Category Archives: Self-Love & Self-Esteem

Steff Rants: On "Letting" Women Masturbate

All right, I read a comment this morning from “The Dating Master” on my posting about why 40% of women don’t masturbate, and I’ve been a little riled ever since.
I should be cleaning my house before my friend arrives for a barbecue later, but he’s seen the mess before, and I’ve got a groove on with some classic Verve playing, so fuck it, let’s tackle this.
The guy, and I can’t be entirely sure of whether he’s serious or not, but I’m leaning towards “yes,” based on his own blog, said: “the problem is if we let women masturbate then they will say hey why do we need guys we men are sexually starved as it is.”
The thing IS, though, that even if he’s NOT serious, there are men out there who think like this. So, I’m gonna take ’em on!
Normally, I’m kind enough to fix people’s grammar, but his stays as-is. All right, rant mode ON. I just voted, I feel EMPOWERED, baby. And I feel like swearing a lot — I am one with my inner-trucker tonight. (This is NOT an anti-man bash! It’s an anti-sexist-guy/anti-lousy-lover bash! There are good guys out there. I know it!)

_____________
First response: What the fuck?
Second response: “LET” us masturbate?
Third response: Why, you…

All right, no one needs to LET US do a goddamned thing. This is why I’m telling women to talk charge of themselves and get to know the fine act of self-love. It’s 2006, buddy.
If you men are “sexually starved as it is,” maybe it’s time everyone stop, sit the fuck down, and think about why that might just be. Here, I have a few ideas. Let me share.

  • Almost every guy thinks he’s some kind of stud when he gets in bed. The guys are thinking, “Nah, that’s not me,” and the women are thinking, “You fucking tell ‘em, sister.”

You do not just insert your penis and see us crumble into ecstasy. You can’t just rub our clit for 30 seconds and think we’re done. You can’t just work us for the average 14-18 minutes that statistics say the average man lasts. There’s a reason foreplay exists – it’s so that WE orgasm, too.
You may be sexually starved, but you ain’t getting the fucking job done when we do let you at us, in most cases, so why the hell should we bother? Seriously. I’d rather read a fucking book than have lame sex. You want to underperform? Go masturbate, I’m having a bath. Yeah, seriously.
Educate yourselves. Learn what the hell the g-spot is, where it is, and why it works. Learn that less than 30% of women orgasm every time they have sex – and their partners have a good deal to do with the low results, but I’m not suggesting a woman NEEDS to come every time she’s getting laid, but men NEED a reality check on the matter. Learn that less than 40% of women are capable of having an orgasm vaginally. Learn that our BODIES are one giant erogenous zone – not just three regions of it. If you don’t work it, we won’t want it. Period.
You want us to want you more? Learn how to make us shudder. Learn how to tease us, deny us, prolong us, then satiate us. And learn how to have better longevity with your erections. I mean, Christ, it’s a MUSCLE, and very few men ever do exercises to strengthen it, other than masturbating and deflating.

  • And the other part of the problem? Women who are still being fucking subservient to the men in their lives, and completely disrespectful of themselves, who aren’t putting it on the table and saying, “THIS IS WHAT I WANT. This is what I enjoy, and THIS is what you need to do to make me orgasm.” And why not? Because they’re ashamed to talk about sex, they think they’ll hurt their lovers’ feelings by being honest, or they think they’re not entitled to say anything, or worse yet? They’re as fucking ignorant as the men they’re fucking.

