Tag Archives: Body Image

How ‘Now’ Became the Beginning

NowThere’s no argument that the best art comes from the dark side of human existence.  Whether it’s a brief journey across the border of sanity into the unknown, or the marshalling of emotions from one’s own experience, the exceptional seems to rise from the areas in which conflict and struggle are the norm.

Lately, I’ve had these experiences in spades.  In fact, the nature of the manner in which I interface with the world has rendered the majority of my life a fertile field for a massive yield of angst-related “art”.  You’d think by now I’d be a Pulitzer Prize-winning author in every category.  That is excepting of course the “feel good” category.  Wait, I’m not sure they have that one anymore, at least not since World War II. Continue reading

No Comment…On What Other Women Are Eating or Their Bodies

commentAn issue that seems to be running rampant these days is food and body image shaming among women, in the guise of backhanded compliments, self-deprecating remarks and passing observations. It’s happening at work, it’s happening at happy hour, it’s happening at family dinners. Perfect strangers are doing it to each other. A friend who works as a receptionist told me the other day that she was eating a carrot at her desk when a candidate  waiting for an interview idly remarked, “you’re lucky you can eat like that and look like you do.” This woman was interviewing to be her new boss. Food and body commentary is a form of women-on-women violence and it needs to stop. Immediately. Continue reading

Fuck Measuring

Fuck measuring

I want this to be an ever-trending hashtag. I want it written in the sky, scrawled in public restroom stalls, or better yet on public restroom mirrors. While we’re at it, let’s put it on decals and affix them to store windows, let’s make bumper stickers and coffee mugs and little signs to put on our front doors. I want dads to say it to their daughters while they tuck them into bed. I want mean girls to group text it to each other, and hiss it behind other girls’ backs. I want it on the front page of every online news outlet. I want it on cereal boxes and clothing labels and pay stubs. Continue reading

What, You’ve Never Read a Judy Blume Novel?

Judy Blume NovelChildhood sex-play is another of those phenomena that is common and rarely talked about. We’re born with our sexuality, and from the time we become curious about our genitalia and the concept of sex, we begin to explore: alone, in pairs, in groups. The age at which this occurs varies widely, and for many of us it begins in young childhood. I can remember using the spray from the handheld shower nozzle on myself at the age of six because I noticed it felt good. Before I discovered orgasm at age ten (and even sometimes after), I was interested in imaginary games about sex. Continue reading

Size Matters, or If it’s Too Small, You Don’t Have to Do it

Size MattersWhen I can get people to engage about sex, it’s a favorite topic of conversation for me. I like to know what people are doing, what’s working and how they got there. Good sex should be celebrated, and bad sex should be learned from. One thing I invariably want to discuss is whether or not size matters. This topic could be applied to many objects—tits, ass, vaginal depth, etc. But for the purposes of this post, I’m talking about dick size. Continue reading

Today’s Hot Young Things are Tomorrow’s Frumpy Parents

Hot Young ThingsA year ago I lived close to a major state university and often found a patio on which to sit and people watch on weekend nights. Checking out the outfits, the body language and overhearing snatches of conversation was an excellent source of fascination for me. Invariably, as the night wore on, packs of young women in skintight dresses cut just below the ass, and just above the nipples, tottered by on sky-high heels. (I call these girls baby giraffes, because their look evokes that of an unsteady, gangly newborn.) Packs of young men in fitted tee-shirts and jeans, swaggered past in clouds of Axe Body Spray—these boys I call bros. Young couples, made up of members of these groups, walked hand-in-hand, hoping to be seen and always drunk. Continue reading