A little flash of flesh
To coax the flash flood
Flowing from within
My unfathomable folds
A little flash of flesh
To coax the flash flood
Flowing from within
My unfathomable folds
I don’t like to show the whole;
So I show the fragments instead.
I control the angle,
The body part(s) on display,
The filter… if I use one at all–
And I might,
If my insecurity is showing.
I have days,
Too many to count,
When I hate myself wholeheartedly…
Every fucking centimetre…
And I feel that it would be better
If I actually were only the fragments I choose to show,
Rather than the disappointing whole.
It’s just as well–
I can never quite capture the all of me anyway
She is elusive and blurry,
And doesn’t stand still
Long enough to be caught.
Self-love is a constant struggle of Sisyphus… pushing that motherfucking dung ball up a hill, then, after my hands and feet lose purchase, watching it roll the fuck back down… again….
Will I ever feel good enough for me?
And it will continue to be a battle.
If it weren’t, there would be
And no growth.
So I bear the shards of the pain and pleasure of self-actualization
In equal measure.
With grinding teeth
And gasping breaths
And tears that brand my cheeks
In bloody streaks,
I bear the fragments
And the whole of me.
I needed purple for this particular energetic composition.
I needed something to soothe my soul,
To scare off the demons,
And to awaken my curiosity;
Did you know that the colour purple doesn’t really exist?
Our mind invents it.
Just like it invents all other sorts of lies,
Like the following:
You are not good enough as you are.
That’s the worst one, that.
It bleeds into every aspect of one’s being.
It poisons all that it touches,
and turns it to gall.
It takes wild minds and souls,
And breaks them.
Makes them do all sorts of things
To change for others,
To fulfill obtuse and limiting definitions,
To fit into boxes.
Believing that lie is a losing battle.
The only lie you should believe
These paintings are not entirely art. Each one releases and brings to the surface an experience requiring further examination and a moment of compassion, forgiveness and unconditional love, for self and for all. I use my body as palette and paintbrush as it is the locale through which we experience our life and all of the thoughts, emotions and sensory phenomena that come with it.
I sometimes ask myself why I need to show my body to the world in this manner. I could give you some long-winded hippie dippie spiritual spiel, but I will spare you the boredom, and condense that answer into a single sentence: Because it is fun. When I dig deep, past my own self-judgment, that’s the long and short of it.
So, I call this “Purple Nurple” because it rhymes and I felt rhyme-y, and because aggressively twisting the nipples of those who pass judgment on others for being whoever or whatever they are seems amusing and satisfyingly sadistic without being overly cruel.
Hope it tickles you purple!
Rose quartz and gilded joy
Dripping down valleys and hills
Of flesh and heaven.
“Rose Quartz and Gilded Joy”
I don’t take many profile photos.
I prefer seeing myself straight on
Or from behind.
Seeing myself from the side is less than my favourite.
It’s the belly.
It’s the insecurity.
Which tends to show more when I am viewed, by myself or others, in profile.
You might be able to sense my discomfort from this vantage point.
My muscles in my neck, shoulders and chest are tense.
I am not liking taking this photo.
But I take it anyway because I need to see myself,
All of myself,
And not just the good angles.
And it really isn’t a terrible photo.
I look quite nice.
I love the look of my thigh and my ass.
And how my upper abdominals are quite flat and defined.
See? I can find beauty in an angle I avoid.
Maybe I should stop avoiding
And just see what is really there.
Maybe even look beyond the physical
And see the real Empress inside of me.
Each day is a waiting canvas
Upon which I enact the roles
Of Maestro, Muse and Masterpiece,
The Maestro in his masculine power,
All dynamism and fire,
All palette, paintbrush and brush stroke,
Becomes catalyzed by the divine whisperings and Aeolian caresses
Gifted by the Muse,
Who bleeds feminine enigma and goddess nectar
Down his ear canal,
Into his blood stream,
To the core of his galactic soul,
All over their altar of shared creation.
Together they meld and melt into the other and the aether
And bring forth a masterpiece
Of divine eternal union
In its sublime grandeur.
All of this
Inside of Me.
I don’t wear the same shorts every day, I promise. I just took a tonne of photos one morning… and I actually like most of them, hence why you are (hopefully) enjoying a third post with the same striped shorts.
