Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
I call her Makeup Girl, because she wears a full face of makeup to swim class. Anyone who loves makeup enough to swim in it, deserves to have their name changed. I've seen her outside of the water, and it looks like her foundation stands about three feet off her face. I wonder if she sleeps in it? I digress, but I'm not going to lie every time I see her matte brown face I get to thinking, Did her Mommy ever tell her she was beautiful? Did her Dad ever tell her to take that stuff off her face, 'cause she didn't need it?
Monday, March 22, 2010
A couple posts ago, I acknowledged the fact that sometimes (most of the time) I trade pussy for affection. That was written a couple of weeks ago, and the lonely spell has recently taken another dip. Can you blame me? My last relationship ended 14 months ago, and I'm human. Even the Bible says that "it is not good for man to be alone," (Genesis 2:18) (that's about the only Bible verse I know by heart...I actually got it wrong and had to Google it). I've been doing well on this single journey. I have learned a lot about myself and I have established some amazing friendships, but the kid is getting lonely. And when I'm not having sex to distract myself, I get to thinking about the Ex.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
"Have you felt this before?" the nurse asked.
"No," I lied. I have felt a lump before, but in all honesty I convinced myself that I had, in my obsessive fear, imagined its existence. I guess I wanted the nurse to form an unbiased opinion on the contour of my seemingly perfect breasts. She continued to roll her cold nurse's fingertips against the knot inside my chest. I squirmed to avoid the feeling of that lump pressing against my skeleton. I didn’t want to be aware that they were there. "I get nervous," I offered, as an explanation for fidgeting and face scrunching, but the nurse didn't seem to understand. She continued to press and roll and inspect, and in a matter of moments, I was crying. Her insensitivity made it impossible to bridle my fear.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
"Yep," I answered, as if the tears weren't even there, and she was clearly disarmed by my oddly placed cheery tone. She didn't seem to understand. I guess cancer isn't everybody's deepest fear. I guess some really do place M. Williamson's inadequacy over the thought of rotting on a hospital bed. Personally, I think I fear nothing more than cancer. I fear it more than God.
"Have you ever given yourself a breast exam?" the nurse continued to ask. I told her no, but the truth is I've tried three times. Twice alone and once with my boyfriend. Each time I balled, but at least with my boyfriend he held me and we had that emotional patch-up sex. This summer I finally braved a breast exam and found a lump. I cried myself to sleep and in the morning convinced myself that the lump didn’t exist.
Well, I probably looked pretty foolish to that nurse, who has probably never gotten tears during a routine breast exam. And when she asked what cancer my Mommy died of and my answer was not breast cancer, she looked at me even more strangely. Cancer is cancer, no matter where it ends up on your bod…right?
Though the nurse made every attempt to assure me that the lump was probably benign, she offered to refer me to a breast specialist so I could have an ultrasound of my lumps. When I visited the breast people, I was so elated to find that my doctor was a hot doctor. I actually couldn’t help it. He walked in on my paper-robed body and pulled on some gloves and felt me up. “You’ll get better contact with the gloves off, doctor,” I wanted to say. But I figured I’d save that comment for my next dream when I masturbated to his image. My right breast was a bit insulted to have been spoken off in solely medical terminology. If she wasn’t going to be sucked, I think she at least wanted to hear how beautiful she is.
The hot Indian doctor told me that my lumps – I’m so special , I have two – were benign and absolutely normal for women in their twenties. “We can have them removed, or we can just keep monitoring them.” Knives belong in the kitchen not in the body, so I opted to leave my lumps be. Besides, I would consider myself a spoiled human being, in that I never get sicker than a cold, the only needles I’ve taken are vaccinations and stitches when I was two and too young to remember, and the only time I spent overnight in the hospital is in my mommy’s arms after she pushed me out. My most invasive procedure to date has been the beloved pap smear, and while strange they don’t hurt too much. I’m afraid of all things of and relating to hospitals.
