Honesty

A little while back I blogged about my frustration with not being able to tell my work friends about my lifestyle. Well, last Saturday night, with the assistance of an outrageous amount of red wine, I admitted to one of my work friends that I was into “whips and stuff”. And… he was completely respectful and supportive. All this time I’d been thinking he would pick me up and whisk me to the nearest psychiatric hospital, but actually all this time I’ve been underestimating people’s capacity for acceptance and open-mindedness. He looked at me as if to say ‘no big deal’ and the conversation continued. It was a massive relief and as a result I feel like I can now have a proper friendship with him. Which is very cool.

Meanwhile, Marauder and I have been discussing what it means to have an open relationship. We’ve been living together for nearly a year now, and yet so far neither of us has properly tested the waters of this thing (i.e. neither of us has had sex with another person). I mean, we’ve played with other people in the scene, we’ve had some awesome ladies over at our house for naked cavorting and general rudeness, we’ve entertained the concept of being sexually adventurous libertines, but up until now we’ve been getting a handle on the live-in relationship thing and devoting the majority of our energy to each other. Which has been fuckin’ rad. I realise now that the reason why most people settle for monogamy is that it is, ostensibly, the easiest option.  If it’s just generally accepted that you’re meant to be shagging each other and no one else, you don’t need to draw up any kind of agreements or boundaries or anything (although as we all know this can often just be a farcical arrangement in which people are forced to take their extraneous desires underground). I love Marauder; what we have is stable, sane, precious, and I’m very worried about upsetting the equilibrium between us. But at the same time we’re both in agreement – faced with the prospect of never feeling that heady rush of kissing a person for the first time, never expanding our sexual repertoire any further than the scope of our separate imaginations; and thus becoming bored and stagnant inside our relationship, we want to investigate alternatives to monogamy. But where to start?

I’ve mentioned polyamory in this blog before, and I have to say I’ve yet to be convinced that it is actually worth the work that it apparently takes to maintain. In addition to this, I don’t think I really want a proper, long-term relationship with more than one person. Maintaining even one functional, loving relationship is a hard enough feat (and it hasn’t been until Marauder that I’ve ever managed to do it at all), and I don’t have the energy to multiply that by two. Which probably sounds harsh, but it’s how I feel. That’s not to say I want to go out there and nail a bunch of strangers – it’s more that I would like sex to be an extension of my close friendships. It’s how I express deep affection; it’s how I converse. Maybe I’m fucked up, but I never feel truly comfortable with another person until I’ve slept with them. I like getting to know all there is to know about a person, and I think sex is one of the deepest and most powerful ways to do that. To see a person disappear with pleasure – breathtaking.

While searching the internet for information about polyamory, I stumbled across a book called The Ethical Slut. This phrase better describes how I feel about my sexuality. I don’t mind the label ’slut’ – nymphos sleep compulsively with anyone they can find, sluts sleep with whoever they like. I’ve only once had sex with someone I didn’t like (not hatred or anything, just a one night stand), and it was an abysmally dissatisfying experience. (He asked me to stay the night – I told him I had to go home and feed my cat). I’ve had phases in my adult life where there was no one I was interested in sleeping with (which sucked). Up until recently, there were no other dudes in my life that I particularly wanted to shag; no one that would justify the risk to my relationship with Marauder. Now, things are a little different. Which brings me back to: how do we proceed? How do we decide what is wrong and what is right in an arena of so much grey?

Marauder has told me that he’d prefer to be included and involved in my sexual pursuits, and I agree with him. I’ve had threesomes both with him and with previous boyfriends (two girls, one guy), and it has always worked without angst or jealousy because all three parties liked and respected each other. Two guys in a bed is a different story, however, and one I’m not all that convinced can work so harmoniously. I’ll leave an impassioned discussion about how all women are expected to be bisexual and all men hetero out of this for the time being, because we are a product of the culture in which we live, as much as our intellectual pontificating and alternative ideologies might attempt to reject such a notion. I’m not saying I don’t believe in change, but it’s certainly not an easy thing. An open relationship is the tougher choice, but then again the rewards could be amazing. What we could learn, what we could experience, would make the difficulties worthwhile. I also believe it could actually make this relationship the best it could be. I never want to fall into a rut with my partner, I want always for there to be new ideas, fresh energy coming into it. Marauder admitted that the way he saw me changed after the night at R&R – that it brought that sparkle of newness back into our sex life. I realise that what we have is worth more than even the shiniest of shiny things, and yet whenever we bring some of that shininess back to our world it makes everything light up.