I don’t mean to sound full of myself, but I really like seeing the oblique muscles on my abs (or flab before the ab). In all honesty, the only reason I have any muscle tone on my abs is due to masturbation. I kid you not. Sometimes it’s a full body work out with a focus on core strength.
Titty flash. Big surprise there.
I made this painting a couple of weeks ago. I was feeling my masculine and feminine energies melding together, demanding to be seen, to be felt, to be experienced. All inside of me.
It was almost like they were making love in a cozy aurora of violet and gold, nestled right inside of my core. Maybe it was my pussy… sometimes they feel like the same place.
The feeling was eternal.
Every photo I have taken of myself has been my masculine aspect loving on my feminine. I blush every day at this love story unfurling internally.
And I don’t expect anyone to understand. And I don’t need anyone to. It’s all on and in me to navigate this awakening process which carries both beauty and suffering in equal measure.
I felt this yin and yang vibe that even weeks later is still very much in my energy. Black and white seemed fitting: black for the feminine, white for the masculine. Negative/Positive. Dark/Light. Yielding/Penetrating. Reception/Provision. Submission/Dominance. Neither is better or stronger than the other. Both aspects fit like perfect puzzle pieces.
It was a veritable force of self-love and balance, a wooing of one aspect of another. Within me. And I can still feel it all, in my hands, in my belly, in my loins, in my sacred heart. I am swooning as I write this.
This is “Let’s Make Love Alone/Together”.
Our wandering hands
Are always fingering their way
Right towards me
I was perusing some of my favourite ladies on WordPress this morning, and I am seriously infatuated with a few of them. I mean, intelligence, wit, sexiness and lip-smacking titties and ass… what more can one possibly want out of a morning read?
Anyhoo, I was so inspired and turned on by one tasty photo set, that I had to snap some photos of myself. I may as well share them….
I have really grown to love and adore my breasts. I used to hate them… like seriously hate them. They always invited unwanted attention, and I used to be extremely introverted.
People have always commented on them… their size mostly. When I was 11, my uncle, who actually isn’t a creep, he just didn’t know any better, made me self-conscious for the very first time of my budding breasts by merely pointing out their existence. It was a simple observation of my starting to fill out that made me aware of my body and other people’s response to it.
An old high school friend used to oggle them constantly. When we would meet for drinks, he would always let me know how much he admired them. I should have been flattered but it just made me uncomfortable because I wasn’t into him that way. And I did not agree with him that they were desirable. I thought they were saggy, lopsided, squishy and just fucking gross.
My friend’s mom, whom I had known most of my life, once reached down my shirt and grabbed my tit and shook it. She meant it affectionately, and she was a very bold personality, but still, I was like 18 and a virgin, and no one else had ever touched my tits. I felt violated… but I giggled when she did it because I didn’t know how to set boundaries with others.
I had one person tell me that she could now see that they are assymetrical… when I was pregnant… when my body was transforming into an unrecognizable stretched out mess (I looked adorable as a short preggie chick… but I felt disgusting). Yeah. Always nice to have your imperfections pointed out to you when everything makes you cry.
There are so many more instances in which I have hated my tits, but those days are thankfully long gone. They are now an errogenous zone; prior to lactating, they did not factor into my sex life. I would feel repulsed when hubs would play with them… not by him but by me… because I hated myself. But hubs had a major fetish for my breasts when they produced milk, and I loved the sensation of letting down in a sexual situation (obviously with an adult and NOT my baby… duh) as well as how excited he would get when he expressed that liquid gold from my protruding nipples. That helped me learn to love and enjoy them. That, and now taking adoring photos.
No matter what anyone else thinks, says or does pertaining to my breasts, they are mine, and I grant you the privilege of watching me love on them. Yes… the privilege. It was a long road to self-love, but it feels like I have finally arrived home.
Tongues of steam and water
Leave traces of fire
Along the curves that construct my body,
Burning away the fallen bracken ferns of last year
To make room for new unfettered growth of the new year to come.
Let my body do the talking
While my lips do other things.
Let my body curl and uncurl
Like the waves of the sea
Inside my heart.
