Posted in Body confidence, Body image, Body parts, Emotions, Feminist, Growing up, Humour, Love, Relationship, Sex, virginity, Writing

Bend Clit like Beckham

I’ve learnt through writing my poetry my inner insecurities pop up several times, which I may add I’ve been very open about. Or the poems follow the same themes of love or boys or breast and then there’s the random nature poem thrown in here and there. 

  • I’ve noticed I’m very insecure about my breasts due to their size ; after an appiphany I’ve finally realised that the size of then doesn’t matter. I feel as if society has brain-washed me into thinking that anything under a D cup is un-feminine. We live in a patriarchal , image conscious society where we are constantly bombarded with images of tall, skinny ,big breasted women pasted in magazines, billboards, advertisements and on social media. Which is a constant video game of fakery each person creating an avatar or idealised image of themselves where a like is considered social currency and the more likes you get the more popular you are considered.
  •  In this idealised world we are taught to tear eachother down because our own insecurities are nagging, even the most beautiful women will have their own insecutities. When we don’t bitch we are somehow betraying the stereotypical view of women but we all should stand together not break eachother down.
  •  I’m sure you’ll have seen the image where it gives a list of cup sizes and it says something like:  A: Almost boobs , B:Barley Boob’s , C: Can’t Complain, D: Dang , DD: Double Dang, F:Fake , G:Get a reduction, H: Help me I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.  I think I found this on something called man Bible I’m not too sure , but let me ask you this. Are you really a man ((Or woman so I don’t get the menninsits onto me )) if you decide to judge women on the size of their breasts do you really deserve that title?
  •  Who the Fuck do you actually think you are telling me what size I should have ?  Have I ever asked you to grow an extra inch on your penis?  (( I know men also come under societal pressure to have a huuge 9incher but I honesty don’t think men come under as much scrutiny as women ,but what would I know. I’m obviously on my period according to you because you find it intimidating that I am expressing an opinion))
  • I’ve had a few names thrown at me  such as “Titless.”, “Fried egg boobs.” which added to pressure has helped with gnawing insecurity. Today I’m going to throw that away and say  “Fuck You!” because I have been given this body and there is nothing I can do to change it ((Well apart from a push up bra and a boob job which I’ll never get because I don’t want plastic in my body but if you yourself want one Go for it , whatever makes you comfortable))   my genes have given me 32A’S and I will embrace them . For starters they don’t make my back ache or stop me wearing clothes.
  •   I think all women no matter what shape or size they are want to change something, for starters I’m 5ft 2 and want to be taller, my friend is 6ft 3 and wants to be my height. Curvy girls want to be skinny and vice versa. We all want to have the perfect body , but what is perfect? Everyone’s body is different, special and unique, nobody can take that uniqueness away which is what makes you perfect because no one will have the same body that you have.

  • I’ve also noticed that I tend to point out ..drumroll..Wait for it …Queue the music..I’m a Virgin obviously begging for the Big D  to finally give me the oxygen I’ve been begging for my while life..haha..No.

  • Virginity is a race but a race where there are no prizes there is stigma attached for becoming first and last.  I’m nearly eighteen and when confessed “I’m a virgin.” The reply usually is “Wait ..What ..You..I thought you’d have lost it by now.”  or my personal favourite “Oh you’re waiting ..That’s so cute , bless.”
  • The fact of the matter is I’m not intentionally trying to wait or intentionally trying to lose it either. When me and my ex used to go out I’d say “I want to wait at least a year before we have sex.” we never really got to that point ((obviously)), this made me think if I put a timescale on it does that mean I wasn’t comfortable in the relationship or that I wasn’t ready to lose it ? In the eye’s some beholders that would be enough to make me a “Prude.” ((a person who is or claims to be easily shocked by matters relating to sex or nudity.)) the fact of the matter is I would rather get to know the person.Why  has society taught women that virginity is so sacred?
  • This I can’t answer. I’m going to put my hands up and say sex used to embarrass me. I can only speak on behalf of myself but I can vividly remember being eleven and being forced by my school to watch a DVD where we we’re taught about the sperm race,then we had to watch two cartoon people having sex. When we we’re twelve it moved to putting condoms on dildos and lube sampling…Nice.  I particularly remember watching Schindler’s list in year nine, blushing mercilessly at the sex scene which I got teased for.
  • Like I’ve said before virginity is a race with no winners, the only winner is judgement.  If a  woman has had sex  with a lot of men or  is percieved to have a lot of sex she is labelled a ‘Slut’ (( 1. A patriarchal social construct which hold women to stricter standards than men are held to.  2. A woman with the sexist morals of a man)).  How can anyone tell how much sex a woman has had ? It seems in today’s society relationships, the ones that go wrong leave a stain on a woman and tarnish her reputation. Relationships, sex or labels don’t define a person their actions and words do. Arguably the term slut isn’t a type of girl but an attitude held by society to express panic at the idea of women who dare to enjoy sex , how much and who with.


