That's a bit of a telling title there isn't it? Makes me sound like I've been carrying on like a Pussy Cat Doll or something! It's really not as exciting as it sounds. Well, it was kind of exciting for me, but for totally different reasons than you might assume. It was a couple of days ago and me and himself had been vegetating on the sofa for most of the day, sipping hot cups of strong coffee and huddling under the duvet, whilst the weather outside got wilder and wilder - to the point where I truly believed that one of the ancient, hundred-or-so year old trees across the road, might come crashing down through our living room window. It was my turn to get up and pop the kettle on and as I emerged from the duck-down cocoon of cosiness, I stood up on my tippy-toes to stretch, with my arms reaching up towards the ceiling making me a full two inches taller than my usual five-foot-fuck-all frame. Just as I was making the obligatory animalistic-groan that we all elicit when stretching, the little skirt that I was wearing slipped right off my hips, down onto the floor, giving my poor, long-suffering fiancé a nice full-moon, arse shot, about 12 inches away from his face.
Mmmm....yeah, real sexy. NOT!
He just giggled like a schoolboy and sniggered in a sing-song voice “I saw your arse, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner. I was thinking about you and I MADE it happen!” Meanwhile a mortified me quickly squatted down to gather the garment up and redress my bare arse, as my face turned a rather fetching shade of magenta. I was so embarrassed. I mean hey, I've been with this guy for over five years now - hell we're engaged to be married in a couple of years time - and we're not exactly the type to have taken one of those scary religiobot Purity-Pledges over the duration of our relationship. It's safe to say that we've had more than a good few rolls in the hay over these past five years and despite my detesting my overall appearance, after the first 12 months I actually let him see me with my face free of make-up and my hair unbrushed – which if you know me and my vanity at all, you will be massively impressed at how much progress I've made (seeing as how I never let my ex see my face without make-up at all in the four years we were together and would even reapply it just before going to bed!)
I've shared a bed with this guy almost every single night since we first got together as a couple (Yeah, we broke all the rules and officially moved in together only four weeks after becoming a couple and had been sharing a bed as friends even prior to that, yet we still hypocritically tell every other couple we meet not to rush into it themselves - ha!) We've obviously seen and felt pretty much every square inch of each other's flesh at some point over these years; we've seen each other at our worst (when we've been ill - throwing up or having it come out of both ends during a bout of gastroenteritis! - too drunk to walk, off our tits on drugs and hungover or coming down like a tonne of shit the next day!) inadvertently walked in on the other getting changed at least once a day and checked each other all over for dodgy moles (one of those truly exciting – not – yet sensible things to do when you have that special someone at your disposal!) So it's really not like I just got my arse out in front of a total stranger or a guy I was just getting to know and trying to make a good impression with. I mean, for fuck's sake, he's rubbed Vicks Vapo Rub into my back and chest, made me a hot water bottle, tucked me into bed with a Lemsip as I coughed up lumpy chunks of catarrh and still told me I was beautiful! Bless! What a legend!
The guy has obviously not been as utterly repulsed by my appearance as I expect him to be and I should be totally relaxed and comfortable with the whole 'standing butt naked in the middle of my living room as he looks on' thing. But there are just times when it's easier to flash the flesh than others. It's normal to be starkers or semi-nude whilst you're shagging each others brains out; it's perfectly acceptable for me to go and scrub a rather naked other half's back in the shower and not be weirded out by the nudity; heck, I've even had the unfortunate joy of getting to converse with himself as he sits on the toilet taking a shit, with the bathroom door wide open! (Oh the joys of happily co-habiting!). But to find myself stood about a foot away from him and have my arse – currently at eye level with the poor bastard – suddenly revealed in all it's pasty-white glory, as my skirt slipped off in something resembling a dodgy Carry On Film scene....well, THAT was not something I was remotely comfortable with. It felt weird. I felt exposed. In my mind I was imagining him casting a critical eye over the slight dimpling of my slowly developing cellulite and suddenly realising what a lumpy, misshapen heifer he was shacked up with.