*I don’t post many videos…. This one makes me feel a little self-conscious to share but it made me so happy to make it and see myself loving my body in this way. When I am not well… this is just what I need. ❤
I scribbled this masturbatory poem almost 2 years ago and nearly forgot about it. I doctored it a bit as time away from one’s own written word demands revision. I am sure I could have been figurative in my approach… but I am not feeling particularly subtle or figurative today.
Without further ado….
The bed below my ass gives every time I roll my hips down into it.
My glistening nodule, buried beneath fluttering folds of juicy wet flesh, tingles with every thrust upward.
My fingers quiver with want as they claw my inner thighs, leaving wanton red scrapes, almost breaking the skin.
My index and middle fingers form an inverted ‘V’ over my vulva, pinching and releasing my outer lips until my clitoris swells and hardens.
Fingers circling that sweet pearl of ecstacy like bees around the honey pot.
It will only take minutes at this point until I wholly unravel, burst into flames and leave this confining dimension for a few fleeting moments of breathless eternity.
I was feeling purple, and was feeling connected to the moon… which is no surprise as I live there much of the time, so I primed my canvas to reflect this.
I added just a touch of blue because… well… sometimes you feel a little blue too.
It’s ok to be complicated.
Sometimes I like to enjoy a moment of communion with myself and Spirit to ponder what approach to take for a particular piece.
Silver and gold seemed fitting. I am sure you can hazard a guess as to which tool I used to spread these colours about the canvas.
Paintbrushes are made of hair, aren’t they? Well, my paintbrushes are a part of me… literally.
The luminenscence of the moon dripped from my breast before I pressed into the field of silver and gold-laced purple.
This was a very fun piece to make that left me floating on a shimmering cloud of purple contentment.
This is “Purple Moon Giggle”. Happy moods make happy art.
I like being with me.
Sometimes it’s hard because I am not always nice to myself.
But I am getting better at being forgiving, compassionate, patient and loving…
Maybe then I can learn how to be that way with others.
Because we can always be a little bit better,
Than we were the day before.
What is it about fishnet that is so sexy, so deliciously erotic? I always feel very sensual and carnal when I wear it.
Family drama left me with chest pains and a dangling-from-the-rafters flavour of anxiety a couple of days ago. Most of it was caused by yours truly… but this is always the case with anxiety… more in the head than out of it.
I was very focused on creating, and took zero photos of the process. Getting in touch with healing energy took precedence.
I felt immediately lighter and more care-free and forgiving (towards myself) after making it.
This is the night of my mind impregnated with the sun-moon of my heart.
The last couple of paintings (energy imprints…?) I did were pretty heavy duty. I knew that another one was brewing but it felt lighter, happier.
The colours had to be different. No more fire and burning. No more blood and rage. A shift occured after the last one.
The stuck energy wasn’t clearing from my lower two chakras (Root – safety and security; Sacral – emotions) this time, but from my Solar Plexus (yellow- personal power), Heart (green – Love) and Throat (blue – expression) chakras.
The silver stands for Spirit, and my connection with the Divine.
As always, applying the paint was very satisfying in a primal way. It always feels like I am opening a door to somewhere deep inside of Me.
I pressed different parts of my painted body onto my little canvas, transferring any stuck energy from those chakras to the external surface provided.
I was so silent. Normally, I may laugh or speak to myself (yes, I do this a lot), but this time there was a quiet radiance that enveloped me as I connected to the paint, the surface, to myself, to Spirit.
I did this while Hubs watched Dr. Strange in the background. I could have been surrounded by throngs of on-lookers and it would not have distracted me as I was in a bubble of creative expression and energetic release. It was as liberating as it was glorious.
I finished it off with some paint ejaculate… like the icing on the cake. Spurts of joy, love and open, unfiltered expression.
This is called “Joy Ejaculation”.
I wonder what the next one will be like…. I feel pink is on the horizon….
I always find ways
To take the scenic route,
Towards being somewhat close to at least half ready
To leave the house and start my work day.
But rushing is stressful and boring.
So I allow plenty of space and time
For distractions of my own creation.
I feel sweet this morning,
Like damp candy floss.
Making my fingers sticky,
And my teeth hum.