sometimes penetration is mighty nice, too. Don't lose the forest for the clit tree. A finger or two inserted in the vagina whilst licking/sucking/nuzzling still counts as oral sex. Oral sex isn't about saying, "Look, Ma! No hands!" Give her a hand, or at least a few digits.
6. Communicate. I know, this sounds lame-ass and like a no brainer, but so many people forget to do it. Most folks I've had sex with aren't psychic. It should not be seen as a failure to ask questions. Because it is a vulnerable position, it is better to ask specific questions rather than general ones. For example, avoid questions like, "What do you like?" Instead try something like, "Would you like more pressure?" or "Would you like me to move more slowly?" Keep the questions simple and yes or no.
7. Enjoy it. I still remember a guy who dipped down from our kissing for one second to plant a weak lick on my pubic bone. It was clear he wasn't into the whole cunnilingus thing, and doing a half-assed courtesy lick didn't benefit either of us. If you are not into it, be with that. Don't fake it. I would like to think that females can tell.
8. You don't know it all. No matter how much we may look or sound or feel alike, women are different. Each woman has her own likes/dislikes. There is no one formula. The best "formula" is to be responsive in the moment. Just because it worked on some chick last week, doesn't mean this week's chick will dig it. You may know a lot. You may have a lot of experience, but you should never presume that you know more about a woman's body than she does. Even if you do ("clito-what?"), never force her into something because you "know what's best." Ask permission. Explain things. Work together; you're on the same team.
As I look over these thoughts, I am sure I am leaving out lots of stuff. I guess I will have to go read The Oral Oh! to fill in the blanks. Keep 'em coming, Mr. Oh!
Labels: body image, oral sex
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 12:28 AM
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Cut and Pasties
Wow! That's crafty! Thanks to Audacia Ray, I have a new project in the works, and just in time for Halloween. In addition to schooling me about a wide variety of pre-made pasties readily available for purchase, Audacia introduced me to a site with complete instructions for do-it-yourself pasties! Now that sounds like a craft project the whole family can enjoy together! Thanks, Audacia. Now can you tell me where to get the boobs? Is there a DYI option?Labels: body image, boobs, clothing
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 6:03 PM
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Bucking the Trend
Wow. I find myself totally and unavoidably mesmerized by this human being. I am at a loss for pronouns, but I am certainly not lacking in the fascination department. Right on, Buck Angel!Labels: body image, pornography
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 11:43 PM
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Go Team Vagina!
Sometimes I fantasize about moving away from the San Francisco Bay Area, and then I learn that I am privileged enough to share this unusual city with fantastic people like The Vagina Lady. This fabulous female spends her time making elaborate vagina costumes. No, silly! Not costumes you put on your vagina (that's a different post), but big, pink, shiny fabric vaginas with a perfectly placed face hole where a clitoris would normally live. Not only does she create these fabulous outfits, she wears them around town and smiles and waves and hands out chocolate. Jeez, vaginas that give out chocolate? Maybe I should consider the whole lesbian thing more seriously.
When The Vagina Lady is not dressed as a big, beautiful vagina at events like Bay to Breakers and The Exotic Erotic Ball, she is making vagina art and composing comprehensive lists of vagina vocab. Thanks to her, I now have more words than I ever needed. I am having a hard time picking favorites between "mouth that cannot bite" and "cunnikin." And I thought "vajayjay" was novel. Thank you, Vagina Lady. I am glad to be your neighbor.Labels: body image, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 9:27 PM
Monday, July 21, 2008
It's a Beautiful Thing
My mom didn't shave her legs when I was growing up, and her idea of eyebrow grooming was to occasionally spit on her thumb and rub down my ample brows in an attempt to minimize their persistent fullness. While I fully appreciate the lessons my mom taught me about self-acceptance and natural beauty, I entered adulthood with scant knowledge about enhancing and maximizing my better qualities and minimizing or eliminating those less desirable. Even though I have picked up some gems over the years (tweezers rock!) I am still fairly naive when it comes to beauty products. Thankfully, the time has come for me to get schooled: Beauty Junkies Unite.
This clean, well-organized and honest site gives me new insight and ammunition for my expanding beauty regimen. Woo-hoo. Maybe I will send a link to my mom.Labels: beauty, body image
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 6:16 PM
Saturday, July 12, 2008
All Nude All the Time
My S Factor class meets Fridays at 4:30. Yesterday, like most Fridays, I writhed around on the floor with nine other scantily-clad women for two hours. Loud music engulfed us, and warm, dim light surrounded us. After a three week summer hiatus, I had forgotten how much I value this weekly ritual of paying homage to my body and soul. This sexual, sensual revelry is a source of profound joy and satisfaction in my life.