I still find it hard to accept that my boyfriend is not going to fly off into a jealous rage if I admit to feeling desire for another man. I’ve had jealous and possessive boyfriends in the past and it has forced me into a bad habit of lying by omission. Most people would argue that honesty is always the best policy, but I disagree with that in the instance where being honest will relieve one person of a burden, and make the other person feel like crap. But Marauder keeps telling me that it’s okay, it’s okay. I’m still having trouble trusting that he won’t suddenly decide that it’s not okay. I still feel guilty about this sort of stuff. A lifetime of indoctrination is a difficult thing to reprogram.

Because sexual desire doesn’t answer to notions of morality or ethics. I’m not saying that we should all run around doing exactly what our sex drive tells us to do, but I am saying you need to be honest with yourself rather than deny that these things exist. It’s about finding balance. I don’t believe in setting yourself up for failure, and more importantly, I don’t believe in sacrificing what could be an incredible experience in the fleeting journey of life (and the even more fleeting period in which you are sexually active and sexually attractive). Some people remain faithful in marriage for twenty-odd years, but are crucified as ‘bad people’ if they eventually have an affair. Does that twenty years of faithfulness count for nothing? So many people are trapped in loveless, sexless marriages, and yet they persist with it because of…? I think, even if you add the messy element of children into the equation, most people remain in unhappy situations because they are scared of the alternatives. Better the devil you know, etc.

I don’t want to live my life in fear. I don’t want my partner, the person I love most in the world, to be unhappy. Who am I to tell this person what they are and are not allowed to do in this life? As long as we keep talking to each other, keep cherishing what have, I think we might, maybe, be able to do that thing that eludes so many – the successful long term relationship. I have faith.

Some Needle Photos

Photography by www.marauder.com.au

Photography by www.marauder.com.au

Photography by www.marauder.com.au

Photography by www.marauder.com.au

Needles

The first time I heard about play piercing, I dismissed instantly it as ridiculously hardcore. It just sounded ludicrous – about as erotic as having your leg amputated (even though some people do, actually, have fetishes for amputation). It just didn’t cross my mind as something I would ever be interested in. This was partially to do with the mild needle phobia I’ve got, and partially to do with the fact I couldn’t see the eroticism in it. I mean, I like a good medical fantasy as much as the next pervert, but needles just seemed too clinical. Pain for pain’s sake – not sexy enough for me.

When I actually got to see a play piercing session, I found myself staring in the ‘it’s terrible, but I can’t look away’ style of watching. A woman was sitting on a bench while a man threaded a series of needles through the skin of her back. At first I couldn’t bear to see the needle penetrate the skin, and focused my attention on her face (which was serene – eyes closed, concentrating, vaguely smiling). She twitched a little every time a new needle went through, which made me freak a bit. But the end result was undeniably beautiful; glinting metal spikes protruding from her pale skin, luminescent green plastic tips all in a straight line, enhancing the gentle curve of her back. I watched in the same way people watch travel programs, entertained by an exotic destination without ever considering the possibility of actually going there myself.

Despite having three tattoos and having had no less than twelve body piercings during my ‘youth’ (of which only six ear piercings remain), needles still scare me. What grosses me out the most are blood tests. It’s not so much the pain or the metal or the blood as it is the concept of having something inserted into a vein. The sliding. Ick, ick, ick. However despite my initial repulsion, the idea of play piercing started to circle my mind. It’s how these things start. Everything that has ever thrilled me always starts out just outside the realm of what I thought was possible. Just that little bit further than I was originally willing to go.

In February last year I went down to Melbourne with Marauder to attend a Melbourne Under 30s party. The morning after the party, just when I thought I was safe, I foolishly mentioned to my Domme friend, ‘Miss F’, that I was curious about needles. Which was how I found myself blindfolded and tied to a table inside a room with her, her boyfriend, Marauder, and a box of 200 needles. I wrote about this experience in my diary at the time:

“So I was firmly bound and I really couldn’t escape. I tried to concentrate on being still, on being calm. On breathing so I didn’t pass out. Never had the blackness felt so deep. It was also an interestingly erotic feeling of being laid out on a table and scrutinised by others. The medical gloves, the sinister smell of alcohol, the terrifying sound of plastic packages being carefully opened. I think it was that sound that scared me the most – I started to recognise the sound of the plastic needle being opened, and that’s when I knew I had about twenty seconds before it would go through.