Men, it is in YOUR interest to educate your lover, to educate yourself. By simply having sex in the standard formation – missionary, whatever, for 15 minutes – you’re denying yourself. You’re making your woman apathetic. Women NEED to be titillated or they just won’t care. Men are hardwired to have their dick inside something, we all know this, and that’s a good day out for just about any guy, really, but women, most of us can cope without sex and without you, just fine, and you really, really want to avoid having us feel that way.
When you take the apathetic way out with sex, you’re essentially dining at the sexual taco hut. Sure, it’s a great thing now and then. But there’s a big world out there – homecookin’, upscale, little quickie snacks, and you’re relegating yourself to the same goddamned thing every time.
Women, they’re BORED. And you’re doing nothing to affect it.
The butthead who made this comment, he’s blaming his woman for the lack of sex drive. Take a long, hard look in the fucking mirror, first. And then ask yourself why you’re so damned threatened by the notion of having your woman actually understanding her own sexual organs.
And women, speak the hell up. Why in god’s name do you not?
I was exposed to something at work today that just makes me shake my head at the state of the sexual union. God, things are fucked up in the world of sex these days. I’m not really into the whole reading-erotica/surfing-porn thing. I’m concerned about sex, and that’s why I write all this and seldom visit sex blogs. I’m on a mission, really. I think it’s time we deserve good sex, all the time. I think it’s time we learn to communicate about it.
Masturbation is the starting point. Then talking. Then practice. Then experimentation.
But guys like the above, they just want the third step. All the goddamned time. Unfortunately, these are the men (specifically the sexist breed above, I mean) who will NOT respond to a woman saying what she needs or wants. He thinks he knows, and that she’s just asexual. A good portion of men become excited when their woman wants to actually talk about sex, so don’t let this guy deter you. And if you’re with a man like this, you need to seriously consider whether or not that’s something you can live with – you sure as hell deserve better, but can you live with it? Better yet, why should you?
Jesus, I hate sexism. Thank god most men are smarter than that. You guys, I love, love, love. This guy, I wanna slap.
Someone thought this was an anti-male bashing. It’s not. I’ve been fortunate to have mostly wonderful, considerate, thorough lovers, and I’ve repaid them in kind — like it should be. There are women out there who are lousy, lousy lovers, and they piss chicks like me off, because they lower men’s drives to learn more about pleasing us. Sex takes two, and every position can benefit from mutual involvement. If you’re guilty of the “dead fish” lay-there-and-love me sex, women, smarten the hell up. You’re getting the lousy sex you deserve. I’m gonna rant on YOU on the weekend. I got something else up my sleeve next, to get back on the masturbation topic.

Marriage: I Don’t.

(This could go on at length, I assure you, but I cut it down to just a few key points. Trust me, I have many more thoughts on this matter, but I’m sparing you.)
I don’t have anything against others’ marriages, I just don’t think the “institution” is right for me.
Love, undying love, lifelong commitment, sharing a bed, these are not things I resist, not in the least. I might even see myself living with someone, though I do prefer the idea of maintaining separate bedrooms, if not separate (but nearby) homes.
Carol Burnett once said something to the effect of her notion of the perfect marriage being one with a best friend who was a great lover, and who lived next door. I couldn’t agree more.
Too many people lose themselves in their marriages, and we’re supposed to think it’s beautiful and wonderful when people “complete” each other, but it’s not. It’s childish and stupid. Being a whole person is the greatest thing you can achieve in your life. To be absolutely certain of who and what you are will be something you can never, ever regret. Our goal should be to find someone who accepts and embraces that, all of that.
I imagine the married lives of friends – the chaos and demands of everyday life, how overwhelming it all is. And yes, climbing into bed with someone who makes it all go away for just a little while, that can be an incredible feeling. But sometimes, having the option of rolling out of bed and walking away to your little corner of the world, where all the noise and craziness can bleed away into silence and space… it can be the tether that keeps you bound to reality.
I don’t want to upset the masses by declaring marriage, as it stands today, an antiquated notion, but let’s face it. It is.
Chris Rock has a skit he does on marriage where he mocks the notion of marriage today being held “sacred.” He lambastes the resistance to legalizing gay marriage by saying that a country that makes “The Bachelor” and “Who Wants to Marry A Millionaire?” a national phenomenon doesn’t even begin to hold marriages as sacred. He is, essentially, calling it hypocrisy. Again, I couldn’t agree more.
I agree with all these things. I think the institution of marriage, with its “love, honour, and cherish” vows is, I hate to say it, absolutely bullshit in this day and age.
If only devoting your life to someone could be as pathetically simple as that.
What we need is a reality check. Nowhere in the marriage vows, for instance, is the subject of sex even mentioned. Nowhere does it say, “I promise to keep giving you head, so long as we both shall live.” Nowhere does it say, “I promise to always keep seeking new ways to make you feel like I value you.”
Nor does it discuss communication. Nor does it mention learning complete vulnerability with your spouse-to-be. Nor does it mention anything at all about working together to ensure financial stability in the relationship. In fact, it says the opposite – that you’re obligated to stay, in richness or poorness. Right. You put me in the poorhouse, baby, you’re out the fucking door – that’s the reality.
If the “love, honour, and cherish” bullshit was working, maybe we wouldn’t have a divorce rate that has climbed steadily for the last three decades.
I have no doubt – none whatsoever – that I will eventually have a relationship that consumes me with passion on every level: intellectual, sexual, emotional, and possibly even spiritual. I’ve been there before, I’ll be there again. But I will never, ever insult them or what we share by submitting to marriage as it now stands. If I do “marry,” it will be in a civil ceremony that’s likely not going to be legally binding, and the words will be of my choosing.
I’m a product of divorce. I’m the product of a marriage that disintegrated over its 22 years. Money, food, and a lack of sex drove them apart. That’s not an anomaly. Hell – that’s the modern way, baby.
Everyone’s all so up in arms about standing in front of a crowd of family and friends and declaring their love for one another. What about also declaring the pursuit of a healthy life together, and demonstrating that passion in take-it-to-the-bank raw physicality – and often? What about promising to stay on the same page financially, to maintain open and honest communication in every single way, from dollars to doubts? How about making trust and vulnerability not only ideals in the relationship, but also required?
Some people will say, “Hey, well, that’s implied.” And implying it is working so fucking well, isn’t it?
Yeah, I’m opposed to marriage. Frankly, I’m holding out for something better.
For those counting, that’s 30 consecutive days with rain here on the Wet Coast. The sun’s lingering for a minitease this morning, tho. Praise be.

