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Posts Tagged ‘positive body image’

  1. We Have a Project!

    March 4, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    Recently, Heather and I were kicking ideas around for a new project. We wanted to do something fun. And naked. Something that would engage Vagina Antics readers and encourage them to step outside of their comfort zone. We had big plans, but we may have strayed during our brainstorming session, veering off course with talk of peanut butter pancakes, alligator pupils (yes, they have them!) and mysterious noises in my wall.

    <I still want peanut butter pancakes! ~H>

    After the snorting subsided and we recovered from our side stitches, we finally hatched a plan. A plan that included lipstick hearts and body parts.

    <We can rhyme, bitches!>

    How can we go wrong with that? Don’t misunderstand, though, this isn’t a campaign to see how many photographs of naughty bits we can acquire. In fact, it can be any part of your body that you are particularly proud of, whether it’s a freckle or a scar, a cock or a clit. We want to hear about it. With that being said, it doesn’t even have to be your body part. It can belong to your lover or your friend. Or the boy you used to babysit who’s very grown up now.

    <Oh my God, did you get the nanny cam out?>

    *ahem* Anyway, we want YOU to send us photographs of your favorite body part with a heart around it or beside it. Because hearts are sexy and I like red.

    The more we talked about our fun, sexy idea, though, we realized that our project is going to be so much more than random pieces of anatomy. It’s body parts with a message. And not the ‘bloody ear in a box’ kind of message, either.

    <Because yuck>

    It’s the message that body lovin’ and sex positivity (totally a word) is something to be celebrated every day of the year, because you’re all beautiful. Every fucking one of you.

    Now, let’s get naked.

    Nikki and Heather

     

    Category Announcements | Tags: ,, | 2 Comments

  2. Kick Ass – A guest post by Jillian Boyd

    January 11, 2013 by Heather Cole

    003 - kopie
     I like to think of myself as a pretty badass lady. I’m smart, a massive geek and I can probably trade witticisms with the best of them (except with Stephen Fry. I wouldn’t dare.)

    My brain is incredibly sexy. If you don’t believe me, I’m pretty sure that my other half will say something to that liking. He might also mention that he finds my body sexy.

    Which I’m not so sure about.

    My relationship with my body is a tumultuous one. I grew up as the token large broad in school, and therefore got to experience those childhood joys of being called fatty fat arse and getting shoved face down into a sandbox just because I had the audacity to look the way I looked.

    Kids can be dicks, that’s for sure.

    If you think I didn’t put any effort in to losing weight, guess again. I did. I’ve seen a ton of dietitians, psychiatrists and health professionals in my time. Mainly recommended to me by people who thought I’d gone a bit wrong with my life.

    I’ll never forget the P.E. classes, mostly spent sitting on the side, watching other people do a running test (a rite of passage for many a 13-year-old) and thinking that I was pretty damn lucky to have a teacher that understood I wasn’t capable of such feats of athleticism.

    I’ll also never forget the puns made on my name, the social assistant who called my mother a bad mother because she let her child go fat and just about every single painful minute of my childhood. Until the day I decided I’d had enough. And weirdly, that wasn’t the day I booked myself in for a gastric bypass.

    Nope.

    It was the first time I made love to my partner.

    We had been teasing and playing all night, until I found myself completely blocked by nerves. I couldn’t do it. What if he was repulsed? What if he suddenly went off me?

    I went to sleep topless, wearing a pair of shorts and knickers and a ton of regret on my shoulder. But by dawn’s early light, I had decided something.

    Fuck this. I’ll be naked.

    I’m the fucking Barenaked Lady!

    I took the remainder of my clothes off and slid next to him in bed. And I had never been prouder of myself, because it was the first time that I felt no shame about my body.  And it’s a feeling that I have managed to hold on to. It was something that needed to happen to help me find that part of myself. That part that is able to get naked and flaunt her body without thinking “Shite, is he looking at my wobbles?”

    I like my wobbles.

    In fact, I think they’re quite sexy…

    It took me a very long time to get confident in this body. But knowing what I know now is helping me  get one step closer to becoming a kick ass lady.

    And that’s the way I like it.