The first one happened, too quickly, because had they waited ten hours it still would have been too quickly. Very sharp pain; it hurt more than I thought it would. Not unbearable, but terrible because it was a needle. After the first one went through I thought I would lose my head. It was spinning, I was lifting, and I was then flooded with euphoria. I wanted more/I didn’t want more. But I didn’t have much time for that argument because the second one was happening. Again sharp, again scary, and I tried to calm down but my fist was clenching and my toes were twisting. I tried to tell myself that it would be exactly the same if I clenched or if I didn’t clench, and that the anticipation was worse than the actual, but I simply couldn’t let it go. I didn’t make a sound though, and I kept my back still. Once the second one was in I felt more release, more adrenalin. But almost too much, I was trying to keep on top of it. I was on the border of requesting that we stop at two, but Miss F worked at a relentless pace and the third one was going in. I started entering a realm, subspace I suppose, where there was nothing I could do to stop what was happening. This was my biggest, clearest thought. I knew I couldn’t go anywhere. I couldn’t do anything. Struggling would make it more painful, would show the embarrassing side of my weakness. So the only thing I could do was accept it, to think: “this is happening and I have to let it happen and there is nothing I can do to stop it happening”, and this spoke volumes about life. I started to twitch as they got further down, that involuntary tickle response. Of dreading the first pierce of the needle; my skin shying away from it, a sick feeling. I had to say something then, because it was getting the better of me, and I was getting scared and tired. They let me have a rest, and the relief was massive. Their fingers drifting over my skin, close to that terrible metal.

There’s no escaping the pain of a needle – it stayed as sharp and as clear from beginning to end, and there was absolutely no blocking it out. It was pain in its purest form. Just pain, a very small measure, a small reminder that I am mortal. Enough pain to make me cry, to make me feel owned by it. When they started on the next side I was crying. The next side hurt just as much, except it was similar to getting a tattoo in that I was able to find solace in the rhythm. Also I am pedantic, and I wanted both sides to be even, so I was determined to see it through. They were getting down the left side and ‘Reckoner’ by Radiohead was playing, and partly because of the pain, and partly because of the purity, I cried with beautiful release. Just as the music reached that sweet spot, that bending moment where it hovers, pauses, rouses and turns, that’s when another needle went through. I could have died in complete peace. It was downhill from there – the hardest part was over. I let it wash through me as they stroked me, reassured me, guided me through.

Taking the needles out was painful, and I think I freaked a bit because I was untied by this stage. Somehow being tied up makes things easier. I get a bit whiny when I’m too free. But it stung like a motherfucker, and was more of a wet bloody pain than the careful dryness of insertion. Messy. But they came out and then I was bleeding, cute dots in straight lines down my back. Then I was high, full of energy, bursting. The sense of achievement was incredible.”

After that experience I felt glad to have done it but uninterested in doing it again. While most of my fetishes have grown and evolved, this one I felt happy to abandon. It was just so intense, and too intimate for a party environment. Still right on that edge of ‘too much, too far’. Months went by and I continued to have lots of new kinky experiences, but never felt inclined to return to the needle. Marauder managed to acquire a few boxes of surgical grade needles from a friend of ours, and while I watched him perfect his skills on other people, I was still not keen to volunteer myself.

However in October 2008, Marauder, Talby and I spent a sun-dappled Sunday afternoon mucking about and frolicking, as you do. We did a lot of weird things (which included shaving Talby’s legs – one of the most surprisingly erotic moments of my life) and somewhere towards the end of the night I asked Marauder to stick some needles in my back. It was exactly the right blend of celebration and intimacy that made the first experience so tingly. Here is how I recorded that experience:

