Saturday, February 23, 2008

Fat Bottomed Girls

The front butt is the worse butt of all.

The low roll, the pouch east to west and sitting at the hip bone. Endless crunches, reverse curls and fewer carbs will tame it, make it manageable, but it’s a committed partner. I’ve always had a round belly. I find it in old Kodak Instamatic photos, those 4 x 4 square snaps with rounded corners; age 7 or 8 in pink polyester shorts with the sewn-in front seams, it sits high and tight, like a fanny pack turned to the front.

Gorgeous female creatures are those with hips, plump cheeks, rounded edges and dewy skin soft to the touch. Yet the front butt is the hate in the love-hate body relationship. Just a bit flatter, please. Still like a pillow one can rest a head one, but less…obvious. Because of sex.

Some activities require a good deal of focused attention in focused areas, carefree and uninhibited. Could I lay flatter on my back, make it appear less like the pink fleshy plains I envision, a vast frontier awaiting the Lewis and Clark expedition? This is not the time for distraction, covering up body and soul. At times, the hate in the love-hate wins out. But to proclaim hate for any part of your physical being is to hate yourself.

Love the belly. Rub it for luck like a Buddha. Give in to the attentive touch of a big hand, warm skin on skin. Like perspective drawing, the bigger the hand, the smaller the point of view.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Dream Weaver

I read once in a magazine that sleeping in the nude will begat dreams of a sexual nature. A thoroughly scientific and well-researched finding, no doubt. Although I'd not planned to retire au naturale last evening, that’s just how things shook out. I am happy (and a bit overcome and bothered) to report…it works my friends. Honest to blog (shout out and props to Ms. Cody).

Allow me to indulge, to satisfy the desire to revisit this pleasant, odd and memorable subconscious moment of thought.

I have tattoos. Full sleeve tats, both arms, extending slightly on to the tops of my hands (the bottoms of your hands are palms, what are the tops?) The work is beautiful. My right hand carries some kind of memorial design, not a face and no script, but swirling designs – almost a paisley – in more pastel than primary colors, with tiny diamonds embedded in skin. I'm wearing a Bettie Page frock. Fabulous, tight and close to the body, red, two pieces with a very slim skirt and halter top cut straight across and low at the bust, revealing a generous helping of high and tight cleavage (those dresses are designed to lock-and-load). And pumps. Black, platformey, 1950’s pin up girl pumps.

I enter a nearly empty tattoo shop to finish work on the sleeves. A little something to fill the few holes on the right and left of the undersides of my forearms, near where blue veins criss cross. There are no other customers in the shop. Just him.

He's beautiful. Hair so black it's almost blue, dark eyes, a bit scruffy at the chin. He looks a little like a Teddy Boy, like he's in a rock-a-billy band on the side. I sit across from him, very close, arms laid down and facing up. He begins to draw free hand in the small areas of skin that hold no ink. He touches my palms. He looks close in my eyes, bends over and slowly licks the length of my tat sleeve, from wrist to shoulder. I can feel the trail of warm saliva and heartbeat in my chest (and other, more private areas). I find it funny, however, in the midst of this dream state erotic encounter I think to myself, "He’s going to have to sanitize that area again before he starts tatting me”.

The dream jumps ahead suddenly, like a fast scene change in a movie, and I'm standing in a bathroom at the back of the shop. I believe I'm here to see the positioning of my new work in the large mirror. The room is so tiny I can barely open the door while standing inside. He enters, very close to me, nearly bumping mouths. He says he'll help remove my top so I can better see the design. As I turn to the mirror, greatly anticipating this unveiling, mind flashing forward to a clear vision of my back pushed into the wall, the weight of his body on me as he holds my face in his hands and kisses me hard, an odd metamorphosis happens. In a split second, I'm suddenly huge. A rotund, fleshy woman, larger than obese and overly-comical in size. My clothes don't mold snugly to curves, the top and slim skirt now hang from my spherical body like a tarp. He puts out his hands to touch me…and I wake up.

Me, I’m thinking:
I need to get laid.
I need some new black pumps.
(Perhaps) I need a new tattoo.

I'm sleeping naked again tonight.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Fun and wacky romance facts

Conjoined twins Eng and Chang Bunker (1811 - 1874) each wed and fathered a total of 22 children.


Several of the "Manson girls" married in prison.


sigh...

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Love Stinks

"Love don't make things nice. It ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die."
- Moonstruck (1987)

My heart would melt for goofy flowers held out in big hands today.

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