Beyond Fat Girls

Labbie wrote a piece about weight and self-image recently. I enjoyed it. Then, later the same morning, I was watching my previously-taped episode of “Rescue Me” in which firefighters, Probie Mike and Sean, are making their way up the stairs to the flame-filled fifth floor, talking about a recent date, which ended in the Probie getting laid with this apparently model-thin chick.
“It was like her hips were cutting into me,” he said, continuing, “I’m afraid to get on top of her. It’s like I hear this cracking sound or something.”
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I’m part of the bonus-lover plan. Yeah, I’m carrying extra, for sure. I’m told “I wear it well” and for the first time, I believe them, most of the time. But I do know I’m cute, at the very least. I’ve got punky short light hair and green eyes with a sly grin, and I’m pretty comfortable with myself when I put an effort into lookin’ like a cutie. And hey, I even get a little approval streetside.
I’ve written before about overcoming insecurities in order to love yourself for who you are. It’s been a long road for me. I was always very sexual, but I never really believed it about myself until the past three or so years. This year, though, has been the year of the my greatest emergence. I am what I am now, and I know it. The journey has been a long and interesting one, the journey of becoming sexual, not just seeming sexual. It’s fabulous.
My weight always held me back. I always tried to say the right things. I always tried to toe the line and be the proper chick, so I wouldn’t offend too many people. I played it safe. One day, I realized that I felt like a fake, and I started saying exactly what was on my mind. I stopped appeasing everyone. I slowly started to work on my self-image. Simple things, like trying a new kind of clothing, pushing myself in physical exercise, losing a little of the weight, talking to someone seemingly out of my league. There are days I forget how to be the Better Steff, days I forget about being the strong, proud, sassy chick I know I am. It happens. But it always passes, too. I suspect, however, that there’s something universal about that.
The biggest part of my transformation came from finally accepting myself for what I am, but more importantly, realizing that my faults and weaknesses weren’t nearly as sizeable as I had feared. I learned to look at myself as someone on the street might; if I met that woman, how would I judge her? Not nearly so harshly, I thought.
In finally being open enough to talk about my body image with the guys I have seen or considered in that way, I realized that the men I’d found seemed to nurture a very different impression about weight on a woman. They felt exactly as Mike the Probie would — that a woman with a few extra pounds was someone you could play a little more roughly with, someone you didn’t have to worry about harming if things might escalate a bit between you.
Soon, I realized something great: The thing that I always thought held me back in the bedroom was the thing bringing me exactly the kind of physicality I enjoyed — sometimes rough, always unrestrained.
It’s interesting how perspective can alter your enjoyment of something, but there’s an incredible shift that occurs when you really begin to embrace yourself in your lover’s presence.
I think this is part of the dilemma that lays behind the number one complaint I hear from women — their inability to orgasm at all, or the difficulties faced when eventually achieving one. We’re so wrapped up in our body images, trapped in our insecurities, concerned with public perception, and inundated with the pressure to come, that we just can’t enjoy sex. It takes years for women to get past this shit, and I personally believe that it’s why we do not peak sexually until the average age of 32.
I happen to now be 32. If any of my friends had known the kind of sex I was already having in my early 20s, their perception of me would have been wildly different. In that regard, I was definitely advanced for my age.
I began having bondage with sex at the relatively young age of 19. I had sex in very, very public places the first time at the age of 18. By the age of 21, I had no qualms having sex in a semi-public private room where anyone could walk in without warning (but I’m secretly glad they never did). Voyeurism, for me, was a two-way street, and I liked to travel on it. All that said, though, and I still never really embraced my sexuality until this year, my 32nd.
Sex, for me now, is better than it has ever been — and not because of my lovers, but because of the roles I’m willing to play, the brazenness I bring to the bedroom, because of my changed perspective. My god, had I even begun to suspect it would be like this, I’d have ditched those insecurities years ago.
The rewards of youth aren’t nearly as great as we’ve all been led to believe. Sex improves with age, despite the hundreds of millions of dollars the pharmaceutical industry spends to make you believe otherwise. Sex isn’t just about hard cocks and screaming orgasms. It’s the one language that transcends geography. It’s an otherworldy experience you can share where you need nothing but skin and sweat and stamina. We’re so hung up on needing to be hard, needing to come, that we’ve forgotten everything that happens in between — the places in which our mouths can linger and toy; the dexterity and flexibility of the hand; the thrill of warm, sweaty skin against our own; the scores of peaks and valleys found in that symphony of gasps and moans.
With age and maturity and realism, we’re able to begin letting go of those hang-ups. When we allow ourselves the freedom of being beautiful to that one person, we find ourselves experiencing things we never thought we’d feel. And that, that’s the ultimate goal to have in any sexual relationship: the absolute ability to lose all apprehensions and fear, the evolution of trust and willingness.
If only it were that easy. It’s hard. Very. But the reward is worth the struggle. Oh, so very.