I started taking class a little over a year and a half ago because I thought pole dancing would be a cool skill to have (it so is), and because I aspired to increase the ripped-ness of my biceps. I didn't realize that that was only one small part of a much bigger picture. In fact, I scoffed at the notion that pole dancing and stripteese could be anything more than a sexy workout. Over the course of the last eighteen months, I have learned far more than how to hang upside down and take off my shirt. I have gained far more than I could have ever imagined.
As I sat yesterday and watched my classmates bare their souls through their dances, I felt insanely lucky. How often is it that I get to bask in the presence of sexually confident and alert beings? How frequently do I get to experience completely honest and vulnerable communication, let alone communication of a physical, sensual variety? The answer is, once a week on Fridays at 4:30.
Surely, I have opportunities for open communication in other aspects of my life. In fact, I seek them out. But there is something uber-exciting about experiencing this communication in such a focused and charged setting (OK, I admit the lacy underwear help, too). In my day-to-day life I see women spending so much time tearing one another down -- tearing themselves down -- "Am I too fat?" "She's too fat." "I can't believe you're wearing that." "I could never wear that." "What a slut." "What a prude." My class provides a fantastically refreshing respite from this storm of negativity. It is full of supportive women -- women who cheer you up when you fall, and cheer you on when you soar, both in class and out.
Of course it takes a degree of confidence to strip out of one's clothes in front of others, and the results can be electrifying, but it is even more risky and exhilarating to expose one's soul, one's self. Each week in class we have the opportunity to do this. To be real.
I relish the high I feel having exposed myself, and I am honored that others trust me and the rest of our class with their bare souls. This nudity of the spirit is not limited to the classroom. We can't help but carry it away with us each week. Maybe it manifests in the courage to admit new love or the strength to give honest feedback to a friend. As layers of clothing come off in class and I fly around the pole, I am able to expose more of myself in life and test my wings. Damn! Nudity is hot!
(Image courtesy of Eric C. Carter at Dizzy Pixel.)Labels: body image, dance, fitness, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 10:56 PM
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
New Beach
Ok. I admit it. My head is still in Greece. My thoughts are swirling around with memories of my recent trip. My husband and I started our trip in Athens and then went on to Santorini and Crete. We absolutely fell in love with Santorini, so when we arrived in Crete, after five nights in the perfectly charming Santorini, we were both a little disheartened to find such a sprawling, filthy city. It didn’t help that we had spent the night prior to our arrival on the floor of a dingy ferry trying to sleep with backpack pillows and American infomercials blaring on the television.
After a quick, and mandatory, visit to the Palace of King Minos at Knossos, we had both had our share of Crete’s beaten track, and zoomed away as fast as our “micro” rental car could take us. We headed south, through picturesque vineyards and herds of goats, into the mountains. Our goal was the southern coast of Crete where we’d read there were some beautiful and unspoiled beaches. We would have to find something pretty spectacular to top our Santorini experience.
I was finally able to get over my concern that I had ruined my husband’s vacation and taken him to a hideous lump of dirt in the middle of the ocean when we reached the beach at Agios Pavlos. Agios Pavlos is little more than a couple of hotels and a taverna or two, but I think it is technically a town. It is home to one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever encountered. Our last few days in Santorini had been a little chilly, and we had not yet gotten to have the stereotypical beach day we both envisioned would be a part of our Grecian holiday.
On a bright, sunny day in Agios Pavlos, we packed up our beach goodies and headed down to the sand. We had carefully scouted the perfect spot from the cliffs that rose above the crystal blue water. We staked our camp near the mouth of a cave that we had seen a family inhabiting the day before. We spread out our things, and I settled in to write postcards while The Mr. set off to explore the numerous caves and rock formations that surrounded us. We were both completely content. Not more than ten minutes passed when I heard my husband approach; those caves must have been smaller than I’d thought.
“We have to move! Right now!”
“Why?”
“The next beach over is even more beautiful than this, and the one after that is a nude beach!”
“A nude beach? Really? How do you know it is a nude beach?”
“There is a couple there, and they are nude.”
After some discussion, we decided it might be best to start our own “nude beach” at the next beach over, rather than disturb the couple on the preexisting “nude beach.” Quickly we made our move. Before I could talk myself out of it, I stripped off my bikini and my husband, a bit shocked I think, followed suit with his trunks. I was amused by the cool breeze caressing my bottom and felt giddy with the thought of my public exposure, despite the lack of a public.
A few moments later, a public arrived. It consisted of two adult-type people and what was, presumably, their offspring – a boy of about eight or ten. We froze like deer – bums up, eyes open. Our whispered discussion of what the hell we should do next concluded with a stealthy donning of our swimsuits and a move to the real “nude beach.”
The beaches at Agios Pavlos are separated by rock formations. When we made it around the rocks to the next small bay, I was shocked to see the nude couple right there. I had imagined them some distance away from us. We walked briskly by them with a courtesy sand gaze. We found a spot as far away from them as possible, yet still on the beach. It was decidedly more difficult to remove our clothes the second time around; being “caught” the first time had made us a little more anxious.
