Bra Shopping, Body Issues and Partying Naked (TMI-ish)

Next weekend My Mr. and I are going to a Mardi Gras masquerade The Dom is throwing. I scored an amazing deal on a red dress that puts 'the girls' properly on display, hugs my waist and flows perfectly over my hips. The issue is that the arm holes are just big enough that my bra shows through so I need a red bra to wear with it. Last weekend we went to Kohl's and I tried on what seemed like 100 red bras. We tried every possible equation to find the right size... 38D is too small in the cup. 38DD is too small around. 40C poked out on the sides. 40D had miles to spare... You get the point. It's like algebra added to the already demoralizing experience of buying clothing.

Even as I work towards embracing the extra fluff on the edges I'm still forced to contend with the discomfort of "sizing" and the expectations that clothing manufacturers put on women by the way they make clothes. Apparently having my size hips means I should be 6 feet tall with a giant belly. Seriously.

So today we tried again... First at one of the department stores in the mall. (I can't remember which ones we went into, and where I even bothered to make an attempt) and then I resorted to Victoria's Secret. It pains me to think of spending the same amount on a bra as I spent on my dress, but I was desperate. The fitting girl said I am a 38DD and returned with 2 red bras. The dressing room was like a sauna and the lights were the usual, unbearably bright kind that accentuate every blotch, every wrinkle and every ounce of back fat. The first bra squished my sides, dug into my shoulders and gave me quadra-boob. The second bra also squished all around but poked out in the front on the sides as though it was too big in the cups. Same size. Same store. Totally different fit. What. The. Fuck, right?

I deposited both over-priced bras on the 'don't want' rack and sulked out with tears in my eyes. On the way out of the mall I did was any sensible fat girl would- I got a bag of cinnamon sugar pretzel bites with cream cheese and came home to my sweat pants.
 
Here's the real kicker about my body issue moment: tonight we are going to our first "Socially Nude/ Lingerie Optional" party. The host is the same guy that hosted the Halloween party. We have run into him since then at other social events with some of the other Alt-Lifestyle groups we are all members of. He's been very clear that this is not a play party and addressed concerns of those new to social nudity such as "What about accidental erections?"

It's a big boundary pushing this for us. Despite my lack of shyness, I'm still really struggling with being okay with the extra weight I've put on since moving out here. My Mr. has been even more anxious about the party, and has talked about it at least once daily for the last week. He has also been doing a lot of clothes shopping, and an equal amount of clothes returning due to sizing issues.

It's a mean trick played on us all by an industry that makes millions telling us all that we are not good enough. They play with numbers and add buzz words to make each item stand out, while telling us that it's all standardized and emphasizing your SIZE, rather than your shape.

Once upon a time ago I was a perfect size 4 and a 32D. I had the body of a Victoria's Secret model for the first time in my life and couldn't wait to buy lingerie to show it off. Several online orders and several returns later I realized that even the clothes in Victoria's Secret are not made for a Victoria's Secret body.

I just don't understand it... Who DO "they" make all of these clothes for?

Night at the Gay Bar

In a moment of "Fuck it!" I wriggled into the red dress and fishnets for a 2nd time in 2 days. I opted for my knee-length boots instead of the impossible ankle-breakers I wobbled around in at the Burlesque show on Friday night. Destination: the gay bar up in the city that out last date talked about.

I won't deny that minor panic attack that came over me as we circled the block looking for parking. Everyone we saw on the street looked absolutely "Normal" to the point where I was sure I was going to be totally over-dressed. After finding parking and mistaking what looked like the front door under the sign and awning for the entrance, we back-tracked to the door where a group of men were outside smoking and walked in.

The momentary awkwardness between having our ID's checked and the first walk around the bar quickly subsided when I sat down in the same bench & coffee table area as 2 very suburban, almost frumpy looking M/F couples. I saw a bag and jacket on one of the end tables and asked if anyone was sitting there. They gestured that I could sit and My Mr. headed for the bar. Within about 2 minutes an older, very intoxicated Italian man from London was kissing my hand and going on about how gorgeous I was and how much he loved my curves. The bag near where I had sat down belonged to his date- a beautiful young black man with long dreads in a conservative sweater and jeans named Michael. Michael was friendly, warm and easy to talk to despite his date's overly-exuberant state. He reminded me of a co-worker who recently left my job: same field of study in college, talk of family and prayer and the differences between race and "culture."

The Italian Man eventually asked if I was with anyone, and seemed genuinely shocked each time I told him I was here with my husband. (Being so inebriated, there was quite an echo in our exchange.) When My Mr. returned with drinks, The Italian Man only briefly stopped petting my fishnets and made sure there would be no offense taken at his gawking at me, then at his repeated expression of how gorgeous we both were. The Italian Man did say that he had never been with a black man before and that before meeting Michael he considered himself to be a racist. They had plans to see DC the next day and after hugs and kisses goodbye, we went to check out the karaoke room.