I walked home, but I was still unsettled. Was I making the right decision by leaving my ugly lady lumps? Well, since I had posted my worries on my Facebook and Twitter, my friends and family felt the need to comment. My cousins tripped on me, “YOU NEED TO GET THEM REMOVED NOW!” an attitude that I found a bit excessive, considering I’m the one with the dead Mommy. Some guy told me insensitively, though he meant well, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. I kept getting word from friends of friends of friends who had had lumps giving me both perspectives. And when I tried to google my situation, the first article I found read something like “21 year old college student battles breast cancer.” I immediately closed my computer screen, and just so I wouldn’t have to see that headline again, I pulled the battery out of the back rather than simply close the window.
But finally, a friend of mine sent me a message that said she too had a breast lump and was getting hers removed. Days later, a girl told me that she’d had a lump in her breast since 7th grade. She’s in college now, so she’s been holding on to her lump for years.
So, if it is okay to hold on to a benign breast lump, or two, then there is a far lesser sense of immediacy and room for far more questions. Does surgery hurt? Will I have a scar? Will they ruin my breasts? Will losing a lump make one breast smaller than the other? How much does surgery cost and can bill paying Karen afford it? How much school will I be able to miss? Those were the physical questions, but the whole lump situation brought up a lot of emotions for me as well. Some were expelled in that poem two posts down. However, the best solution has been telling people about my lump so they can reflect their opinions, both expert and foolish.
My charge to you, ladies (I'm sure the boys stop reading several paragraphs ago), is to cradle your breasts between your finger tips and go lump hunting. It is common for women in their twenties to have a few floating around, but be sure to check them out, know they’re there and monitor growth or shrinkage. There is probably no reason for you to explode in tears every time you put a little pressure on your breast tissue. If you struggle with the scenario, go to a doctor, and perhaps a counselor, and get your issues worked out. Awareness and prevention are the key to longevity when it comes to terminal illnesses.
Monday, March 15, 2010
There is no denying that in general boys love a sexy girlfriend. My ex-boyfriend would make me get out the car just so he could show me off to any and every random rogue who came within sight of us. However, when the outfit is not working all those feelings of pride turn to shame. Many guys would prefer a girl in sweatpants to one who has on an outfit that isn't working.
Here are a few tips for choosing your outfit for date night.
1. Try on your clothes the day before, so you know exactly how things look and feel, what works together and what does not. If you buy something new, wear it around the house for a while. You'll get familiar with the piece, that the strap always slips, that the shorts ride up too high, that you can't bend over in that skirt. Just wear the best that your closet has to offer.
2. Don't wear your friend's favorite outfit. Wear the outfit that suits you (even if you've borrowed it). You may have a friend who looks hot in one thing, but it may not be the look for you. Take a trend and mold it to fit you. The chick I saw had on denim shorts, black embroidered tights, and calf length boots. High boots and shorts make your legs look shorter and wider, so only wear that look if you have long legs. If not, try flat shoes (or heels) with your shorts for a lengthening effect.
3. Wear a tried and true outfit. When you're on a date, you don't want an outfit failure to be your greatest preoccupation of the evening. You want to look sexy and effortless. And while showing skin is probably is my favorite thing (see image above, hello), it doesn't look good to show bod in clothes that don't hold themselves up. Don't wear a strapless top that requires too much adjustment or pants that give you super camel toe. The best way to show skin comfortably is with a v-neck t or a see-through top. These two looks require no readjustment of the straps and look a lot classier than a tube top.
5. Please wear clothes that fit, starting with your bra. Nothing is more disgusting than quadraboob. Go to Victoria's Secret and get measured! You may not buy their bras (I find them to be cheap quality despite the price) but at least know your size. I actually buy my underwear from www.barenecessities.com. I was a 34DD at one point and Vicky didn't carry my size, which is why I went and scoped this site out. Bare Necessities has every single size imaginable and brands from Calvin, DKNY, to Betsey Johnson. Additionally, don't wear jeans that you can't sit in or shoes that haven't been broken in. It just makes you look silly.
