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.


    Posted in blogging, Creative Writing, English Literature, Heartbreak, Literature, Love, Memories, Monologue, Poetry, Relationships, Self image, Stories, Writing

    Lover at the opposite side of the road

    Lover at the opposite side of the road..

    God , there’s so many things I want to say to you right now.

    How the sight of you makes me dizzy, makes my head spin wildly like a glitter ball on constant. Even on your darkest days or the time when you walked into the lecture hungover with a black eye I found presence beautiful like a glowing angel, my eyesight not affected by the flaws in your facial appearance.Or what other people would consider facial flaws. Like your huge forehead for instance to me ,it’s not huge, to me it shows your capacity for knowledge.

     What secrets lie inside there. What do you think when you look at me? Do you find my fried egg boob’s attractive or are you put off by the size. Do you even look there and even if or when you do you shouldn’t! It’s not gentlemanly of you. Do you ever think about me stripped naked? Would you like me to be naked in front of you , lying. Our skin pressed together , feeling our heartbeats intertwined. You skin would feel like gold to me if I ever got to brush my hand upon it once, once would be enough. Your mouth would taste like heaven sending me off to an erotic ecstasy. 

    My pain would be melted away by your soothing whispers, like chocolate dripping down sealing every crack.

    And when your tears hit your cheeks, they would burn my body,

     causing bullet wounds. 

    I would cocoon you in my arms protecting you with my armour where nothing would enter.

    When I blink you’d disappear because you’d no longer be waiting for me.I could no longer say everything I wanted to because you wouldn’t be there to listen and even if you were there to listen I probably wouldn’t be able to get the words out. 

    Because I mean nothing to you..

    Yet you mean everything to me.

    Lover at the side of the road.

    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 Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, English Literature, Love, Love letters, Marriage, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Relationship, Stories, Writing

    Valentine

    I’m not giving you a heart or a beautifully penned poem.

    Wrapped in a brown parcel;

      an onion.

    Like the moon shedding light onto your darkened world.

    Multi layered, complex , hard to unravel the mysteries of a woman.

     You peel trying to undress her;

    Feeling the curves of her smooth bottom, breasts, hips. Undressing love, until there is nothing but a twig.

    Shatter her in half.

    You will feel the sting burn your eyes. Tears. Trembling reflection.

    The fiery kiss will leave you with an urge for more. An addiction;

     Leaving her breath , the taste of her love on your mouth for days.

    Faithful, like we are.

    As long as we both are.

    Shrink  it to a wedding ring, if you want.

    Leaving the perfumed scent on your fingers for eternity.

    Everlasting.

    Murderous.

    Clinging to you.

     Your life.

    Your knife.

    ~SS