One song later, we ventured back to the bar where we met John, a cute ginger graphic designer a couple years younger than me. My Mr. had gone to get a drink and I saw a man flirting with him, reaching over and putting his hand on his back. He returned with a drink and I suggested he go back and get me water. More flirting, and then they looked over and gestured for me to join them at the bar.  There was the usual “What do you do? Have you been here before? Are you from around here?” as well as discussions of identity and labels. John said he had known he was gay all his life and had never been with a woman... while he had his arm around my waist. When I first approached he had expressed his disappointment at My Mr. being here with something so much more beautiful- me. It was only upon learning that he had a boyfriend and they were monogamous did a door close on the possibility of more than casual flirting. John didn’t seem to fully realize this in his inebriated state and went so far as to try to pull My Mr. back into the bathroom with him at one point. That was the only moment that I felt anything other than flattered at the attention we were both getting. In that moment, my claws came out and I only relaxed when My Mr. quickly returned.

The other half of the bar had a dance club area with pulsing lights, fog and lasers that we briefly visited before retreating again to the more relaxed bar area. John had friends there, but spent the rest of the night chatting us up and occasionally goosing My Mr. It really was a test of our own code of ethics to not go too
far with things, and around his 3^rd rum and coke My Mr.’s resolve was quite weak. He confided that I was his conscience and had I not been there the evening would have gone differently. I agreed that if John was single, or ethically non-monogamous I would have been on board with things.

One of the conversations that sticks out in my mind was when John asked me what I thought he “was.” He said he had been known his whole life he was gay and had never been with a woman but he was questioning things. “Am I gay? Am I bi?” To which I reminded him of the salad analogy I’d presented earlier in the evening. “Have you ever eaten a salad? … Did it make you a vegetarian? … So why should sucking cock make a man gay?” John was just on the opposite end of things- a gay man that seemed to be considering the possibility of trying pussy.

Maybe it’s that My Mr. is so hot that a gay man was considering being with a woman in order to be with him. Or maybe it’s that I’m so hot that I could make a gay man rethink his identity. Admittedly, neither of these scenarios does any less for either of our egos.

At the end of the night we exchanged numbers and hugs and My Mr. kissed John on the lips, causing a bit of tension on the way home. John sent a text message a little later saying he was looking forward to getting to know us better and hanging out again. We aren’t sure if we’ll hear back from him again, and if we do, how we will handle the balance of attention being shifted at My Mr. much in the way it was on our very first date exactly a year ago this week. The problem I have with it all is the obvious honesty issues John has. My Mr. and I have both been there and understand, but part of our agreement is that we will not get involved with anyone who is in any kind of dishonest situation. On top of all that, the age difference and the fact that he lives at home but is not “out” to his family just leaves me feeling unsettled.

Either way, the weekend was amazing! I’m so glad I pushed past my own apprehension and into my high heels again. It’s been too long and we need to do it again sooner rather than later.

“Why did you stop blogging?”

An acquaintance from back in Texas posted that on my Facebook wall this morning. I realized I haven’t posted anything in a really long time, and I didn’t have a single entry in my December 2013 writing file. I have several word pads on my desktop with bits and pieces I put down and said I’d go back and edit “later.” But of course, “later” never seems to get here. It was a wake-up call to see just how much I’ve been slacking and really disconnecting from myself the last few weeks. Part of me says that it’s just the natural thing to do when it gets cold- grow a winter coat and hibernate. (TMI: I hadn’t shaved my legs since Thanksgiving.) Another part of me is just plain bored. My Mr. said something to that effect a few days ago. For a long time we had plans every weekend- social events, burlesque shows, discussion groups… but in December we had next to nothing. He said we are becoming ‘old and boring.’ And he’s right.

So here it is on New Year’s Day. We wanted to go to sushi but nothing was open so we’ve been in bed on our laptops all day. I chatted with someone on OkC for a bit, but as soon as he said something about his ‘throbbing cock’ I closed the chat and remembered why we haven’t been on a date in months. It’s a delicate balance when making friends as a married couple, no matter where on the monogamous-to-polyamorous scale you are. Being around the Alt. Lifestyle community just complicates things because for as many times as I’ve heard poly people talk about how it’s not just about the sex, the sex seems to take center stage even faster than in other arenas. We are lonely for friends and still working through some of the “extra person” versus “extra penis” issues together. The time with The Mad Scientist taught us both a lot about ourselves, our insecurities and the strength of our marriage but left us with a higher standard in terms of who we want in our life. That’s not a bad thing, but being picky added to the distance issues that seem to come up with the people we’ve met that we do like on a social level just leaves us more isolated in our own little bubble more and more. 