I started to panic. Genuinely. My heart was beating wildly in my chest as I began to believe that this was it! The jig was finally up. This five year illusion of smoke and mirrors, constantly being woven in the art of misdirection in order for him to be lulled into the false belief that my body was somewhat acceptable, had finally come crashing down around me. I had nowhere left to hide. My bare arse was like the fabled 'Emperor and his non-existent 'New Clothes', finally revealing to the man I love more than life itself, that my being naked from the waist down was indeed hideous enough to frighten horses, repel demons and even make a grown man cry. And speaking of crying, I could actually feel the hot stinging beginnings of tears, pricking behind my eyes as I prepared to make a bolt for the bathroom, where I could lock the door and hide shamefully among the myriad empty toilet roll tubes, littering the nine square foot of floor.
But then, as I sat contemplating the inevitable fall-out of a relationship unable to sustain itself after such a horrendous incident, something else hit me. A slowly dawning realisation that my skirt had fallen off me for a reason. Now, whenever I'm at home lounging around, I tend to wear a skimpy spaghetti strapped vest and a very short short, which most mothers would probably refer to as being more of a belt than anything else. It did once used to be a knee length ra-ra looking thing that survived the 80's, but in a fit of capricious abandon I one day just decided to hack a good six inches off of the bottom, leaving a sort of short flared skirt that most people would wear over a pair of leggings or something. Together, the vest and skirt comprise a perfectly respectable little outfit that I can lie about the house in and even wear to bed – making it the perfect outfit for someone who likes to go through rather lazy periods of lounging about the flat, sometimes sleeping on the sofa and just generally behaving like a sloth. So yeah, perfect for someone like me.
Only, when I first started to wear the two pieces together, the skirt was kind of tight around the waist and I sometimes worried that the button might undergo way too much strain one day, burst free from the prison of my flabby abdomen and fling itself a couple of foot to the left, blinding my other half in one of his eyes. Thankfully that never happened. Well, I say 'thankfully' but I can't deny how the idea of him losing the ability to see how gross I am with both eyes, was kind of appealling! I am of course joking....I mean, he'd still be able to see the 'goods' with his one good eye anyway, so it wouldn't actually help my cause much!
But yeah, I was beginning to realise how the skirt had come to fall off of my hips in the first place.
I'd lost weight.
And not just a few pounds that make the zip on one's jeans ever so slightly easy to yank up from one day to the next; this was a considerable enough amount of weight to make an item of clothing fall off unannounced. Fuck the unreliable scales that try to tell my I've gained half a stone in 8 hours, despite not having eating or drunk anything the whole time. My clothes were proof that my jelly-belly was actually shrinking. So I WAS losing weight! YIPPEEEE! I leapt off of the toilet seat, booted a rogue cardboard loo roll centre out of my path and proceeded to do a little happy-dance. The diet was working. The hard work was paying off. I was seeing results. Sure, my poor boyfriend had just been permanently emotionally scarred by the experience, but that arse of mine was also inevitably smaller than it had been a couple of weeks ago.
Cut to me racing out of the bathroom, back into the living room and yelling at my boyfriend that I'd lost weight! The skirt had fallen off because I was getting smaller. I was actually succeeding! I did also have to apologise to him for the total eclipse of my arse, but he just shrugged it off as if nothing had happened and said “It's only your bum, I HAVE seen it before you know!” to which I just grumbled “Yeah, but not without a decent bit of subtle low-lighting and enough strategically placed limbs, draped gracefully about the area to give the illusion of it being slightly less scary than it really is.” He just laughed though and I was happy enough after realising what the inadvertent stripping had been the result of.
So that explains the stripping reference; now onto the 'Some Clothes Fit' bit. About half a year ago, I purchased a few dresses online that were cut in the 1950's rockabilly-halter-neck style, because that particular kind of design is really flattering on my figure, making the most of my big boobs, whilst glancing over my 'childbearing hips' in a way that makes the widening skirt circle look like the expanding circumference is merely an intentional design, due to the voluminous petticoat! I'd bought three from the same company in my size and when they arrived, they all fit perfectly. Then when I was perusing another site, I found another dress in the same style being sold by a different manufacturer. I bought my usual size and when it arrived I was horrified to find that it wouldn't even get close to fitting me. I double checked the label to see if it was the right size – which it was – but when I checked the receipt, it said that the company was based in Hong Kong and I know that Asian sizing can be less forgiving than UK sizing.