Ultimately, we were able to get comfortable. I even managed to smear sunscreen on my hubby’s bum (the one spot, we would later learn, that I had missed on my own body back in our hotel room). As the day progressed, we basked in the warm spring air and even splashed in the cool, blue water.
The original couple did us the same courtesy that we did them and basically ignored us. Eventually, they left. Their departure, however, did not mark the end of the nude beach. One by one and two by two, other people arrived throughout the day. Each would look around, see that this was the “nude beach,” and comply with our dress code.
I didn’t talk to anyone but my husband the whole day. By late afternoon, there were a dozen or so people on the beach, and none of the small groups intermingled. I have spent the last few weeks relishing in the thought that we “created” a nude beach in Crete. I was delighted to think that everyone wanted to be naked, and all they needed was the motivation of other bare bottoms. A brief Google search just proved me wrong – at least a little bit. According to several websites, while Agios Pavlos is not officially a nude beach, it has a naked reputation. So much for American ingenuity.
Despite the fact that we did not invent it, I would still like to take some credit for the nude beach at Agios Pavlos. Perhaps if we had remained suited, others would have taken our lead just as we took the lead of the first couple we encountered. By baring all, we set the tone for other beachgoers that day. Perhaps they’d read about it before. Perhaps they hadn’t. We helped create the nude beach for those fleeting hours while my bum baked in the sun and my head rested in the fine sand, and I am ever so happy about it.Labels: body image, travel
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 4:33 PM
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Shameless
Feet firmly planted in a wide stance, knees slightly bowed she stood in front of the full-length mirror, naked for all the world to see – at least all the world currently inhabiting the women’s locker room. She was not naked in the transition from swimsuit to sweat pants or the one from towel to tank top, she was just plain ol’ naked. Her flesh was not hidden by the open door of a locker or a strategically placed duffle bag. She stood in the sink area away from the lockers and the other semi-clad women. She flossed her teeth as one roll of fat rested upon another around her middle and her breasts draped across that, her nipples like two cherries on her melting sundae best.
I caught a glimpse of her on my way to the toilet and thought about her the whole time I was peeing. I have not been consistent in my views on public nudity. On the one hand, I had to give her a silent, “Right on, Sister!” for displaying with pride her whole self. On the other hand, isn’t it polite to show a little more modesty and a little less mons pubis when removing clothes in front of others? By the time I made it to the sink, the first hand had won – hands down. As if to answer my question of modesty, the fat, naked, grandma – still in front of the mirror – took a swig of mouth wash and began to gargle. Her short dark hair stood at attention in all directions, much like the mane of lion who’d had a run-in with an electric fence. Like the queen of her pride, she began to arch her head back; I could almost hear her Listerine-scented roar: “Damn right I am naked. I own my body, and right now I own the whole damn locker room. Whatcha gonna do about it?” Grandma arched until the back of her skull was level with her ample bottom, gargling the whole way.
In my mind, she is still arching backwards. The image of the naked, lioness grandma is tattooed on my brain (it wouldn’t fit on my ankle). I have spent years practicing my awkward dance of trying to avoid nipple or pubic hair exposure while changing in front of others. I have balanced a bra here and shimmied a skirt there in order to keep from view no more than a square foot of my fleshy real estate. Why?
When I was a kid, I was naked all of the time; I showered in front of my mother and sister right through the sixth grade. Even in high school I had a group of friends with whom I’d roam the halls, and the woods, sans clothes. It wasn’t even a sexual thing (most of the time); we just enjoyed being naked. I still enjoy being naked. My husband sometimes has to give me a not-so-gentle reminder that we “live in a goddamn fishbowl!” so that I will put on a robe or turn off the lights.
The locker room has been a different story for me. Perhaps I fear the scrutiny of others; if I keep a towel around my waist they won’t be able to see exactly how many dimples reside on the flesh of my bottom. Further, I seek not to offend. I don’t want to make other people feel uncomfortable by subjecting them to a fuller view than they had anticipated. I want to be polite.
Wow! What a load of BS!! Who the hell cares how many dimples I have on my ass? Why should it matter if a nipple or two comes into contact with an eyeball or two? Who made these stupid rules, and why the hell have I been politely following them?
Grandma makes her own rules, and I thought of her today as I emerged from the public shower post work out. Instead of awkwardly squirming and wriggling to make myself invisible while I reached for my towel, I stood up straight and dried myself as I would in the privacy of my own home. I took my time getting dressed. I didn’t quite make it to flossing in the buff, but I didn’t hide either. As ridiculous as the image of a naked, gargling grandma may be, it is not nearly as ridiculous as the concept of a grown woman so afraid of revealing her own body that she foolishly dances with her towel to avoid, at all costs, the dreaded exposure of a nipple. Right on, Grandma! By the time I’m sixty, I hope to be gargling right along side you.
Labels: body image, fitness, rant
tidbit posted by Mosa @ 10:09 AM
advertisements
archives