Life keeps getting in the way of living. 

My job is great, but the 8-5 life makes it even easier to fall into the trap of ‘work, dinner, TV, bed, repeat.’ I work for an awesome family where they treat the business like a second home. One the way out yesterday Boss Man stopped me to join everyone for a toast to the New Year in the conference room. My Mr. had come to pick me up and Boss Man insisted he join us, shook his hand and poured the champagne. The one co-worker I was really making friends with just left, so there’s less conversation during the day. A few weeks ago I “came out” as non-monogamous to her. That was something I was hesitant to do in general because of the atmosphere at work. Her response was exceptionally positive, and she told me that her sister was in a relationship that was in the process of opening up as well. Our people really do find us, but her life path was heading back to the South where she’d lived previously. Bless social media for giving us a means to stay connected! 

The standard 1^st day of the New Year thing to do is to start off on New Year’s Resolutions and all that. *Blah* I’m just content to say that today I’m blogging because someone made me aware that I haven’t just been typing away into the digital ethers. 2013 was a great year in so many ways, but it was lonely in other ways. It’s nice to know that what I was saying, thinking, feeling and sharing was being received and appreciated. I need to remember that for as much as I write for my own ‘therapy’ and historical recording of sorts that maybe someone else is ‘listening’ too. 

Cheers to another great year!

Jumbled Ramblings of an Angry Feminist

Monday morning I announced that I was an angry feminist. An off-hand remark that might have even been meant as a compliment bubbled up and brought with it an indignant anger and frustration I was not expecting.

During discussion group on Saturday we were discussing the previous meetings and how gender imbalanced the ones we hosted were. I said that at one meeting it was only me and The Sub and at another I was the only female there. An older man we’ve met in passing asked if the guys were all… and then he lowered his gaze to my breasts and dropped his jaw. I blew it off with, “No more so than usual.” But Monday morning while I was getting ready for work the words that escaped me in the moment came up along with a torrent of unexpected venom.

Had I been prepared for such a remark my response would have been something like, “Yes… and then I opened my mouth and they realized I had a fucking brain so they then began to look me in the eye.”

It happened with the Arabic Steam Punk at last month’s discussion group. He came in late looking like a protégé of the Pick up Artist that once had a bad reality TV show on cable. His pompadour, boots and skinny-legged pants perfectly complimented the sideburns that grew down towards a well manicured a horizontal line at each cheek. He introduced himself and talked about wanting to “corrupt” as many ladies to this lifestyle as possible and said he was looking for advice how to accomplish that. I tossed out my cheeky line that around here we are already corrupted. Eventually he stopped acting like a pompous ass and realized that the women in the group are more than just ‘corrupted’ we are witty, intelligent, articulate people that happen to have boobs. When he engaged me in conversation at the Halloween party he discussed personal issues, without being a Drama Llama while asking me for insight on all kinds of topics. It was great conversation that felt like human connection and not a pick up attempt.

The weekend before last we went to a wine tasting with the Big Poly MeetUp. Back at the organizer’s house after dinner I immediately found myself engaged in conversation with one of the Organizers. When we last attended an event with them, it seemed he was set on getting one girl in particular drunk after she made a remark about how often she ends up naked when she gets tipsy. We initially got into a discussion about the term “Ethical Non-Monogamy” and he went on a rant of sorts as to why he doesn’t like to use that term. “The only thing you identify by what it’s not is non-dairy creamer.” A very fair and fitting statement. From there it spun into his preferred term of “Self Determination” and how the emphasis on sex in our culture needs to be removed. I’ve referred to the ‘attachments’ we as a culture place on sex, while he calls it a ‘charge’ and said that it needs to be diffused. While I agree that the shame and guilt our culture places on sex while simultaneously linking it to love, attention and intimacy are not healthy, he was comparing sex to shopping, or going to a movie with somebody. He said that we can talk about a new recipe with a co-worker and offer to bring them a dish to try, but you could not tell that same co-worker about a new sexual position you discovered and offer to show them. Again, he made very valid points in an articulate manner through several hours and several bottles of wine. But ultimately he was feeding the same chick shots and asking who wanted to get into the hot tub. *Sigh*

That conversation really pushed a button in me. I found myself belching up an excuse for poetry in my journal and a rant that really spelled out my sense that I still crave the attachment of sex and intimacy. To take away all of the “charge” from the act would leave us with little more than naked aerobics in a world where there is no magic left. I feel like there is a line between “Sex Positive” and casual sex that I have no desire to cross. I don’t want to be open enough with someone to get naked and risk STI infections, ect without a sense of trust, of connection, and of a little bit of meaning to it all. In some circles this is a very unpopular opinion and one that I know does not suit everybody.