    Jillian Boyd, Curvy Love Goddess (so sayeth my better half)

    Jillian Boyd is a writer, blogger and geekazoid, based in London. She had been published by the likes of Constable and Robinson and Cliterati. Her blog, called Lady Laid Bare, charts her sexual evolution and revolution. In her spare time, she likes crafting, reading, cooking and dancing like no-one’s watching.

    Twitter ~ @JillyBoyd

    Facebook ~  

    Blog ~ http://barenakedlady.wordpress.com

    Category Guest Post | Tags: ,,, | 2 Comments

  3. Body Image – A guest post by AmyBeth Inverness

    January 7, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Our talented guest authors this week are writing about body image, that thing that so many of us are pondering this time of year along with out New Year’s Resolutions. In fact, Nikki and I were discussing weight and exercise just this very morning. (While I made toast and jam and had a hot chocolate.) 

    AmyBeth Inverness is a writer by birth, a redhead by choice, and an outcast of Colorado by temporary necessity. She’s a prolific creator of Science Fiction and Romance and a contributor to FELT TIPS. She’s also a fantastic interviewer. I felt thoroughly researched when she interviewed me back in July. I think she’s the bees’ knees. Enjoy!

     

    When I first met my husband, he was too shy to talk to me. Something about cleavage and a little black dress, supposedly. He let his married best friend do all the talking for him. There was something endearing about that shyness. Knowing that he liked my body was a big turn-on for me.

    Physical beauty is also a turn-on for me, as it is for most people. Women friends, especially romance writers, love to share pictures of handsome men. Celebrities, models, there is no shortage of gorgeousness out there. The comments that accompany these pictures are things like “OMG he is so handsome!” or “I’d like to tap that.”

    For me, these two comments are not at all synonymous. I can discuss at length the desirable physical attributes of any of these males (or females.) What you won’t hear me say is “I want to do him!” and it has absolutely nothing to do with prudish morals or my commitment to my husband.

    It has everything to do with body image.

    If I was single and miraculously in a situation where I was alone with one of these men, contrary to the popular opinion that “men will screw anything” it is far more likely that seeing me strip down to my skivvies and give him a “come hither” look would inspire him to flee.

    Nothing kills a libido faster than having your prospective sexual partner look at you and say “ew!”

    Outside of the unlikely prospect of getting naked with a celebrity, I generally have no problems showing my body. We take our kids to the water park and I wear a mom-suit with a little skirt that helps me maintain some dignity. I don’t smother myself with a caftan or bath robe. I even go in the water, and let my hubby take pictures of us all being cute to plaster all over facebook. In the privacy of my own home, I’ll often wander from the bedroom to the bathroom or the kids’ rooms in my birthday suit.

    Prego AB 
     
    When I was pregnant I was much less self-conscious about my body. I felt like I finally had a good reason for being big and beautiful.
     
     

    So, with this lack of modesty, why do I never picture my true body’s image when I fantasize? Whether it’s in writing a sex scene or just idly dreaming for my own personal benefit, I never think of myself as I really am when I think about sex. I think about a less rounded, more streamlined version of me. Not necessarily a supermodel, but definitely a woman who doesn’t have thighs that chaff as she walks or stretch-marks and heat rashes in places where the fat rolls the wrong way. If an image of my real self does happen to worm its way into my mind during a fantasy, I’m the first to say “ew!” to myself.

    Sex is not just for the pretty people. There are plenty of overweight, blemished people who fall madly in love and boink each other’s brains out everywhere. These people aren’t saying “ew!” They’re saying “I love you” and “I want you” and “want to try it in the kitchen?”

    I think fantasizing is just that… fantasy. We can idealize all we want in fiction. It doesn’t matter if he’d strain his back if he tried to lift her up and press her against the wall. It doesn’t matter if the reality is that sand can be rather abrasive when it gets stuck in an intimate place, sex on the beach is exciting. We can fantasize that our lover has the stamina of an Olympic athlete, or breasts the size of beach balls, or extra hands….

    OK that last one was a little weird, but I do write Science Fiction. Anything is possible.

    I think I’ll keep the idealized body in my fantasies. As long as I have a loving partner who still, after seventeen years of marriage, still loves to see me naked, I can accept and enjoy my real body when the fantasies end and the really good stuff begins.

