I don’t understand being me, I don’t.   I am like a lightening rod, some people just hate my guts for no reason. I try not to let it stress me or hurt me but I can’t  avoid it.   There is a woman at work who hates me,I don’t work with her that much but it hurts.   To my understanding  I have always been kind to her but she treats me like I am worse than shit on her shoe.   I actually pathetically cry in private about it.

I want to have friends, I want to care about people and have them care about me. I don’t know how to protect myself.   I don’t know why people want to hurt me.

I talked to my father for the first time in a long while, he screamed at me, he did his best but his best was interesting and kind of awful.    I shook like a leaf falling from a tree.  I am determined though.  His guilt will not define me.  I hurt, I have been a dabout pain and talking about sex seems so contrary, but really it isn’t at all.  They are both the stuff of life.

Bra Shopping

I can’t believe I am such a baby about it.  I hate it.  Hate it.  They were having a sale at a famous bra store.  I can sometimes find one or two bras that fit me in the whole store.  The world seems to think that women come in 3 sizes, A, B, and C.  Forget about Forever 21 or most stores, I don’t even bother.  The thing is I am not even that big comparatively.   Lots of women are bigger.   I don’t even know what they do.

I want a really cute bra, that fits really well.  I usually order on line but you want to be able to see how it looks on your shape.  I went into a store once and quietly the clerk if she thought they might have my size, she looked at me while walking away and shouting her guess at my size.  There were men shopping with their girlfriends and wives and I felt humiliated as they turned around to see what that size looked like.

Most specialty shops carry little triangles of lace for women who look like they are only using the bras for decoration.   I went to the sale at the famous store, it was crowded, there was one round with my band size.  There was one bra that was my size.   The sales girls kept approaching me and asking me if I needed help, I was wearing a huge and drapey-hidey shirt.  Their voices sounded like shrieks.   “What size do you wear?”  I am sure they weren’t shrieking, it just felt like that.  I did get a bra, they also want to know what size you are when you go to the dressing room so they can find options for you.  I just wanted to left alone.

I went to a major department store and was looking through their racks, my sizes are always on the bottom so you have to crawl around like an animal.  Then the yelly sales woman which there seem to be hundreds of would shriek,  “Are you finding everything you need?”  I wanted to be swallowed up by the floor so I left with a bra that doesn’t fit because I did not try it on.

I found a specialty shop owned by an older woman who had something of a career in an exotic industry.  There was no one in the store and she made me feel a little safe because I figured she wouldn’t make me feel ashamed.   She asked me what size I wore.  I started to stammer, “I don’t know exactly because it depends”  She nodded, “All bra makers are different”  After you get past a C, they pick all kinds of different letters.   “You need a need a balconette”, she turned me around and let her finger make a line down my back.   “Because of your back”  I started to feel a deep sense of shame again.  I know, I have heard.    Balconettes have smaller underwires so they don’t gouge into your armpits.   This is obviously not me but a professional airbrushed photo



She shooed me into a dressing room and brought a few bras to me.   I tried the first one on, it was pretty and lacy and a light pink but absolute sheer lace, which I am not used to.    She opened the curtain,  “Let me see”  I didn’t want to but she didn’t seem to notice and I didn’t find any words.  “Tighten the straps” she commanded while tightening my straps.  “Turn around let me see.  It is a nice bra” she said.  It is very pretty.   I said, “It would be a good bra for sex, because all I could think was that balconettes make me feel exposed when I don’t want to be even under my clothes.  Like they are just going to come popping out over the top.   “It would be good for sex” I said, she looked confused.  I mean it is nice to be intimate and not have to reveal a grandma-bra.

I tried on two more and a man came in the store and I fled.  I know I post my pics here, but in real life, I don’t like to feel vulnerable.  I already get a lot of hugs which include hugging me like a squeeze toy, or rubbing me up against them  in some way.  I don’t really run around braless a lot at home either because it hurts after a little bit.  Okay /rant




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I tried to do something different, so this is me in my tights. I can pull them all the way up over my titties because they make them so big.  They are s/xs.  It makes my nips angry though you can tell.  Mean ole angry nips.  Lol.

I like the slideshows best there is something about the movement that reminds me of really fucking.  The really good kind

Sex, Shit-Facested Escape and I Lied


Okay so am still not taking better pictures but okay, sue me.

Maybe I will never learn.  I am not meant to be floating in space here, I was lying on my floor but wanted to make my floor unrecognizable.

I don’t know what those white lines are all about at the bottom.

Other than that, I am trying very hard not to have my marriage fall apart.  I am the total victim in this breakdown EXCEPT the fact that I have been up to my old tricks.   That yes, okay, there was a power-play here a catalyst.  That got broken down though, like I have a choice, like the help ever has a choice?  But the barrier was broken, the fragile wall that I had set up shattered.

Sex feels like getting wasted, like not being here, being in ecstasy, total pleasure, but just like getting shit-facested can have a fuck of a hang-over.

I am a dick, I am an asshole, I am a disappointment.  Which reminds me that I have/am a total perv. who despite being female which is somehow supposed to make me pure, am not pure.   Someone told me recently I talk like a man about sex.  It reminded me of my mom telling me about her spin the bottle stories, she went in a closet in jr. high and kissed a boy, he told her, “You kiss like a boy!”  Which shamed her.  “How did he know?  I asked.  She laughed.

Why am I like I am about sex?  I still don’t know, but after starting this blog I am closer to knowing.  I don’t feel as bad as I did, but I still don’t know why I am a total perv.   I am not allowed to be, I am not supposed to be, I am  a chased after girl.   What is wrong with me?