You are Who You Love (?)

When I was a precocious teen, I was a pretty big fan of Ayn Rand’s books. In reality, her writing’s pretty black-and-white and doesn’t have those subtle shades that a great author should have, but that’s not the point.
The love relationships in her novels (Fountainhead, Atlas Shrugged) had profoundly influenced my idea of what love should be, regardless of the author’s lack of subtlety. Everything about Dominique and Howard Roarke screamed passion to me, really.
I’m on the market again. I’d had a brief fling in October that I’d hoped might go somewhere, but it was too much, too soon, and that’s another topic for another time. I’m testing the waters, many different waters, and I’m realizing once again how damned perplexing dating can be sometimes, even when you understand why it’s that way.
I’d rather be alone, though, than with someone who doesn’t fit the rather refined expectations I have for anyone who might become my lover. I’ve been thinking about it this week. Is personality enough? Are brains adequate? Does there have to be “a whole package?”
There comes a time when you start wondering if being alone versus being together with someone who’s less that what you dream of is really a wise choice. It takes a strong person, I guess, to answer “yes” to that wondering, but I believe that’s my answer.
Ayn Rand always would assert that who you choose to love is a reflection of how worthy you believe yourself to be. When you settle, you’re telling yourself you’re simply not deserving of better.
But what constitutes “settling?” There’s a loaded question, huh? I suppose it depends on your standards. I’ve had the options of settling for guys who are on my intellectual level, with whom I could really talk, but the fact is, if chemistry’s missing, if that little sizzle-bang-bang is missing, then let’s face it, you’re with a friend, not a lover.
I don’t want a friend. Is that really so wrong? I want a lover. Someone who sets me afire. I don’t care to have yet another viable conversation partner who doesn’t stir me in ways that makes me squirm and cross my legs in public in order to quench my sudden lust. I want to have that inclination to think dirty thoughts in places I have no good reason to be thinking ‘em. And yes, I want to be able to roll over in bed, weary and satiated, and discuss a book that changed my life or laugh about a classic comedy, or whatever comes with, but that camaraderie needs to go hand-in-hand with the passion I desire.
There are those who feel it’s being too picky to simply want it all. Let’s face it. It’s a big goddamned world. With six million plus, there’s got to be a few fish out there that might wander into my net. It’s a matter of patience and faith. I don’t think there’s only “one” person for me, but there’s one type, and I’m on the hunt.
There was, however, a time when I didn’t feel I was as worthy of that level of love as I now do. There was a time when a guy being interested in me was a damned good start. There was a time when self-love wasn’t exactly tops on my to-do list. As I wrote elsewhere, learning to love myself has really been one of my greatest accomplishments. Holding out for he who is worthy of it all, it’s rough. It’s a challenge. But I suspect I’m up for it.
I do have to admit that chemistry was a hell of a lot easier to manage in high school science than it is in real life. What a mystery.
But I’m on the case, man. Just call me Sherlock. It’s time to solve the riddle.

