Is anyone else amused that the Jessica Simpson lingerie line (yes, there is such a thing) doesn’t seem to come in a size that would accommodate Jessica’s actual breasts? The biggest cup size I see is a C — Jessica Simpson is a DD. Maybe you can get it online, or maybe the store I’m in is just out of stock. But it seems like a dick move if it just doesn’t exist.
I can’t be the only person who spends a few hours with their family and then spends the rest of the day making proactive plans to NOT turn out like that…can I?
Oddly, the only time I’m NOT self-conscious about how my body looks is during sex. Because:
a) I don’t think my partner has enough blood in his brain to judge;
b) if he is judging, I’m reasonably sure he’s still delighted that a naked woman is writhing on top of him;
c) if he’s truly revolted by something, he can piss off, because he doesn’t deserve to be in me; and
d) anything either of our bodies is doing out of pure pleasure is AMAZING to watch.
This woman wrote this: “I do vaguely realize that I can’t be some kind of deformed unicorn, a rare and uniquely hideous creature fit only for sex that a medieval Catholic theologian would approve of. ”
And so now I must share this article with you all.
My date this weekend has been upgraded to an overnight-optional event.
I worried briefly about what I should wear to bed if I stay over. But then I remembered that I’m a girl and sleeping naked is the among the simplest and sexiest things I can do.
I think I put too much stock in innate sexual chemistry. I’m sure it can be learned with trial and error, even if the first time is a little awkward.
But there’s something SO hot about clicking that way immediately, about both people following their instincts and having that be instantly amazing. Everyone has such different sexual quirks. If you find someone inherently in tune with you, who just knows your body without instruction, I think you should fuck that person. Often, and with great enthusiasm.
What guy is gonna walk into my apartment and say, “OMG, it smells like bacon in here, yum! Oh. You don’t have bacon? Just a candle? Well, that is perfectly acceptable. Let us snuggle.”
NO. For the price of a big Yankee Candle — $30 — do you know how much fucking ACTUAL bacon I could buy? And then a guy would walk into my place and be like, “OMG, it smells like bacon in here, yum! Oh, look, there is a HUGE plate of LITERAL bacon! You are awesome! When I have had my fill of bacon, I shall pleasure you orally and then go get you some ice cream.”
Eeewww. You know that sidebar on Facebook that tells you who on your friends list “liked” and commented on things? That is a terrible feature. I do not need to know how many times a day my brother-in-law likes photos on the “Thick and Curvy Girls Do It Better” page.
(By the way, I’m not grossed out by thick or curvy girls — I AM thick and curvy. I’m grossed out by knowing what gives my brother-in-law a semi on a Wednesday morning.)