Interestingly timed, because lately I have been thinking about nipples. In fact, I actually started this post two days ago, but did not publish it because, seriously, it is enough with the underwear already. I think about lots of other things, too, you know: yamas and niyamas, character development in my stories, the nature of compassion and service, and the mysteries of the universe. But lately it has been all about nipples for me. Is this what it is like to be a man?

The nipplethink started when my recent lingerie update got me out of the Big Molded Foamy Bra habit. I feel surprisingly liberated. Not bra burning liberated – I still need to keep my boobs out of my pants -  but liberated nonetheless. It is not that there is anything wrong with the BMFBs. They provide shaping, and are very helpful in keeping the high beams from attracting unnecessary attention in, say, an air conditioned office, and sometimes extra cleavage is nice. But on the other hand, I looked at myself in the mirror the other day when it was a little bit chilly, and hey, check it out! Where have you ladies been for the past six years? Also, wow, hot. I had to look twice, and then a few more times after that. I guess this is what it is like to be a man.

Since my nipiphany -that I might be a little  tired of getting molded every damn day, getting everything smoothed over until I, we, all of us gals, look like we have Barbie boobs, all the time, fake, fake, fake- I have become quite enamored of a more natural look. No padding, no foam, just me and my nipples, because you know what? I’m a mammal. I have them. We all have them. And while there are occasions on which I do not want them to make an appearance, I think for now I would rather have boobs that look like boobs, and not molded plastic.

So, to answer my mom’s question, yes, I think we can give ourselves a break. Maybe not during board meetings in air conditioned offices*, but for heaven’s sake, let’s get back to the business of being mammals, and not pieces of plastic. Women, be nipply. I support you, and it turns out that so does a decent underwire, even without padding.

*This is another good argument against going back to work in an office.

Unfortunately, it is only available as a regular old unisex shirt, and those always look ridiculous on me. The sleeves hit me in a funny place, and the shirts are usually about five inches too long, which would be fine if I wore my t-shirts tucked in, but this is one of many no-nos for the busty gal. With the exception of well made oxford shirts, anything tucked in gives me the shape of an ice cream cone, which does not sound bad because ice cream cones are delicious and lickable, but in practice it is unattractive. And bodysuits? Forget about it. The early nineties were a terror to me, and I cannot forgive American Apparel for bringing back these monstrosities. The only busty gal I knew who looked good in a bodysuit had a figure that could support wearing one a couple of sizes too small, which negated the triangle effect by virtue of being extremely tight, the kind of tight that becomes obscene immediately upon leaving college. On that note, American Apparel: seriously? Bodysuits and high-waisted pants? Good lord, a gal could get a yeast infection just walking past the store.

Bodysuits, even when they looked good, were a pain in the ass, literally. Even when they did not ride up, snapping and unsnapping those things required contortion, and after a few beers, forget about it. Try being drunk in a bathroom stall the size of a veal crate with no TP, and fastening three snaps, in order, between your legs. What were we thinking?

Anyway, since I liked the design of the t-shirt so much but not the style, I decided to get fancy and alter it. I added cuffs, which I sewed by hand, and then got out the heavy artillery to hem the bottom. I have not used my sewing machine since we moved here almost three years ago. The whole project should have taken an hour or less, but since it has been so long since I used the sewing machine, I spent about an hour unpacking the thing and remembering what I was doing with it. For the most part, I am very bad at sewing, but thanks to a determined middle school home ec teacher, I can at least operate a sewing machine (sometimes) and follow a simple pattern, and I always level off cups of flour with the back of a knife.

After some false starts, including a good twenty minutes trying to remember how to wind a bobbin and wasting half a spool of thread in the process (just press that thingy over to the right, it turns out), I got it together. And I must say that I did a great freaking job. Everything is completely straight and secure, and I now have my very own custom tailored tricked out TMBG t-shirt.

As if that weren’t enough, Ted’s COMPLETE DOMINANCE OF THE INTERWEBS has caused a tenfold jump in traffic on this here blog, and the day is not even over yet.