Being Good But Behaving Badly

Despite the onslaught of winter here in Vancouver, I took a nice long bike ride by the river yesterday, capitalizing on the selfdom-seen sunshine while I could. On my way back through the industrial lands along the river, a large delivery truck passed me by. Its paintjob dominated by dirt, I saw a message scrawled into the caked-on dirt on the back door:
“Wish my girl was this dirty.”
I had a great laugh as I continued peddling my way home, but it left me thinking about the dualities that every lover should have, but that many don’t. In writing about something similar not too long ago, I said, “When it comes to the bedroom, I’m able to balance being sensual, doting, and romantic with being pretty wicked and dominant when I feel like it. Sex is supposed to embrace all aspects of our personalities, and it’s the one time in our lives when we really have the chance be the person from our fantasies.”
If I can get personal for a moment, I suspect I can break down the evolution of a lover as it should happen for most people, and did happen for me.
As a kid, I was raised Catholic. My parents felt the religion was important, but as with anything in my life, when I believe something, I believe it with a zealous passion. By the time I was seven or eight, I was taking the priest’s sermon and teaching it to the athiest kids in the neighbourhood. At about nine years old, I was seriously thinking I should be a nun when I grew up. Seriously.
Like I said, passionate. In my mid-teens, a few things happened that made me realize that I might believe in the principles of the church, but that the folks who ran it were pissing me off. It didn’t take me long to walk away from it, and within a couple years I began learning about other faiths and realized we’re all in this together. I lost my dogma, and just kept the ethics.
As a result, though, I grew up with a lot of really religious takes on sex. For me, it was a sin. I never had sex until I was 18, and I felt wrong about it for the first two years. It wasn’t fulfilling, not really, despite my enjoying it, because I felt like I was going to be judged by a higher power or something. Around 20, I met a guy who introduced me to bondage, and I lost a few hang-ups then, but I really never got past myself until my mid-20s.
In my late 20s, I took an extended break from sex while I Dealt With Shit, but slowly began to realize I’d been cheating myself and depriving myself. I realized that I’m by nature a very mischevious person, and a person who needs that intimacy in order to feel whole. Why did that never translate to the bedroom, I wondered? Why was I so repressed and such a good-girl lover when I knew I could sometimes be oh-so-very-bad? I decided to force myself to try out the role of the “bad girl” and see what it did for me.
What it did, was get me off. What it also did, was get my lover sizzling hot. That look in his eyes told me he wanted to devour me whole, then and there. I’d never seen such unbridled passion, though I’d always had a fulfilling sex life. What next, though, I wondered? Would he treat me different? Were we going to have a weird situation after this? I realized that depended on me. Would I act normal when it was all said and done, return to the fun, irreverent Steff I knew myself to be? I had to, I decided. I had to see if I could be both.
I did, and I was. I realized then that the lover I was behind closed doors wasn’t the only person I was at heart. I was both. I was, as they say, every woman. Every woman I wanted to be, I could be. I could be bad in order to be good to my lover, and not have that impact who I was on an ethical level.
This is a dilemma I think a lot of people need to come to terms with — that playing games and being bad in the bedroom doesn’t necessarily reflect who you really are. Living out your fantasy version of you is something that can co-exist with your reality. The trouble is simply getting past whatever moral code it is that we’ve had imprinted on us by a society that doesn’t really get the fact that duplicity isn’t always a bad thing.
Have you managed to get past your hang-ups? How did you do it? If you haven’t, are you trying to? Let’s hear it, folks.

