Mermaid, Me

mermaid

To many men, I’ve been told I’m like a mermaid.  Like Captain Ahab’s white whale, I’m the object of their quest.

But do they realize that mermaids don’t have cunts?  I don’t either.

Maybe that’s what makes us all so alluring… mysterious… so desirable… so unattainable…. so….

Unfuckable?  Maybe…. Maybe not….  Hmmmm…..

Without a vulva, much less a vagina, what do we have?  How in the world can we make true love to you?

What we do have — what do you call it?  Does it sound better, sexier, than the word “cunt?”

Please take the Poll and tell me.

 

Men I Have Known: Chapter 2

Shaping more than my brows....

Shaping more than my brows….

My very first lover, he was the most judgmental.

It started with my hair.  Too short, he said.

Then my brows.  Untamed, too bushy, he said.

My chest, too flat, of course – he didn’t have to tell me.

Finally…finally…I became what he desired.

And then I killed him.

Sometimes now, in my vanity mirror, I can see his stare still, for his eyes belong to me, you see.  The “he” was once me.  It was he who shaped me…and not just my brows!

Of Déshabillé and Desire: Holiday Reading

Love the Look, don't you?

Love the Look, don’t you?

Sometimes I think my driving passion hasn’t been simply to be a woman, loved, sexy and desirable.  Rather, glamour is what I want!  To be considered glamorous — who could ask for anything more!

That quest is what defines me!  The epiphany comes to me while reading Virginia Postrel’s new book, The Power of Glamour: Longing and the Art of Visual Persuasion.

An essential ingredient of glamour is apparent effortlessness or graceful nonchalance, called sprezzatura in Italian. (When Tgirls look like they try too hard, that’s precisely when we’re most often “read!”)

Paradoxically, however, sprezzatura requires great care and craft, attention to detail,  even premeditation, to pull off properly.  Another word for this is grace.

When you communicate grace, you’re not just fuckable, but so much more: An aura of confidence and competence envelopes you.  Others don’t just want to fuck you; they want to be you!

The French expression deshabille — what one literary scholar calls “careful carelessness, artful artlessness, delicately tousled perfection” — is all about eroticism, isn’t it?

While I’m not presumptuous enough to ever call myself glamorous, I can promise you this: I’ll always keep trying…keep working it.

You should, too!

Reflections: What the Mirror Sees

Don't you just love the Wet Look Legging Look!

Don’t you just love the Wet Look Legging Look!

When I look in the mirror, whom/what do I see?

More interesting question: who is the “I” behind the eyes?

Do the eyes belong to the horny teenage boy I once was?   Wow, what a hottie!

Or has my vision now been altered along with the rest of my body?  I like it when you think I’m hot!

Eternal Feminine, Forever Fuckable

cezanne1877oiloncanvasThe so-named “The Eternal Feminine” oil on canvas, painted by Paul Cezanne in 1877, haunts me.

At first blush, it could be me at the center of the painting: unformed, gawked at by various men. Their fantasies will mold me. I’m as blank and passive as a porn actress.

But then I realize that I myself could be said to be one of the gawkers. In my quest for the Eternal Feminine, I will fill in the blanks of what Cezanne left unpainted.

Actualizing the woman within, I fashion myself inevitably into the object of the male gaze…reflecting lecherous curiosity and lustful desire. So it is that it is their faces that become blank, anonymous, forgettable, a blur, animated and defined only by how their imaginations — and thrusts! — fill me. Yes, it’s the the cock (but not the faces) that I remember.

And yes, I want to be, and remain, forever fuckable. Isn’t that what “the Eternal Feminine” is ultimately all about?