“The needle tip eased in and my skin gave way like butter. It all slushed around as the metal pushed my blood to either side before emerging with a tiny rip. It was so clear, and so bittersweet. The rush was narcotic. I got flooded, filled heavy and waterlogged with blood-rich pleasure. It swam up over my head and made my eyes hooded and leaden. I sank down, weights on my limbs, unable to move to unable to tell him to stop, even if I’d wanted him to. I was muttering, “oh my god, I’m so fucking high” but somewhere around halfway the muttering stopped and it was all I could do to keep from going under completely. I shivered and twitched as each evil point made its way under my skin as he probed deeper, drew it out longer, wriggled the needles and made me taut. I was gushing, dripping, melting. It was complete peace; pure unadulterated pleasure. Pain became meaningless, it was all intensity of feeling. It was tight and strong and sickly feeling. I rose up on waves and waves of warmth and floated through it, floating through clouds. He could have gone on all night, all down my back and legs. Each needle brought fresh pain but it was quickly gobbled up by roaring thunder. And beneath each little prick I could feel blood, fresh and red and wet. Meeting the air.

He was naked, I was naked, Talby was bundled in a towel, watching with wide eyes. It was so warm, so yellow, so muted. Free from time, free from anything more complex than the physical. I got up and looked at the needles down my back, the bright little green tips all neatly aligned. It matched my hair extremely well. I felt like an angel with wings. Sharp metal wings, like a half robot.

On the last needle I had an orgasm. It propped up quickly in my mind, and I couldn’t quite believe it but I was moaning, coming. The intensity pushed me over the edge and my whole body reverberated with orgasmic energy. It shivered outwards and radiated from my fingers and toes. I was gone, so gone, so lost to it, deep inside the rhythm of Marauder’s tapping fingers playing the piano over my wounds. I’ve gone from having very uneasy feelings about needles to loving it, loving it, waiting eagerly for the next time I can feel the sharp metal enter me. But it was Marauder’s touch that did it. His magic hands.

The needles slipped out with erotic intensity. I licked up the pain, ate it, swallowed it into my belly, gulping for more. That slippery slipping, lubricated with blood. They whisked out and left me released and blubbering blood. Little fountains dotted alongside my spine. Shining brightly – the telltale evidence of life.”

Which finally brings me to the grand finale of this epic post. The other weekend, the day after R&R, me, Marauder and Talby stayed up late on a Saturday night and fooled around with needles again. This time I broke yet another barrier: I managed not only to accept needles through the skin of my breasts (8 in total – pointed towards my nipples in a symmetrical pattern, which was much more painful than having them through my back), but I actually swapped roles for a time and managed to find the courage to stick needles into Talby. This freaked me out far more than even receiving needles, strange as that sounds. I get freaked by watching the needle sink into skin, which is obviously something you can’t avoid when you’re the one doing the needling. And I wouldn’t have been brave enough had she not asked me to do it. She offered herself up as a pincushion for me, and the gesture was so touching that it broke through all of my fears. She asked me – I wanted to obey. It was a weird but endlessly interesting scenario; two naturally submissive people, neither super okay with needles, guiding each other through the experience. It was a beautiful demonstration of the way in which power exchange does not have to be loud, does not necessitate force. It is actually all about subtlety, of nudging each other to a place that neither could get to on their own.

She smiled as each needle went through – five little lines on her upper thigh. Exquisite.

Finally, right at the very end of the night (morning, in fact), Marauder and I did one last thing. I have always been curious to have a needle inserted right through my outer labia, because the concept of being sewn or pinned together has always been a giant fantasy of mine. I have had a piercing through my clit hood, so I’m no stranger to needles down there, but there is something extra powerful about having your lover on the other end of it, and doing it simply for the sake of interest and eroticism. So I asked him to do it, and, grinning and fastidious, he did. Marked out the entry and exit points with a felt tip pen, got the needle out, waited impassively as I attempted to get him to stall or to maybe even abandon the idea altogether, and then he pushed it through. It really fucking hurt. Halfway through I begged him to stop, but he said “we’re doing this” and then it was out the other side. Incredible. A thin piece of metal threaded through one of the most sensitive and sexual parts of me. It was hot.

Herein ends my needle experience thus far. I’ll post some photos up here a little later.

Man Enough

Last Friday marked the return of what is, in my opinion, Sydney’s best fetish party. R&R (Rhythm and Restraint) started out as monthly party on the top floor of a uniquely decorated warehouse space. Since it was a private venue there were none of the usual problems you get with clubs (like exorbitant entry fees, ridiculously priced drinks and bitchy bar staff), and it also meant that most of the participants were serious about their kink – not just gawking tourists from the vanilla world. (Yes, a lot of my negative comparisons are of Hellfire, but that’s another story).

