Bang, Bang! BBW Monday Rides Again!

Photo of thisprairielife from nekkidbbw. You can see the rest of her set here if you join the group.

The last time I put out the call for pics of awesome looking fat girls, Thursday's Child said she wasn't sure what I was looking for. It's true, I wasn't terrifically clear on that. So I gave it some thought, what I wanted BBW Monday to look like, and surfed around on the internet a bit. And now I know.

I want it to look like nekkidbbw.

Remember how a long time ago I was surprised to actually find sex (*gasp!*) on LJ? (You can go ahead and make fun of me, it's ok.) Nekkidbbw is another one of those awesome groups. What I wanted was to find well-shot, semi-artsy pics of well-dressed fat girls...that weren't necessarily from a porn site. ('Cuz at that time that's most of what I was finding, fat girls on porn sites.) Nekkidbbw shows all that, and more.

It's just regular girls taking off their clothes and taking pics of themselves, and that's exactly what I find so fascinating about it. Some of the pics are shot with artistic intent, some chicks just want to show off their new tats. The pics are self-portraits taken with blurry cams in the privacy of the bathroom, or in studio lighting with the help of a friend. The size of the girls range from slightly plump to SSBBWS. It's all very raw: you get to see other people's boobs, stretchmarked bellies, or sometimes even full vaginas (once with a tampon string peaking out). And since this is a private LJ group (you have to join to see many of the pictures), it's intimate. We get to see a little slice of these girls' personalities and lives. Of what their bedrooms are like. Of what they look like to their lovers. Of their style in underthings (and really, a lot of these girls have really rockin' underwear.) And at the end all the boys leave comments telling 'em how hot they are. Which, really, is what the world needs more of. :)

So really, I'd just like to steal nekkidbbw's feed and make it my BBW Monday every week. But really, why do that when you can send me your own rockin' pics? Email me at missmollyren@gmail.com, and you could find yourself being next week's pretty BBW!

Awkward Things

"Aftershave," my housemate says. He's puzzled at the scent because he's the only male in the house, and he doesn't wear any.

"Yep," I deadpan. He can smell it coming from my room because I've just shaved my pussy and I put too much on afterwards to combat razor burn.

* * *

"I see you have tights on today," one of my co-workers comments. "What happened, someone try to look up your skirt?"

"Um," I say, "I always wear tights to work. Only difference is that these are black and the others have been peach."

I still have no idea what inspired her to make this remark.

* * *

Moving in to my new place, a book fell out of one of my boxes and my landlord stooped to pick it up. It was my copy of Marquis de Sade's Philosophy in the Bedroom. Which might have been ok if it was one of the old versions with a bland cover, but recently I had splurged on the new Penguin translation. The cover looks like this:



The inner back flap shows a brilliant red horse's ass.

He looked it, then shoved it back in the box. I kept walking, pretending I hadn't noticed, but wondering what would happen. I was counting in my head: 3, 2, 1...

"Have your ever read the Karma Sutra?" my landlord asked.

Sex Blogging and Getting Older

You ever hear that saying about how young people think they will live forever? That they are invincible?

It's bullshit.

It may just be because I have spent the last 3.5 years hanging out with scruffy philosophy majors for my late night-conversations, but I've never known anyone my age who didn't know that they were getting older and be scared shitless by it. Actually, we all think we'll die at 30.

It's true. For the longest time, I have had the vague, unformed idea in my mind that some form of annihilation would come over me before I reached my 30th year. Or maybe not anything that dramatic, maybe it was something else that felt like dying. It put an edge of desperation into everything I thought, if not everything I did--I wasn't sure what the hell to do half of the time. I never really talked to anyone about it, because a part of me felt it was stupid. Just my own private not-quite quarter-life crisis which could never be resolved.

I don't feel like this any more. But lately I've been talking to the Hipster Feedee (more about him later) and he talks about how he does all he can to "fake it" now. To make it seem like he's 29 or younger. About how he had a star-studded birthday so that if anyone looked him up on the internet they wouldn't see his true age right away. He tells me stories about people who write about music and art getting fired when they reach a certain age and then I get riled up and angry. No one knows why me and my peers have to think like this.

Well, Ok, I, personally, don't know. I just know that up until recently when I contemplated reaching that age my mind would reach such a wall of shining nothingness that I was sure it could only be The End of All Things. Maybe it's because I know deep down that Napoleon and Alexander the Great and Mozart all did their thing by 20 or so.