I was pretty annoyed, but I'd only paid just over £20 for the dress, so it didn't make financial sense to spend about £8 sending it back. Instead, I just ordered another one two sizes up which arrived after about 14 days. I hung the smaller one in the back of my wardrobe and mostly forgot about it, until 'Day Of The Arse' when I thought I might try it on and see if it fit me yet – and it bloody well did! Woo-hoo! Cue second happy-dance of the day. I now have proof, twice over that my arse is considerably smaller than it was when I first started this blog. That's all the motivation I need to keep on, keeping on.
What's that? I still haven't explained the 'Shooting From The Hip' reference? Er...haven't you been reading this ramble up to this point? I'm a very blunt and brutal person and when I retell a story, I pull no punches. So I have as you will now hopefully understand been 'Shooting From The Hip' the whole time.
And I think that might just be the best way to wrap things up here. Thanks for reading if y'all got this far, and another big thank-you to all my new followers. I really do appreciate you deciding to want to come back time and again and see what bizarre turns of humiliation my life takes on a regular basis.
Oh and before I go, I just want to give a big shout out to the lovely Ruby Tuesday who is currently in treatment, where she has just passed her first week's milestone! If any of y'all would like to drop her an email or two, spurring her on to do well, you can find her contact details here. Big hugs to you Ruby, you know I'm rooting for you!
And for now I shall bid y'all adieu
Much love, hugs and inappropriate gestures!
xx
Mmmm....yeah, real sexy. NOT!
He just giggled like a schoolboy and sniggered in a sing-song voice “I saw your arse, ner, ner, ner, ner, ner. I was thinking about you and I MADE it happen!” Meanwhile a mortified me quickly squatted down to gather the garment up and redress my bare arse, as my face turned a rather fetching shade of magenta. I was so embarrassed. I mean hey, I've been with this guy for over five years now - hell we're engaged to be married in a couple of years time - and we're not exactly the type to have taken one of those scary religiobot Purity-Pledges over the duration of our relationship. It's safe to say that we've had more than a good few rolls in the hay over these past five years and despite my detesting my overall appearance, after the first 12 months I actually let him see me with my face free of make-up and my hair unbrushed – which if you know me and my vanity at all, you will be massively impressed at how much progress I've made (seeing as how I never let my ex see my face without make-up at all in the four years we were together and would even reapply it just before going to bed!)
I've shared a bed with this guy almost every single night since we first got together as a couple (Yeah, we broke all the rules and officially moved in together only four weeks after becoming a couple and had been sharing a bed as friends even prior to that, yet we still hypocritically tell every other couple we meet not to rush into it themselves - ha!) We've obviously seen and felt pretty much every square inch of each other's flesh at some point over these years; we've seen each other at our worst (when we've been ill - throwing up or having it come out of both ends during a bout of gastroenteritis! - too drunk to walk, off our tits on drugs and hungover or coming down like a tonne of shit the next day!) inadvertently walked in on the other getting changed at least once a day and checked each other all over for dodgy moles (one of those truly exciting – not – yet sensible things to do when you have that special someone at your disposal!) So it's really not like I just got my arse out in front of a total stranger or a guy I was just getting to know and trying to make a good impression with. I mean, for fuck's sake, he's rubbed Vicks Vapo Rub into my back and chest, made me a hot water bottle, tucked me into bed with a Lemsip as I coughed up lumpy chunks of catarrh and still told me I was beautiful! Bless! What a legend!
The guy has obviously not been as utterly repulsed by my appearance as I expect him to be and I should be totally relaxed and comfortable with the whole 'standing butt naked in the middle of my living room as he looks on' thing. But there are just times when it's easier to flash the flesh than others. It's normal to be starkers or semi-nude whilst you're shagging each others brains out; it's perfectly acceptable for me to go and scrub a rather naked other half's back in the shower and not be weirded out by the nudity; heck, I've even had the unfortunate joy of getting to converse with himself as he sits on the toilet taking a shit, with the bathroom door wide open! (Oh the joys of happily co-habiting!). But to find myself stood about a foot away from him and have my arse – currently at eye level with the poor bastard – suddenly revealed in all it's pasty-white glory, as my skirt slipped off in something resembling a dodgy Carry On Film scene....well, THAT was not something I was remotely comfortable with. It felt weird. I felt exposed. In my mind I was imagining him casting a critical eye over the slight dimpling of my slowly developing cellulite and suddenly realising what a lumpy, misshapen heifer he was shacked up with.