June to November 2007 – those were the glory days. Every second Friday of the month we’d all rock up there in our fetish best, hand over our $10 (a mere $10!) and ascend a narrow wooden staircase into the otherworldly space that was R&R. It was great not only because it offered a variety of spaces in the one venue (dance space, private play area, public play area, social areas and a curtained room right at the end with a giant bed in it for sexing and other such rudeness), but because there was just simply a general air of celebration – the joy that is created when a bunch of people are suddenly unshackled from the burden of acting normal. At the time I was still getting the hang of a thing known as ’socialising’, and parties were not normally my idea of a good time, but R&R was something I could genuinely enjoy. I’m only just realising now as I write this how many ‘firsts’ I experienced in that six months; first flogging, first caning, first experience as a top, first time I’d been more-or-less naked in front of a group of people, first time I’d worn underpants as an outfit (it was awesome), first experience with a gas mask, first time I’d fainted. (This last thing happened during a session in which I was tied up by this guy, and then caned by a crazy Maltese girl. It was exquisite, transcendent. And it freaked the hell out of Ms Crazy, which is a difficult feat. Heh.)

All of this considered, the new-and-improved R&R (at a venue conveniently closer to where I live), had a lot to live up to. I’d been anticipating that night for a long time. And as with every important event, the most pressing question on my mind was, naturally, ‘what am I going to wear?’. (Yes, I know that obsessing over one’s outfit only reinforces the gender stereotype that women like shoes and clothes while men like engineering and computer science, but whatever.) Normally I choose my outfits like I choose my hair colour – through an intuitive process of discovering what ‘feels’ right. Usually it’s easy, but sometimes I experience outfit block. Outfit block is that thing that happens when a girl gets out every item of clothing they own, tries it all on and then throws it to the bed in despair. I hate outfit block. For some reason all my favourites just weren’t doing it for me – the stockings weren’t right, the heels weren’t right and even my rubber felt uninspired. And then, as if illuminated by the translucent light of a miraculous rainbow (or, er, something), I spotted Marauder’s suit hanging over the cupboard door. Yes! It was perfect!

It really was. Marauder is taller than me, but waist-wise we’re about the same (due to Marauder being freakishly thin, I feel the need to add). From the very moment I put it on I started to feel confident, powerful and sexually assertive. I’ve always found men in suits attractive, and now I realise why all the businessmen of the world wear them. Power was not ever something that interested me all that much… but then again maybe that’s because I didn’t have the right suit.

Women dressing as men is a thing that has always done it for me, ever since I learned about Frida Kahlo in year 10 visual art. I always secretly yearned to be able to pull it off – to ditch all the bells and whistles associated with dressing to please a man, and still exude sex. (Admittedly I did wear makeup… but then I think men look good in makeup, so). It reminded me of the first time I cut my hair short, after having it long all my life. I was worried that short hair would take away from my femininity and thus detract from my sexuality. This was, of course, horse shit. Hair does not create a person’s sexuality (or femininity) any more than their clothes do. Sex is something that comes from within, something you embody. It’s why I reckon Kylie Minogue is pretty but not sexy – she’s wearing all the right outfits but somehow she just doesn’t carry it off, in my humble opinion. (Madonna, now she’s a different story…)

So I arrived at R&R with my hat tilted and my black fibreglass cane tucked under my arm, miles away from the flamboyantly girly persona I usually occupy at these events. The new venue turned out to be just as good as the previous one, and there was an excited vibe running through the place. I strutted about in my suit, feeling a strong desire to dominate, which is a mindset I rarely ever experience. And then the most curious thing started to happen:

I got acknowledged, winked at, talked to and hit on by more men than I ever had in one night.

This might sound odd, but normally when I’m out and about it’s usual for me to attract more lesbians than I do men. In fact, in all my experience of fetish parties, it’s mostly ever women I’ve flirted with, kissed, played with (Marauder = notable exception). But at this R&R, not only did I have the privilege of testing out my latent dominant side on two ridiculously sexy men, I ended up lying between two ridiculously, outrageously sexy men on the big bed at the end of the night. It was a dream come true. And you know how it’s a generally accepted fact that the reality never quite lives up to the fantasy? Well, that’s a pile of crap.