     

     With short stories coming out in two different anthologies in 2012, AmyBeth can usually be found tapping away at her laptop, writing the next novel or procrastinating by posting a SciFi Question of the Day on Facebook. When she’s not writing, she’s kept very busy making aluminum foil hats and raising two energetic kids and many pets with her husband in their New England home.

    Facebook author page: 
    Google plus page: 
    @USNessie on Twitter

    Category Guest Post | Tags: ,, | 5 Comments

  4. Blinded By Boobs

    August 31, 2012 by Nikki Blue

    I wasn’t always comfortable with my body. As a teen, not only did I struggle with my sexual impulses, I saw my body as physically flawed too. At one hundred and ten pounds my ribcage showed through my skin and my shoulders appeared to be too broad for my frame, because I’m a big boned girl. I know, I know. I roll my eyes too when I hear those words spoken, but it’s true. My hip bones protruded below a tiny waist that my boyfriend could circle with his long fingers. Adding to my proportion issues, my chest looked like it belonged on a twelve year old boy. My boyfriend often used that as one of the reasons why no one else would be willing to put up with me. It wasn’t always his hands that hurt me.

    My body seemed to contradict itself, leaving me very self-conscious with feelings of inadequacy. At nineteen years old I decided to have breast augmentation surgery. My father saw it as a drastic move. He didn’t see the need for breast implants even though my mother had the surgery years earlier. He said he never cared for the way they looked or felt on my mother. My mother, however, was in full support mode for once in my life.

    I needed to be happy with what I saw in the mirror, because for so long I didn’t like the image staring back. And I knew a big part of my perception was the emotional beatdown I’d endured as a teenager. I also knew that if I didn’t unfurl the lingering hurt that was knotted in my chest, it was going to eat me alive. In my mind, this was a step in the right direction.

    I found an amazing plastic surgeon, a little guy who wore a bow-tie and horn-rimmed glasses. He looked eerily like Groucho Marx but without the cigar. He made it a point to tell me that when I decided to have children, breastfeeding should be rejected for my implant health. He also said there was the possibility of leakage and scar tissue painfully squeezing the implant, but I didn’t hear him. I was in a boob induced haze.

    I’ll never forget waking up after surgery, my hands carefully studying my tightly bound chest. I looked down to see swollen mounds of flesh where none had been before. It was a surreal moment and I couldn’t wait to see my new boobs naked. They looked and felt natural, fitting the size of my body perfectly. My new physical confidence bled over into my sexual confidence and I became even more adventurous. I explored men and women. Sometimes I explored them together.

    The scar tissue didn’t tighten around my implants and squeeze painfully as the doctor had warned. Not early on anyway. It happened twelve years later, just after the birth of my son. The pain stopped eventually, and I managed to live with it for another ten years. At that point, I was stuck in a marriage with a non-existent sex life and my boobs weren’t important to me anymore. I no longer saw myself as a sexual being.

    When my marriage collapsed and my sexual urges began to stir, I suddenly became very conscious of my boobs again. But the implants that once gave me the courage to take off my clothes on stage in front of a crowd of men now deflated my confidence. Every time I took a naked photo, I was acutely aware that my left boob was higher and fuller than my right making me wince, delete, and take another one. Once again, my body is disproportionate and I struggle with what I see in the mirror. And no, the irony is not lost on me.

    I made an appointment with a plastic surgeon who attempted to shred my confidence during a consultation. Glossing over my boob issue as if it was an afterthought, he said my first priority should be a tummy tuck to correct the damage done to my abdomen by two cesarean section births. In his shallow opinion, I wouldn’t be happy with my body if I didn’t have the surgery. What he didn’t understand was that I am happy with my body, most of it anyway. And while I may not have the perfect tummy, I’m okay with that. I’ve had two children. Why would I want to erase those beautiful events from my body? Besides, the last thing I want is an ugly scar from hip to hip.

    I hated that doctor that day. He tried to strip away my positive body image in order to make a buck and that was wrong. When I told him that I only wanted my boobs fixed, he said, “fine, but you need to lose twenty pounds first.” He tried to make me feel like there was something wrong with me because I didn’t fit his image of perfect. It took all of the strength I had not to punch him in the junk and tell him and his size zero, puffy-lipped nurse to fuck off.