I started to panic. Genuinely. My heart was beating wildly in my chest as I began to believe that this was it! The jig was finally up. This five year illusion of smoke and mirrors, constantly being woven in the art of misdirection in order for him to be lulled into the false belief that my body was somewhat acceptable, had finally come crashing down around me. I had nowhere left to hide. My bare arse was like the fabled 'Emperor and his non-existent 'New Clothes', finally revealing to the man I love more than life itself, that my being naked from the waist down was indeed hideous enough to frighten horses, repel demons and even make a grown man cry. And speaking of crying, I could actually feel the hot stinging beginnings of tears, pricking behind my eyes as I prepared to make a bolt for the bathroom, where I could lock the door and hide shamefully among the myriad empty toilet roll tubes, littering the nine square foot of floor.
But then, as I sat contemplating the inevitable fall-out of a relationship unable to sustain itself after such a horrendous incident, something else hit me. A slowly dawning realisation that my skirt had fallen off me for a reason. Now, whenever I'm at home lounging around, I tend to wear a skimpy spaghetti strapped vest and a very short short, which most mothers would probably refer to as being more of a belt than anything else. It did once used to be a knee length ra-ra looking thing that survived the 80's, but in a fit of capricious abandon I one day just decided to hack a good six inches off of the bottom, leaving a sort of short flared skirt that most people would wear over a pair of leggings or something. Together, the vest and skirt comprise a perfectly respectable little outfit that I can lie about the house in and even wear to bed – making it the perfect outfit for someone who likes to go through rather lazy periods of lounging about the flat, sometimes sleeping on the sofa and just generally behaving like a sloth. So yeah, perfect for someone like me.
Only, when I first started to wear the two pieces together, the skirt was kind of tight around the waist and I sometimes worried that the button might undergo way too much strain one day, burst free from the prison of my flabby abdomen and fling itself a couple of foot to the left, blinding my other half in one of his eyes. Thankfully that never happened. Well, I say 'thankfully' but I can't deny how the idea of him losing the ability to see how gross I am with both eyes, was kind of appealling! I am of course joking....I mean, he'd still be able to see the 'goods' with his one good eye anyway, so it wouldn't actually help my cause much!
But yeah, I was beginning to realise how the skirt had come to fall off of my hips in the first place.
I'd lost weight.
And not just a few pounds that make the zip on one's jeans ever so slightly easy to yank up from one day to the next; this was a considerable enough amount of weight to make an item of clothing fall off unannounced. Fuck the unreliable scales that try to tell my I've gained half a stone in 8 hours, despite not having eating or drunk anything the whole time. My clothes were proof that my jelly-belly was actually shrinking. So I WAS losing weight! YIPPEEEE! I leapt off of the toilet seat, booted a rogue cardboard loo roll centre out of my path and proceeded to do a little happy-dance. The diet was working. The hard work was paying off. I was seeing results. Sure, my poor boyfriend had just been permanently emotionally scarred by the experience, but that arse of mine was also inevitably smaller than it had been a couple of weeks ago.
Cut to me racing out of the bathroom, back into the living room and yelling at my boyfriend that I'd lost weight! The skirt had fallen off because I was getting smaller. I was actually succeeding! I did also have to apologise to him for the total eclipse of my arse, but he just shrugged it off as if nothing had happened and said “It's only your bum, I HAVE seen it before you know!” to which I just grumbled “Yeah, but not without a decent bit of subtle low-lighting and enough strategically placed limbs, draped gracefully about the area to give the illusion of it being slightly less scary than it really is.” He just laughed though and I was happy enough after realising what the inadvertent stripping had been the result of.
So that explains the stripping reference; now onto the 'Some Clothes Fit' bit. About half a year ago, I purchased a few dresses online that were cut in the 1950's rockabilly-halter-neck style, because that particular kind of design is really flattering on my figure, making the most of my big boobs, whilst glancing over my 'childbearing hips' in a way that makes the widening skirt circle look like the expanding circumference is merely an intentional design, due to the voluminous petticoat! I'd bought three from the same company in my size and when they arrived, they all fit perfectly. Then when I was perusing another site, I found another dress in the same style being sold by a different manufacturer. I bought my usual size and when it arrived I was horrified to find that it wouldn't even get close to fitting me. I double checked the label to see if it was the right size – which it was – but when I checked the receipt, it said that the company was based in Hong Kong and I know that Asian sizing can be less forgiving than UK sizing.