I have a few different theories as to why I suddenly became visible to men:

Theory #1

There is something intrinsically empowering about wearing a suit. Suits are like a modern-day coat of armour – covering and protecting any physical weaknesses. They are a symbol of authority. And finally, they simply look good; they’re sophisticated, stylish. The combined result of all of these factors is: confidence. Coming back to my theory that sex appeal is built around confidence, I think I was exuding a heightened level of confidence (perhaps even a touch of arrogance) on the night, which made me especially attractive.

Theory #2

As mentioned, the moment I stepped into the party I immediately felt an urge to dominate someone. I know it’s not politically correct to associate dominance with masculinity and submission with femininity, but my libido doesn’t answer to politics and thus this cliché forms the basis of what turns me on. (Although this is a funny thing: a lot of the time when I fantasise about being in a submissive position, I fantasise about being a submissive man. Seriously, even to the point of receiving cock and ball torture. Weird, eh?) Anyway, I find there is something sexy in the bulk, the might and the force of a male body, and when this is channelled into the role of a Dom it can be frighteningly good. Sometimes I find it annoying that as a woman I’ve been given a very muscular, strong little body. I’ve found myself in submissive positions having to pretend that I couldn’t overpower the other person, or struggle out of some sort of binding. But on that night, for the first time, I found a use for it. I was giving out dominant vibes, and I think all the men who ever wanted to be used and abused by a woman, consciously or otherwise, were looking at me and thinking ‘aw yeah’.

Theory #3

Part of the reason why men don’t usually come on to me is because of me. I’m a bit weird, you see, and I get freaked out by too much attention while simultaneously going to lengths to attract attention to myself (crazy hair, for example). My body language shouts “LOOK AT ME don’t look at me LOOK AT ME don’t look at me”, etc. It’s confusing, I know. Now I don’t know why I do this except that it’s probably a deep-rooted psychological thing that will probably affect me until I’m really, really old. Hoo-ray. But it’s not something I consciously consider all that often, until just now when I was searching for a reason as to why the suit changed the way people responded to me. I realise that it gave me the opportunity to explore a persona who was different to my usual self. I was able to shelve the more neurotic side of myself and lurk comfortably inside the suit, peering out from a position of safety. Interesting.

It’s probably a combination of all three, or none, who knows. All I know is that I liked it, and it gave me another important reminder that we need not be bound by who we think we are, or how we think we are supposed to act. I never would have imagined that I’d enjoy flogging another person quite as intensely as I did that night, or quite as much as I enjoy being flogged. Later in the night I did receive a flogging, stripped down to only my shirt. It was fantastic, and I think it was extra fantastic for all the energy that had been built up in me over the course of the evening. The person who flogged me was one of the men I had flogged, and the intensity in the transferral of power when the suit came off and my wrists were cuffed was mind bending.

Now, I’d better get that suit to the drycleaner’s before Marauder becomes displeased with me. Right after I fold the laundry, do the dishes and slave over a hot stove for a while. (Note to self: buy suit.)

Sex Versus Beauty

Sex.
Beauty.

Related?
Perhaps.

Interchangeable?
No.

Recently I read a book called Sugarbabe by Holly Hill (Random House, 2007). Sugarbabe is the apparently true story Hill’s brief stunt as a professional escort (the long-term variety otherwise known as being a ’sugarbabe’). I didn’t like this book, because I found it to be unimaginatively written, (in no circumstance should the word “flaps” be used when attempting to describe an erotic scenario, nor should the words “pelvic floor” need to be used more than once), and although it raised some interesting and provoking ideas, they were inadequately fleshed out. Literary bitchiness aside, what irritated me most about this book was the language the author used to describe herself:

skinny
beautiful
attractive
hot
perfect
lucky (in regards to her physical attributes)
svelte
gorgeous

“I guess I should also mention that I’m lucky enough to be considered darned attractive. How this came about, I’m not sure. At school I was the tall, pale, awkward girl who was always the wallflower and didn’t even get to touch the male species until I was sixteen… Then, somehow, someway, when all the boys got taller and I stopped trying to appear shorter, the pear-shaped hunchback turned into an alright kind of gal. The straw-bleached hair turned out to be soft and auburn, and the tendency to fat was merely excessive after-school snacking. Even more surprisingly, I moved gracefully and confidently without a hint of curvature of the spine!”
(pp. 6 – 7)