Really, I was a failure out of the womb.

When I make a little more effort to imagine it, I think we're all more afraid of our sprits dying than our bodies. At 30 we imagine we will all be old and fat* and boring. No more parties. No more drinking. No more late nights at Kino 41st street when some stranger would put their hand in my twat**. At 30 all would magically dissolve and I would be left entirely alone in a dead end job, maybe at Starbucks.

A young gay man I know is also depressed at getting older. According to him, a 30 year old gay man is practically at death's door. A minute after midnight on his last day at 29 he will wither, turn grey, and start looking at twinkies that are hardly in their teens with the sick smile of a pedophile. (Come to think of it, wasn't this whole concept a major plot point in Queer As Folk, how Brian Kinney was terrified of hitting 30?)

However, I now find myself almost unique among my generation in that I am not afraid of getting older. And I owe it all to reading sex blogs.

It's true. All the best sex blogs are written by old people***. According to my favorites--the ones I first found almost a year ago and kept reading up until this very day--us 20 year olds know absolutely nothing about sex. We are just mouthing our "date"'s twat and fumbling at our "boyfriend"'s ball sacks. At 20 and with a fair number of partners behind me, I can still yearn for a golden age of sex--which seems to come around 40 after a divorce****. While the thought might worry some of you, I adore you people. Your exploits put my adolescent groupings to shame and I want to be just like you when I grow up.

And as for the younger bloggers--i.e., those who have actually reached 30 without keeling over at midnight on their last day as 29ers--you're just like me, only cooler. You're still drinking and wenching pretty girls. You're still figuring out who you are and what you want. And you embrace the exploration boldly.

It would seem, then (at least out here on the fringes of sex and gender and tech and god knows what else) that age no longer matters when you fuck. With the knowledge that I will probably still be getting tail--and lots of it--when I reach the tender age of 40, all the other problems of aging seem more manageable.

Botox? AAG don't need no stinkin' Botox.

Really, it's wonderful. I feel like I can breathe. I feel like I can plan ahead, not just for the next ten or so years, but for the next thirty or forty. It's like being released from a beheading, only instead of running out and seeing everything with hyperkinetic joy and thankfulness I can actually slow down a little. Theoretically.

But maybe it's not just us on the insulated fringy-fringes. Maybe it's actually becoming more mainstream. Did you ever hear those stories about people getting it on in nursing homes? One of my fav stories I read in I think Reader's Digest, about two people who met in a nursing home that would stop the elevator between floors just so they could get some necking privacy. I say good for them.

But I still see it in every day conversations: "Old people having sex, ew." And I used to think that. And sometimes I look at old people and still think that. To my eyes, people who have gotten really up there have a strange topography to their bodies. Which, unless I improve my diet, make plans to undergo several cosmetic surgeries in the coming years, and lose all the fat that some of my fans find so attractive, will probably be just like how I look someday. Hell, someday my boobs might be down to my knees.

Thinking of it that way, you can't say "ew" anymore really. Every time you say "ew", you lose a little bit of your future leeway to fuck when you too are old people. When I'm 40 I expect to be at least 1,000 times more horny than I am now and the last thing I need while making out in the park with my silver-haired beau is a bunch of young twits going "Ew, old people making out! How disgusting!"

Cee says when I'm sixty I'm probably going to be an old pervy lady with a boy toy, but we'll ignore that part. Hell, maybe by that age I will have gotten brave enough to finally buy a vibrator.

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*not even the sexy fat that happens in Feederism. In 30-year-old life projections that never happens.

**This really happened, folks. If enough people make inquiries I might even trot down memory lane to post about it.

***Dear everyone who finds this through their blog stats that is incensed at the use of the word "old people": By "old", I mean only "older than I am". Which really isn't very, because I am in my very early 20s. I just think it's fun to poke fun at you because I can. ;)

****It's a trend I see! You can't deny it!

Chat of the Week: Cee has an answer for everything

Cee! I moaned over IM one night, I met this new boy and he's too wonderful for me to talk to, what shall I do?

Cee: Stuff him and fuck him and hang him on the wall.

Cee: Then fuck him again.

Me: Of course. Why didn't I think of that?

Keeping Live Journal Sexy

I spiffied up my old Live Journal. Go friend me if you prefer a dose of pervery with your regular LJ feeds.

