Men have been dividing me into parts since I was 15. Ranking me into valuable and tolerable. As if they were looking for a ripe fruit in the produce department. Yes. No. Sure, if I can’t find something better.
I don’t blame them. Playboy models are lit like a car. Tiny lights placed by “their assets.” Female bodies grace train adverts, billboards, magazines, and movies. Stretched. Shaved. Sanitized. And we focus on them instead of the rich robust bodies of women all ages moving past us in drugstores. Stopped parallel at a traffic light. Or pulling their skirts down because they have become partially tucked into their knickers.
We are an immature culture. Hindered like teenagers in a video game world. We have avoided rejection, because we are not real.
Somewhere a tribes woman with her tits hanging, unrepentant and low, is laughing at our world gone mad.
Look at me. I am real. I have lived in this body my whole life. I am equally in my asshole. And my breasts. I use my mouth to eat, to kiss, and to vomit when I need to. My belly is flat one moment and full of steak the next. There is nothing 2D about what I am.
Sexy to me, is how someone inhabits their body. The depths of what they have unraveled to feel. How they express. Their animal and their king. Aligned in one fluid thrust.
Listen to me. My words reek of flesh, fat, and sweat. Use your felt sense with what I offer you. Descend into a world that is indeed not safe. Sanitized. Or meant for consumption. It is a world to be wild in. A world that can see you back.