Posts Tagged With: american beauty

Much love for Mammals

I love being a mammal. I really do. It beats the hell out of pretty much any other earth-based option available to me. There’s a whole pie of reasons why, but let’s take a tiny slice and examine it in more detail. Well, hopefully not too tiny. Let’s talk about boobies. It’s clear that everyone loves them. Men, women, babies, teens… Haven’t checked in with the elderly yet but I’m pretty sure I know the answer. Men love to gaze. Women grab their friends’ for photos. Or their own for their man. They are a source of comfort, nourishment, and sexual appeal. Personal experience tells me that how a woman thinks about her boobies has a significant impact on how she feels about herself. Much money is spent trying to make them look biggersmallerperkierpushedtogetherliftedandseperatedfrilledlacilyetcetc. Depending on the woman, there is often a desire to move up or down a size…and when done they end up feeling better about the way they look…and about themselves in whole. Like here.

I don’t completely understand our relationship with the thing that make us mammals. Well, things, I guess. But I don’t care. I love being around women who feel good about themselves…who look in the mirror and smile. Women who aren’t trying to make themselves pretty, but who recognize and celebrate their beauty.

Who express their sexuality naturally and easily. In my mind there’s no better litmus test for how free a woman is than in how she presents her boobies.

I think.

It ‘s possible, I suppose, that I’m unconsciously falling prey to commercialized cultural conditioning.

Or acting out Darwinian based reproductive urges.

Or trying to find a higher meaning to what is simply a base, carnal reaction to stimuli.

But the truth is I don’t really give a damn. I find the stimuli soooooo stimulating!

If this is the matrix, I don’t ever want to leave.

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The Tail of a Trail Part 4

I’m 43 and newly single. The stage when men buy red convertibles and have affairs with young blondes. So when my 24 year old tent mate hinted at her availability I was majorly flattered but only mildly tempted. Looking back I’m a bit shocked. Being outdoors in the spring most definitely raises my…well, everything! Certainly wasn’t feeling noble or virtuous. Hmmmmm. Maybe my mid-life mess looks a little different than the norm. Or my conservative upbringing continues to fuck me over. Or the thought of two-days-on-the-trail-tent-sex just didn’t do it for me. Whatever it was, I stayed in my bag.

I sleep really well outdoors. When I get into a stretch of stressed unsleep I pitch a tent in the backyard. Beats the hell out of benzodiazepines. But the bladder bugs me at least once a night. This night I lay there…not wanting to move but needing to. As I stirred, my tent mate spoke. “Mark, are you going to pee?”

Having camped in bear country with a woman for nearly 18 years, I have a pretty good idea what that question means. “Yep…you want me to go with you?”

“Um, no,” she replied with a nervous giggle.  “I want you to go first.”


And that, my friends, is what you get when you sleep with a 24 yr old.

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