If you ignore all my advice, just remember that you attracted the guy in whatever you were wearing at the time, so continue to allow your wardrobe to be an expression of you, not Karen or Megan Fox or Nicki Minaj or your best friend with the great breasts. Do you.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
She was always sick
she ended sick – a skeletal figure in a nursing home bed
she weighed as much as a ten year old child, her flesh hung loosely
slipping and detached from the bone
she was withering, evaporating, disappearing
She may have been born sick
I don’t know
but by the time I knew her she was sick
she used to flip
she used to be another woman, sometimes. Only sometimes.
When she was angry, she was not my mother
she was evil and hateful, in a way that was uncontrolled.
She was spiteful. Showed favoritism. And my brother got it the worst.
She used to hurt my father
it was clear she hated him, sometimes
from behind a bedroom door we heard violence
I don’t know who was hurting who, but I’m almost sure he was restraining her.
He’d walk out crying, defeated, Bible in hand
“I’m going for a walk,” he’d tell us. He was going to talk to Jesus about the crazy
wife He gave him
She used to stand by the window
the sun warming the tones of her face
she was talking, out loud and under her breath
discussing. Her eyes expressive, her brow dancing up and down
do not disturb her. She wouldn’t hear you anyway if you called her while she and she
So when you saw her by the window, you let her be.
My mother was a beautiful and epic catastrophe
She was volcanic : erupting then cool
but in her sanity she loved immensely.
I am afraid to be like her
I’m afraid that if my thoughts are not like yours then they are like hers
I’m afraid to die the withering body
who left a husband and children who are yet too afraid of her, to ever completely love her back.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
My cousin introduced me to this term. It's when the orgasm is so good you start crying. On one occasion I had actual tears in my eyes and that nut is unforgettable, but typical a perfect orgasm will have me whimpering. Most recently I crymaxed from the sticky fingers, and that was a bit embarrassing, but I haven't made sexy in kind of (not really) a long time.
The crymax is kind of funny, because I can imagine some of the sounds that women make just trip you guys out. I let out my feeble whimper and kid with the fingers gave me a confused look. I think he needed to look in my face for affirmation that he was not, in fact, finger raping me.
What is the crymax? Its when the penis, or the fingers, fills you with so much bliss that you don't have enough physical reactions at your disposal to absorb the pleasure so you let out tears. They are tears of joy, trust, but they are never the less tears.
Why, woman? Why are you crying? If we could, we would sing like porn stars rather than grunt and cry. We can't help it, and sometimes we - I - practice in secret, in the shower, and during masturbation. I would love to moan pretty, but when you're feeling the sexy a few tears here and there are actually a good thing.
Similar to the crymax is the gigglegasm (still working on a name). Again, it's induced by an orgasm so spectacular that you let out a laugh. I've gigglegasmed when the multiplicity of the orgasm is becoming too great. The gigglegasm often occurs just before my clitoris has to beg for the sex (usually the head when this happens) to cease.
Man the noises we make during sex, it's embarrassing. Sometimes I want to hear what other women scream during sex so I can gage just how (ab)normal I am. For instance, why is it that I cannot help taking God's name in vain during climax? I think I am at my most spiritual when staring into that white light that is orgasm. Once I accidentally said "Jesus," I was trying to avoid the use of the word God oddly enough, and I feel like that was an even worse offense against the cross.
When the sex is spectacular, it's difficult for a person to control what comes from her mouth, whether its "spank me Daddy, make it hurt" or "yes, yes, cum on my face," (I will not attest to ever requesting a facial, but had I done so, I was likely to have been superbly drunk). So gentlemen be sure not to rape a bitch, but when she starts crying, laughing, screaming bloody murder, or begging God to save her just indulge her. Spank her. Just wipe her tears away and deepen the stroke.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Some people have sex to affect intimacy. I have long suspected, and now come to the full acceptance, that I often have sex to affect intimacy. I'm having a lonely spell, brought on in particular by the fact that I haven't had sex in nearly a month. A month is already a long time for me to go without sex, and I actually like this feeling. However, I also notice that my body still needs to be touched, and felt. I need to be held and caressed.