Trigger

You know when you're on the top of the stairs and you can hear all the people at the bottom coming up? That happened all the time at the Manor. We had like three long staircases, so it always took a while, and if people were talking you always had a pretty good idea of who was coming up before you actually saw them.

So I'm on my way out of my room, buttoning up my cuffs, and I hear the usual gaggle of voices. And then a new one which nails me to the floor.

My thoughts start racing. Not her--hallucination--oh, God, it is, how--? Wait, they know each other from school, they must have invited her over--why, don't they know how she--me--

But it is inevitable. I can hear her voice coming up the stairs. So I stayed there, a sickly smile on my face, as they all reached the landing. Face the music.

Once on the landing, I could see who was actually there. Four people. One of my housemates moved aside and it wasn't her. Wasn't Constantine's short-lived girlfriend, and my useless desire. It was another girl altogether, with an eerily similar voice.

"Hi!" I said, too loudly, and offered my hand. Shake. The poor girl, she must think I hate her--she must think the sight of her makes me ill!

After introductions were made they all had something to see in Avril's room, so I let them go on. I stood outside my door and took deep breaths, trying to calm my heart. I thought again, This has got to end, sometime. This can't go on forever.

For a long time, the two of them were my own personal ghosts. My eyes would linger over people I saw that reminded me of them in public places. I would see things that reminded me of them, and my whole body and mind would twang with addictive and shameful memory, leaving me hardly able to work afterwards. A great distraction.

But now it's ended--or has almost ended, finally. I haven't had such a trigger in a long time, I've sought out new people, pleasures, faces, voices. But every now and then I will wonder what crack there was in my personality to let them take such hold...and how I can keep it from happening again.

Are you the next Pretty BBW?

Image via Little Extra's Myspace collection of hot curvy babes

Peeps, I have been remiss.

When I first began this blog, I had a weekly pic of a Pretty BBW, sometimes on a Friday, sometimes on a Monday. Then came a housemate oversight...and, well, we won't go into that. Safe to say, I haven't put one up for a while.

But now I want to make it a weekly thing again. Problem is, I'm still having trouble finding that Ideal Curvy Chick Photo. Not so much BBW porn, but hot and challenging pics of larger bodies--not necessarily nekkid. Pics that show real knowledge of how to use a camera. Pics that might even have been taken by the girls themselves.

I need your help! The internet is way to big, even for me. ;) If you have a Flickr account*, you can post your hot tummy pics (stuffed or unstuffed) under the tag "stuffiesblog"--currently, of which there are none. (You know, I didn't get one Thanksgiving pic? Not one! I must be too perverted for my own good...) Or you can email me with links at missmollyren (at) gmail (dot) com. If it's of you, tell me something about yourself and why you like your body...and if it's of someone else, tell me where you got it. That's really all you need.

And as always, if I ever post a photo that you don't want up here (i.e., it's of you and you would rather not be the unwitting participant in some pervert's fetish blog) I'll take it down right away. 'Cuz I'm nice like that.

______________________________________

*I first saw this method used on Sinclair's blog and on Genderfork. I don't know which of them thought of it first, but it's brilliant, so I'm using it too. ;)

This is Only Temporary

Image via EW.com


I doubt this blog will last a year.

It's not because I feel my particular desires will ever go away. It's that every aspect of my life is in limbo. Almost every day has an aspect of waiting about it. Waiting to hear from a job I applied for. Waiting to see if that new boy wrote back or not. Waiting for the Colt to tell me he has enough time off that he can visit. I tell myself that I am making plans, laying groundwork, in hopes that this unsatisfied feeling will eventually culminate in the stuffing of a boy. I'm a nut, I tell my friend Cee, on a mission. I am obsessed. I cannot move on with my life until I do it.

But at the same time, I'm not such a slave to it that I don't realize a thousand other things might happen. I've given myself a year to do this--too long, perhaps--to try writing, to try working on my own with the degree I have, to try fetish. And once the year is up, if it has resulted in nothing that is conductive to my happiness, I will put it all away and try something else.

Or I might wake up one morning and discover that one of my cover letters has suddenly been answered, and I will be off to a new job and a new life, and not have time for any of this. As unlikely as that seems right now to me, everyone I know tells me that it is a possibility.

So, my peeps, this is all temporary. Comment now or forever hold your peace. Like The Princess Bride, I'm gonna tell you how it's gonna end before it properly starts. I hope you'll still find it interesting enough to come along for the ride.