- Mood:
Tender - Listening to: "Hard To Say" Sister Hazel
- Drinking: Coffee
I don't have a flat belly. I have had a couple surgeries so the muscles are wasted and I have a kind of "pouch" or roll below my belly button. It has always been a part of me I didn't like, I wished to go away.
I dated a guy for a while... he had this... obsession. With my belly. It made me super self conscious and embarrassed. Don't ask me how I can roll around the sheets naked and sweaty with someone and then get embarrassed when he put his hand on my belly to snuggle, but I did. I'd kind of wiggle away, or move his hand to my hip or breast. He'd move it back, and do something similar to what a cat does, the kneading thing. It made me feel about 2 inches tall and 4 feet wide. He was touching, [i]PLAYING WITH[/i] the ickiest part of me! Eww!!! WTF could he be thinking?!?
One day, a few weeks into the physical side of our relationship, he pinned me down, and proceeded to cover me with kisses - paying special attention to my belly. I asked him to please stop. He looked at me in complete and utter confusion. Why stop, didn't I like his attention? Blushing as only a redhead can I told him please, to just leave my belly alone. He stopped cold and just stared at me. He asked me why. I stuttered and stammered about not liking my belly and he looked at me like I had three heads. He laid down and put his head on the pillow next to mine, but left his hands on my belly. Then he looked into my eyes and told me that he liked my soft belly. That it was round, and fleshy and soft, and comfortable. That he loved being able to grab it with his fingertips and kiss it softly and nibble on it. he loved how he could snuggle up to me and it felt like wrapping your arms around a favourite teddy bear, just a little bit squishy, and exactly what you want to be comforted by.
I didn't believe him. It took me almost a year of dating this man to believe him. He told me many many times and eventually, I began to see my softness as a good thing too. It took a long time, but I began to smile when he would put his hands on my belly and snuggle with me. He took the part of my body that I hated most, and glorified it. I was appalled... then irritated... then grudgingly acknowledging...
And you know something? I found out that long after that guy was gone? A lot of the other lovers I have taken both before and after liked that I am soft and curvy and squishable and comfortable to hold. No stabby ribs, no knobbly elbows. And my belly? It's still there. It's not going away. But I kind of like it, because I kind of like knowing that I'm "comfortable". Like a favourite teddy bear, or a beloved sweater.
And you want to know a secret? I don't like my lovers to have flat bellies. I like a little cushion to them so I can snuggle with them and feel comfortable and like I am holding my favourite teddy bear.
All because the thing I hated most about me made him smile.
Exposing My Soft Underbelly
*leaves a random spoon and wonders off*
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[url=[link] girls wouldcry if StephanieMeyer told them EdwardCullen did NOT exist.Put this on your page ifyou would be 1of the4% feeling permanently happy
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[url=[link] girls wouldcry if StephanieMeyer told them EdwardCullen did NOT exist.Put this on your page ifyou would be 1of the4% feeling permanently happy
The wild, the abandoned, the free, and the delightful.
Touch me.
Taste me.
I am the darkness that you crave, the sweetness on your lips, the naughty thought lurking in the back of your mind.
I am the unattainable goal put within your reach.
I am mystery, seduction, desire, passion, release.
I am sorrow, rejection, dispair, disillusionment.
I am everything that you ever wanted, and nothing you ever knew you needed.
So, what am I, truly?
Simple - I am woman.
By Tom Robbins
How are we to explain the power these daughters of ancient Henna have over us bemused sons of Eros?
Red hair is a woman's game.
The harsh truth is, most red-haired men look like blonds who've spoiled from lack of refrigeration. They look like brown-haired men who've been composted. Yet that same pigmentation that on a man can resemble leaf mold or junk yard rust, a woman wears like a tiara of rubies.
Not only are female redheads frequently lovely but theirs is a loveliness that suggests both lust and danger, pleasure and violence, and is, therefore, to the male of the species virtually irresistible. Red O red were the tresses of the original femme fatale.
Of course, much of the "fatale" associated with redheads is illusory, a stereotypical projection on the part of sexually neurotic men. Plenty of redheads are as demure as rosebuds and as sweet as strawberry pie. However, the mere fact that they are perceived to be stormy, if not malicious, grants them a certain license and a certain power. It's as if bitchiness is their birthright. By virtue of their coloration, they possess an innate permit to be terrible and lascivious, which, even if never exercised, sets them apart from the remainder of womankind, who have traditionally been expected to be mild and pure.
Now that women are demolishing those old misogynistic expectations, will redheads lose their special magic, will Pippi Longstocking come to be regarded as just one of the girls? Hardly. To believe that blondes and brunettes are simply redheads in repressive drag is to believe that UFOs are kiddie balloons. All redheads, you see, are mutants.
Whether they spring from genes disarranged by earthly forces or are "planted" here by overlords from outer space is a matter for scholarly debate. It's enough for us to recognize that redheads are abnormal beings, bioelectrically connected to realms of strange power, rage, risk and ecstasy.
What is your mission among us, you daughters of ancient Henna, you agents of the harvest moon? Are those star maps that your freckles replicate? How do you explain the fact that you live longer than the average human? Where did you get such sensitive skin? And why are your curls the same shade as heartbreak?
Alas, inquiry is futile: Either they don't know or they won't say -- and who has the nerve to pressure a redhead? We may never learn their origin or meaning, but it probably doesn't matter. We will go on leaping out of our frying pans into their fire, grateful for the opportunity to be titillated by their vengeful fury, real or imagined, and to occasionally test our erotic mettle in the legendary inferno of their passion.
Redheaded women! Those blood oranges! Those cherry bombs! Those celestial shrews and queens of copper! May they never cease to stain our white-bread lives with super-natural catsup.
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