Addicted to love: When do you stop?

A reader contacted me recently to ask what had to be a very, very hard question to ask. To protect them, I have removed all reference to their identity.

Dear Cunt–
I have a major cheating problem. I love sex so much that it’s almost compulsive, almost a disorder. My love for sex has ruined every relationship I’ve been in. I can’t stop myself from cheating. Even if I’m completely happy in a relationship, my eyes are always wandering. Naturally I’m a sensation seeker, and I don’t know how to stop it. I know that it’s wrong and hurtful to cheat, yet I just keep doing it. I think maybe there is some type of psychological reason for this behavior. I’ve dated a few scumbags, but I’ve also dated some really good guys before. Either way, even if I am passionately in love, I still cheat. A friend gave me some advice recently when he said he thought that maybe I don’t feel like only ONE man can truly love me, and that is why I look to others. Have you ever heard of this situation? I feel like there is something wrong with me, like I don’t have control over it.
-Unintentionally Wanting

I’ve already responded to Unintentionally’s email, but I think it’s an important topic, and something people don’t like talking about.
Sex can be an addiction. Yes, there are folks out there snickering and saying shit like, “I’ll show you addicted…” But yes, it can be a compulsion, a life-affecting disorder. There are support goups for sex addiction, too.
I’m not a shrink. I don’t profess to have an inner Freud who can unlock the mysteries of the mind for my masses, but I’m at least a pretty with-it chick.
My speculation? Yeah, maybe, all right, maybe there are pangs of “no one man can ever love me enough,” kinds of sensations going on. Or maybe it’s something deeper, darker, like “no one man will ever love just me, so I need to protect myself and keep others on the horizon.” Or maybe it’s much more intense and buried than that. As Toucan Sam would say, “Only the nose knows. The nose always knows!”
The reasons for addictions of any kinds come from some pretty dark places. Places it takes more than just a flashlight and a curiousity to find your way around. Getting to the bottom of addictions takes courage, unflinching examination, and relentless studying. It’s hard work. It’s paralyzing at times, when you’re jumping without the only parachute that’s ever kept you insulated from the world. I don’t see why something like sex addiction would be any different.
Are you addicted? Well, has it negatively impacted your life? Have you chased away someone you love as a result? Has it ever affected your job? Has it ever affected your friendships? If you can answer yes to any of those, you might have a problem. But if you click here, you can answer a basic quiz that’ll give you a better notion on all ‘o this.
Like I says, I ain’t no shrink. I’m not some sorcerer of the psyche who’s able to wave a wand and make a diagnosis. This is my gut reaction, and the limit to which I feel comfortable commenting.
Sex Addicts Anonymous offers a support network that includes more than 750 meetings worldwide. There are online chat systems so you can talk to others like you. There are books, tapes, meetings, everything you need to have for an assessment of where you stand. Hell, there’s four or five groups that meet in my city, Vancouver, including one for gays and lesbians.
I’m betting there’s a few dickheads out there thinking, “Oh ho! Now there’s where to go when I need to be gettin’ a little somethin’-somethin’…” And if so, then it’s important to note that yes, you are indeed a dickhead. It ain’t a singles bar. These are people trying to eliminate unhealthy sex from their lives. Don’t fuck ’em, and don’t fuck with ’em.
I haven’t heard back from Unintentionally. I imagine she’s doing some soul-searching, or else she thinks I’m a twat. Either way, here’s hoping it comes together. What a shitty thing to be mired in. I’d like to hear back from you, chickie.