I was pretty annoyed, but I'd only paid just over £20 for the dress, so it didn't make financial sense to spend about £8 sending it back. Instead, I just ordered another one two sizes up which arrived after about 14 days. I hung the smaller one in the back of my wardrobe and mostly forgot about it, until 'Day Of The Arse' when I thought I might try it on and see if it fit me yet – and it bloody well did! Woo-hoo! Cue second happy-dance of the day. I now have proof, twice over that my arse is considerably smaller than it was when I first started this blog. That's all the motivation I need to keep on, keeping on.
What's that? I still haven't explained the 'Shooting From The Hip' reference? Er...haven't you been reading this ramble up to this point? I'm a very blunt and brutal person and when I retell a story, I pull no punches. So I have as you will now hopefully understand been 'Shooting From The Hip' the whole time.
And I think that might just be the best way to wrap things up here. Thanks for reading if y'all got this far, and another big thank-you to all my new followers. I really do appreciate you deciding to want to come back time and again and see what bizarre turns of humiliation my life takes on a regular basis.
Oh and before I go, I just want to give a big shout out to the lovely Ruby Tuesday who is currently in treatment, where she has just passed her first week's milestone! If any of y'all would like to drop her an email or two, spurring her on to do well, you can find her contact details here. Big hugs to you Ruby, you know I'm rooting for you!
And for now I shall bid y'all adieu
Much love, hugs and inappropriate gestures!
xx
You're lucky to have such a great fiancé. From what I've read, he's not one to make hurtful comments about appearance, and even though it's common sense that you shouldn't, a lot of partners do. I mean, I highly doubt he thinks you're a heifer. He's been with you for this long, he obviously finds you attractive. But yeah, even when someone's seen you at your worst, there will always be certain situations that make us uncomfortable.
ReplyDeleteCongrats on the loss. Clothes can be such a good indicator when the scale's being stubborn. I think I've asked before, but do you take measurements? For me, losing inches is nearly as satisfying as losing pounds.
And I've gotta say, I'm jealous that 50s styles suit your body. No matter what weight I'm at, they're horribly unflattering and make me look pregnant and disgusting.
Oh, Ruby has email? I thought she was going offline for treatment. I'll definitely be dropping her an email in the next few days.
Take care. Hope you have a lovely weekend xx
Hi Bella, Thanks for dropping by! You're right about me being lucky to have the kind of boyfriend I do. I am thankful for every single day he chooses to be with me, because I just don't feel worthy of the attention and affection he gives me. I constantly feel like he's totally out of my league.
ReplyDeleteAnd I know exactly what you mean about having a partner who does make hurtful comments, because my ex slowly destroyed every last scrap of self-esteem I had left prior to my getting with him (and I had very little as it was) by systematically putting me down, undermining me, criticizing my appearance, telling me I was lucky he even looked at me because no other man would ever stand to be with me etc.... I never thought that being the intelligent person I am, that I would ever become one of those girls who allowed a man to get inside her head and destroy her. I thought I'd see it coming a mile off. But the way these men work is dangerously clever, slow and manipulative. They insinuate their nastiness into your life, little by little, so that you can't quite see what they're trying to do until it's too late and the damage has been done.
Yep, my ex really did a number of me and it wasn't easy for me to trust another man, but whilst I fell for my other half immediately, it took a while for me to completely trust and open up to him about how I felt. He has been nothing but supportive and has never done anything other than make me feel safe, loved and taken care of. I really do pinch myself sometimes to see if it's real!
I haven't been taking measurements so far, but I probably should start doing it. Although those will just be another set of numbers to feel disgusted by on a daily basis. The clothes thing was just a nice surprise, because it wasn't just a number that my messed-up scales were claiming to be true - it was a real tangible piece of proof that I am smaller than I was. I'm going to buy some more dresses in even smaller sizes soon to give me something else to work towards. I'm lucky that the 50's style works for me, because little else does. I'm a classic hourglass figure so that particular kind of dress makes my boob-to-waist ratio look much more flattering than other styles. I still leave the house thinking that I look like a massive heap of shit, but a more acceptable heap of shit than I could be by wearing something else!
Ruby has access to email on her phone, but if you do send her one you might not get a reply straight away as the nurses seem to confiscate her phone off of her every couple of days so she might not see it immediately. I know she'd love to get an email from you though and any support we can give her right now is only going to be a good thing.
Thanks again for commenting.
Take care
x