  • Now the thing with Sex is I learnt a lot about the penis.  For example the penis gets erect when blood rushed into the penile tissue, it then stiffens and points outwards and upwards when erect.Then there was the wonderful diagram which I didn’t really care to read into because hello, I don’t have the penis.  We never learnt about the Vagina, which isn’t actually called the Vagina but the clitoris which on average is 3.5-5 inches long  and 2.5 inches wide.  Equivalent to the width of a tomato sauce bottle , or a jam jar and the length of a pen or a spoon.It contains 8,000  nerve endings and you don’t wee through it either .

  • Then there’s the slang for vagina which include: Love Cave, Minge, beaver, box and cunt.  I found in one of my English lessons that the word Vagina  comes from the Latin for Sword  Sheath  meaning that the only purpose for a vagina is to hold a ‘sword.’ or have things inserted into it and pulled in and out. Whereas the word cunt which we have been socialised into believing it’s awful means small room which is arguably less offensive.   Whereas the slang for Penis (Or at least some if it because we’d be here for days)) Love muscle, Member, Third legg and pocket rocket.   Arguably women’s genitalia are termed to be  derogatory and violent and suggest that the only purpose is for a man’s person is put inside.

I’m sorry this has been different from my previous blogs but it made me think and I hope it has made you too, I’d love to read your opinions and comments.


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    Posted in Advice, Comedy, Creative Writing, Dead, Drunk, Emotions, English Literature, Free Verse, Growing up, Humor, Humour, Hungover, illness, Love, Memories, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Sarcasm, Spoken word, Stories, Student, Theatre, Writing

     Hungover on poetry

    Hungover on poetry,

    It’s wrapped around my eyes.

    I’ve drank it buckets.

    Now I see the Light.

    Head pounding,

    Eyes hurting,

    Throat sore with speech,

    My eyebags are dark.

    Like images of words,

    that I now see.

    Was the poetry spiked?

     Did I lap up too many,

    too quickly?

    Yes.

    Over too soon.

    Did I trip over?

    The words.

    Did they  make a fool out of me?

    Yes..

    But I can’t remember a thing.

    Words , oh words . Oh God please stop!

    There’s  vomit  on the doorstep,

    My shoes ,

    My hair,

    The clean bed sheets,

    And the toilet seat.

    I shouldn’t have mixed mixed  Carol Anne Duffy, with my own special brew.

    Or let others give me shots of

    Poems.

    I should have closed my mouth

    To stop the migraine.

    The litre of water last night wasn’t enough.

    To cure the poetry hang over.

    Breakfast might make it better.

    Still more words .

    On the box.

    Sickness is growing and I can’t stop the din.

    The words are louder, 

    Caving in.

    Dead on my bed, 

    I can’t find the cure.

    Drink some more poetry.

    That might stop the sore.

    Posted in Animals, Creative Writing, English Literature, First poem, Humour, Media, Monologue, Poetry, Theatre, Writing

    The monologue of a sexually frustrated half goat man 

    I don’t think I can ever rid myself of the shame..Goat legs. It’s not that they’re hairy, monstrously hairy. I’m actually half goat..My mother could never explain why or the doctor. They just looked at me and sighed..Some sort of genetic defect. There’s one thing about being a goat I can’t stop eating..Or the other thing where two bodies merge into one. I haven’t had a lot of that recently with a human or goat for that matter. 

    Maybe it’s the legs, the hairiness seems to put them off a bit..Or is it my hoof feet. Or maybe it’s because women have something against bestiality; Belle commited that. The one from Beauty and the beast. I suppose despite various anger issues money always wins.

    I’m currently unemployed,I got fired from my last three jobs. The first job the telephone wires seemed very tempting resulting in the network going down for several days. The second job I may have eaten a computer screen..I was hungry. Then the last job…Well I may have accidentally shagged my bosses wife. She was blind, very ugly I suppose that’s the beauty of being blind you never have to look at your own reflection. Other people have to suffer the pain. 

    I was desperate, she was too..It was like animals at the zoo. The goat hair and the lipstick stains scattered over the table like confetti at a wedding.

    Then her husband walked in.

    ~SS