The struggle to love one's self

I am imperfect. Maybe it’s a newsflash to you, but it’s something I’ve been far too aware of for my entire life.
As a kid, I was plagued with health problems. It wasn’t until my early teens that my epilepsy went away and we discovered that the causes of my endless troubles ultimately stemmed from a rare kidney disorder.
Nearly two decades later, my health issues are things of my distant past, but I’m still a member of the bonus lover plan. I’m not some svelte sexy thing who’s able to squeeze into a size six, and some part of me doubts I ever will be. No, like my personality, my body’s larger than life, and it suits me fine.
I’d rather not ever be thin, despite struggling to lose nearly 20% of my body weight these past two years. During that journey to toneness, I’ve gained a better sense of self than I’ve ever known. Who I am, though, is larger than life, and that’ll never change. Presumably, my body will remain the first clue of my nature for others.
On that same journey, I’ve discovered something else. The “ideal” beauty is seldom our “real” beauty in the eyes of the everylover. While we all lust after our glossy magazine celebs, when it comes to having them as lovers, day in day out, we wouldn’t be interested. Why is that?
I’ve been trying to understand the seemingly incongruous nature between lust and desire. I’m more than able to lust after nearly any man I see, since sexuality for me isn’t a formula, but rather something almost impalpable. You have it or you don’t. When it comes to desire and attraction for the longterm, though, I find myself zeroing in on men who carry a little extra weight on their large frames, provided they dress well and groom well. What is it that makes me want them? I’ll never know, but I know they’re what’s in my mind when I touch myself in the dark.
The point is, we all have a certain make and model that drives our desire, and it may not be worthy of a glossy magazine spread, but they’ll spread just fine for us, thank you very much.
Until this past year, I was always aggressive in my interpersonal dealings, in an attempt to mask my everpresent insecurities. Somewhere along the way, probably when I escaped death last August in a scooter (think Vespa-ish) accident, I realized the insanity of not loving myself for who and what I was, since I had almost ceased to be and had another chance at this merry-go-round called Life. Loving myself then became my number one goal.
After all this time, all this work, I can say it’s true now. I’m a vixen in my own right, in my own way. I’ve also discovered something I’d forgotten: No man has ever complained about my body size to me. The contrary. Back in the day, though, I thought they were trying to make me feel better. I didn’t want to believe they could want me or love me for who I was… because what would that say about them, then?
Now, what it says about a man is evident to me: They understand passion, desire, and they know it when they see it. They see me for all of what I offer — intelligence, wit, charm, stylings, deviousness, sensitivity, romance, dominance, submissiveness, all wrapped into one package that’s just the right size to hold the dynamism of what I bring to the bed and to life as a whole.
A few years ago, I read a study that revealed those who were carrying a little extra weight generally had better sex lives. The scientists were at first stymied by this discovery, until they realized a very simple truth: Food, when done the way food ought to be, is as erotic and sensual as anything we can experience. Those who were overweight were in touch with their sensual selves and sought to enjoy all the delectable goodness offered by life, in whatever form they came, be it bed-bound, baked, or otherwise.
I have found myself besieged by young women of late, all of them emailing me about their inabilities to orgasm. I find myself having to keep explain to them that they got to love themselves — physically and emotionally — before they can handle the Big O. The odds are against them, though, and it’s largely why we sexually peak in our 30s. As young women, we suffer through the most inexplicable expectations from society and the hang-ups we develop are legion. There was a good mainstream example last year in the form of a short-lived TV show called Life as We Know It, with Kelly Osborne in it. A guy fell for her, but admitted he couldn’t handle having her as a girlfriend, because what would his buddies think if he was slapping thighs with a tubby girl?
We live in a society that’s so hung up on appearances that we’ve forgotten the beauty that comes from within. We’ve forgotten how incredibly hot and sexy it can be when someone simply digs themselves for who they are, regardless of their appearance, and can bring that passion and goodness into play in every thing they do every day.
I recall once being asked why I wanted to lose weight. I bit my lip, looked at the ground, thought about it, and responded “Because I want my inside beauty to match my outsides.”
These days, on a good day, I know I already match. In the last decade of my life, I have overcome enormous obstacles — the death of a parent, massive debt, illnesses, a couple near-death experiences, and writer’s block that hounded me for half a decade. But my greatest accomplishment is this: Loving myself.
One of my all-time favourite quotes is Oscar Wilde’s. “To love one’s self is the beginning of a life-long romance.” What can I say? I’m a romantic at heart, and now it shows.