“The girl in my bedroom mirror had seemed gorgeous but I still found it difficult to believe she was me. What if they didn’t think me good-looking? What if they judged me to have an average face? What if they considered me too old?”
(p. 37)

On top of all of this she spends half the book getting herself manicured, pedicured, waxed and fussing over what kind of lingerie/make-up/shoes to wear in the hopes of delivering extra value to her paying customers. Because as we all know; a woman who is not dressed, decorated and painted in the right way is not sexy. After all, who would want to fuck something that looked ordinary?

By now you’re probably rolling your eyes at me – trust the ugly girl to get all bitter just because someone prettier than her has written a book.

The thing is, I’m not ugly. I’m not tall, skinny, perfect nor particularly lucky in regards to my physical attributes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t got sex appeal. That’s because sex has nothing to do with beauty. They can cross paths, and one can arguably enhance the other, but they are not the same thing. Since when did everyone get this mixed up?

I’m sucking in a deep breath, ready to projectile-rant a bunch of unspecific accusations at “advertising” and “the media” and “the entertainment industry”, but I’d be wasting my time. While all of these are culpable in the blurring between sex and beauty (and, even more insidiously, in dictating how “beauty” is even defined), I’d be wasting my time to unleash a tirade in this direction. How do we dismantle something so large, so unwieldy, so culturally entrenched?

It’s just that I’m twenty-five years old and I’m sick of being made to doubt myself, of being told what sexually active women should look like. I’m sick of there being these ridiculous standards of beauty standing between me and my most favourite activity. I’m sick of the only sexually provocative women portrayed on TV as these long-legged creatures with flat stomachs, generous yet pert and even breasts, flawless skin beneath a ton of makeup and the only point of differentiation being whether they are a blonde or a brunette.

Men* suffer the same sort of pressure, yes. But guys, if you want to know the truth, it’s not pecs that get women into bed. It’s confidence. Confidence – that infuriatingly elusive quality that gets further away from you the harder you try.

Confidence is sexy. Yet everything out there in life is set to undermine our confidence in ourselves. It’s fucking retarded. Perfectly beautiful women walking around all down on themselves because they’re not five kilos lighter, because their breasts aren’t big enough, because they have freckles, wrinkles, stretch-marks, scars.

Want to know why I think women have been unfairly accused as being frigid, bitchy, more interested in marriage than they are sex? It’s because they feel ugly. They lack confidence in themselves because they don’t believe they are beautiful. If you don’t feel sexy, you don’t feel like having sex.

Anyone who has met me in the last five years will have met someone confident, outgoing, and attractive in a cutesy alternative sort of a way. But underneath that is someone who is sometimes so wracked with self-doubt it’s unsurmountable. I’m sick of feeling this way. I can look at my own unadorned body in the mirror and see beauty in it; it’s only when I have to pit my own idea of what is beautiful against what appears to be the popular notion of beauty that it falls apart and I feel ugly again.

Some people have a way at looking at a person and seeing only the flaws. I look at the people I love, flaws and all, and love them all the more for it. I love people not in spite of their flaws, but because of them. I love to see the evidence of having lived in the form of scars and lines. I love the roughened edge of experience and assurance that only comes from age. I get turned on by people who have something unusual about the way they look – just because something is different does not make it unbeautiful. Why do we all want to look like everyone else? Why can’t we embrace that which makes us unique?

I had a conversation with a friend where we both admitted to having a fetish for crooked teeth. It drives me nuts that most people have theirs straightened, whitened, homogenised.

What have notions of physical assimilation got to do with beauty and what has beauty got to do with sex?

For everything I disliked about Holly Hill’s Sugarbabe, I did like this:

“I now understand that the increased self-esteem I felt as a sugarbabe wasn’t a result of my sense of attractiveness being reinforced; nor was it from having power over powerful men. Rather, it was because I no longer cared what people thought about me.”
(pp. 300 – 301)

*Note: this particular rant focuses on beauty as it pertains to women, because I am a woman and have something of an insider’s knowledge of the subject. If the dudes want to send me their own perspective on this topic, by all means do. I’d love to hear from you.