From there I caught myself in some nasty self-talk that brought tears to my eyes. I acknowledged how being loveable and being fuckable are on opposing ends of a spectrum for me. I wrote that I’ve accomplished “fuckable” and need to feel more loveable. The part I was hesitant to share with My Mr. was that my sense of being loveable shrinks every time he fucks me.

And these are the things I need to unravel in myself. I *know* better to have love on the same plane as sexiness, fuckability and all the other things that feel objectifying to me. I *know* that I am more than, as I wrote in my journal, a wet hole that happens to cook and clean well. I *know* that sex and intimacy are two separate things and that there is nothing wrong with non-intimate sex because there is certainly nothing wrong with non-sexual intimacy. I know that seeing My Mr. and the Sub cuddled up on the couch was fine, but the minute he kissed her in a sexual manner all of my trust and all of the work we’ve done in establishing boundaries was shattered. I know that too much of my life has been spent perpetuating the notion that my only worth is how sexy and fuckable I am and I am equally to blame for accepting that as my own self image. I know that is part of why I gained this extra weight and am content in my far-from media standard of sexiness because it forces those around me to look past my thick thighs and flabby tummy in a way that nobody ever did when I was a size 6 with D cups and long blond hair.

Knowing all of this doesn’t solve how it FEELS, but I’ve found a couple ends of the knot and that’s how you start unraveling a jumbled mess like this, right?

12 Years Ago

I don’t want to pet the drama llamas and I don’t want to jump on a band wagon or soap box here. The thing is that social media makes other people’s opinions and stories almost unavoidable. Yes, I could follow the lead of a friend from middle school who posted this: “Ok. Won't be paying or looking at Facebook today. Forgot 9/11 is another day people decide to post without being in a cause or knowing about it... Represent minions!!!!!! Night till 9/12”

The thing is that today is not just another day for me, and many others. Today is the anniversary of an event that would shape my life in ways few people could have imagined. All conspiracies and politics aside, this event HAPPENED, and the following events directly impacted the course of my life. I was 22 then and only 6 weeks prior married a US Army Cavalry Scout. He was a cute boy with big blue eyes and a grin for miles, with quirky little gap between his front teeth. When we met 7 months before, he was just back in the states after tour in Bosnia. He had deployed straight out of basic training, and was not 21 yet on the day the towers fell. We moved to Germany the following spring where he was almost immediately sent to Kosovo. It was to be a 6 month tour, but his replacement unit was sent to Iraq as part of OIF 1, so they extended their mission to 9 months. From there, there were moves back to Colorado, a separation, reconciliation, a move to Texas and 2 more deployments to Iraq. By the time we separated, I was 30 years old. We owned a home and he was slated for a third deployment to Iraq. The TBI (traumatic brain injury), PTSD, migraines and back problems were so bad that he did not deploy, and was medically discharged before he turned 30. 

We haven’t spoken much recently, but he remarried a girl that lived next door to us in Germany. They separated and he moved back home and is living with his parents. He is on full disability and so many prescription pain medications that I know of at least 2 hospitalizations for near-over doses. That boy with the big grin and sparkling blue eyes is now over-weight, over-medicated and living in his parents’ basement. A man walks around with his name, his fingerprints and his DNA but little else remains of the boy I married all those years ago. He is not the only soldier out there, transformed by it all and I am not the only family member to suffer in my own right. The stress, the trauma, the loneliness and all the other feelings brought on by war are real, whether or not you personally wear the uniform. I think people forget that. I try to forget it, but to this day movie scenes that show soldiers in combat or coming home to their families, or anything else that resembled that piece of my life, bring it all back in a flood down my face. It’s embarrassing to cry at the sight of such things, but it looks too familiar and my brain can’t seem to tell time in those moments.

It took a few years but I moved on with life and am also remarried. I swore up and down that I would not get involved with another soldier, but here I am with a new last name and ACU’s hanging in the closet. My husband has been to Afghanistan three times, but luckily does not bear the same traces of war that ExH did. We are far enough removed from the Military community that most of the time it’s like any other job with a uniform. There are still quirks in his personality that developed because of his time over there, and I recognize them and am thankful they are less violent and more manageable than the things ExH came home with. 

My friend was right that people are posting all over social media that don’t know what that day was like for so many others. They were too young, or too far removed to have little memory beyond the images on television. They were taught to remember an event that was little more to their personal history than a really scary movie on a screen. Good for them. But for the rest of us, I think it is part of the healing to look back once a year and say, “I was there. I was present. And these things still matter to me.”