    I’ll have the corrective surgery done soon by a different plastic surgeon. One who is not an arrogant, pompous ass. It’s been determined that my implants need to be replaced, my breasts need to be lifted, and my areolas need to be resized and repositioned for aesthetics. There’s also a very real possibility that I may lose sensitivity in my nipples which totally sucks. To be honest, I’m very anxious about all of it. There is so much to take into consideration at this point in my life; my kids, their school and activities, my school and my business. It’s complicated. The surgery itself is long and the recovery will be tough. And the drugs may make me say some bat-shit crazy things to my parents who will be here to help which scares the hell out of me.

    I spent too many years downplaying my sexuality and eventually ignoring it altogether. I feel that having my boobs re-done will be the final step in reclaiming my sexual independence from my ex-husband. The last piece to claiming the sexual me. It’s an emotional freedom that will make all of the discomfort from the surgery and the inconvenience worth the hassle. I’ll be happy with my body again. And I’ll be naked a lot. Okay, a lot more.

     

    Category Randomness | Tags: ,, | 7 Comments

  5. Photos of My Bum

    August 29, 2012 by Heather Cole

    It was during a visit with my mother that Master Cecil, the Dom who topped me in my first rope scene, challenged me with “pics or it didn’t happen!” The bruises from our scene were just beginning to turn a beautiful shade of bluish-purple, and my ass and thighs looked like a twisted version of connect-the-dots. Being the good girl that I am, not to mention a proud masochist, I waited until my mama took a trip to the farm stand then I locked myself in her bedroom to take some photos with my phone. I felt giddy and scandalous to be in mama’s bedroom. Twelve blurry photos later (I fell over several times in various contortions) I posted three of the best results. Naturally I was tweeting the entire process in its hilarity, because who else am I going to share my ridiculousness with but a thousand of my dear internet friends.

    The following morning as I peeled peaches with mama for peach cobbler, she asked, “why on earth would you take photos of your bum?” For several moments all I could do was stare at her, dumbfounded. Turns out that mama had been stalking my Twitter timeline after I had gone to bed. I carefully sliced through a peach and tried to formulate a coherent response through my brain paralysis. I replied that Master Cecil wanted to see his handiwork. While that was true, the unspoken part was that I enjoyed showing off the results. After years of disliking my body, I’m finally finding it beautiful.

    A year and a half ago, I refused to have my picture taken. I was ashamed of my weight and felt completely undesirable. When my ex-Dom asked for a picture of me, an innocuous headshot, I had a panic attack. My self-esteem had been slowly pulverized through the course of my marriage to the point where I thought any sane man would take one look at me and keep walking. I felt lumpy, bumpy and forgettable. I sent the photo and held my breath. When he told me that I was gorgeous and sexy and demanded more pics, I thought that maybe I was being too harsh. Maybe.

    Early on in my marriage when my ex-husband expressed that he found me unattractive, I lost forty pounds and was surviving on cucumbers and yogurt. I was miserable, and he didn’t suddenly find me desirable because there was less of me. Fitting into that size 8 didn’t miraculously improve my life or solve my problems. I now wish that I had been kinder to myself instead of obsessing about a flatter stomach. I needed to address the issues at the “unattractive” core of the conflict between us, and my ex needed to be married to someone else.

    The truth of the matter is that I’m still working at shedding the last of my baby weight. I have stretch marks on my lower abdomen and cellulite on the back of my thighs. My breasts aren’t perky either, and sometimes I still cringe at a photo that catches me in an unflattering angle. However, when I finally accepted that I was kinky, I also began accepting my body. Having lovers tell me they desired me helped a lot, but even more importantly, becoming whole in my sexuality cemented the fractured relationship I had with my body. I know who I am, and I accept who I am. That confidence is more attractive than thousands of dollars of plastic surgery. And I won every ounce of it through emotional work and life experience. Therapy helped too.

    When I look at my body I still see the flaws, but I also see the beauty of its strength. I fell in love the curve of my waist where it dips down to my hips, and my full ass is perfect for spanking and caning and all sorts of things. My pale skin shows every mark, and my height gives a Dom a lot of canvas to work with. I tweeted once, “I bake. I sew. I’ll fuck your brains out.” Yes, my body enables me to do it all very well. And so much more.

    Category Randomness | Tags: , | 10 Comments