So, hi everyone! Thanks for stopping by. Now that all of these people are looking, I am having a bit of performance anxiety. Ok. Deep breath. Funny and thought provoking in 3…2…1…

Victoria’s Secret finally got around to making more than three bras in my size. As I have lamented many times, being a little woman with big boobs is not nearly as glamorous as it sounds. Comfy bra tops and dresses are out, it is difficult to find cute bras that fit, and the ones that are out there are usually extremely expensive and often uncomfortable. Victoria’s Secret caught on, at least to the extent that they now make lots of cute bras in my size, but unfortunately, they don’t have them in stores. So, last week I ordered a bunch of bras online to try on at home.

Of the four, two fit nicely, one did not, and one’s promise of “ultimate lift” ultimately made me look like I have four boobs.

The crazy thing about the tittimonster from boobulon 4 bra was that it included these:

That’s right. Implants. Only they get implanted in the bra, instead of in the boob. I am a D cup. The last thing I need is an extra set of boobs in my bra, in addition to the copious padding already in these contraptions. Apparently the “secret” of Victoria’s Secret is the secret ingredient: a full roll of toilet paper in every cup.

That aside, I am delighted to have options from another major retailer. Victoria’s Secret, for all of your puffy lipped models and thoroughly unnatural hooter hoisting, I salute you, and on behalf of all little women with big boobs, I thank you for your support.

When whatever it was that reminded me of her came up, it was a while before I remembered the lesbian erotica. But once I did, a light bulb went on.

We’re getting kind of broke. Why not make some extra money writing erotica?

I am not sure whether I am serious about this or not. The pros: there is always a market for it, I can write the stuff in my sleep, and it is way more fun than churning out ebooks about seed explicators. At least it is a subject about which I have an interest. And imagine the things I could write off! (Accountant: “A… Spank-O-Matic 3000 and a ten gallon tub of chowder?” Me: “Research. Volume Three. Here, I’ll leave you with a copy. And one for the wife.”) Also, it is an excuse to ask my friends really embarrassing questions. The cons: None, as long I don’t have to disclose my precise source of income to everyone I know.

I started doing some research last night, looking at information about venues for selling erotica, and some of the actual stuff out there on sites that pay. Some is ok, there were one or two that were pretty good, but most of it was really bad – bad enough that I started losing interest, despite the subject matter. I could write circles around most of what is out there without much effort. The thing is, just because it is smut, doesn’t mean it should be poorly written.

The offenders:
1. Overused euphemistic language. It is enough with the buds and nodules and poles already. Seriously. Yawn.
2. Going all metaphorical at the wrong time. This happens a lot. It’s the big moment for the guy and the girl (or the guys, or the girls, or the guys and the girl, or the girl and the guys, or the girl and the gourd, etc.) and suddenly we’re talking about caves and flower petals. WTH? When the characters are at that point, they won’t be using that kind of language, and neither should the author. To describe the act that way completely detaches the reader from the story. This is where it is appropriate to use the coarsest language going, because it fits. The c-word in use here should never, ever be “cave.” Tone should follow the arc of the story, dammit, whether it is literary fiction or smut. It is a matter of keeping the audience engaged and in the moment.
3. Wasting space on the unsexy. The grizzled old dude from whom the guy borrows the tool to fix the car in which he does the girl moves the plot along, but does not require five hundred words of exposition. It’s erotica. Get to it.

See? Clearly I have thought this through. I was explaining all of this to Scott tonight, and in the middle of it, cracked myself up because, oh my god, I spent the better part of an evening workshopping smut to myself. I recognize that this is hilarious to me as a writer, and probably to no one else.

There is some better stuff out there, and it would be interesting to read what is actually getting published and doing well in book form, but I am just not thrilled about the idea of having an anthology of gay male [whatever] fetish erotica in my amazon history. Because, you know, they’re watching. Better to head to Barnes and Noble with cash.

Anyway, it is really not a bad fit, me writing erotica. Nothing offends me (except for bad writing) as long as it is truly consensual, I’ve got the goods to write it, and I am already totally desensitized to porn, thanks to male roommates in college. The irony is that under normal circumstances, I don’t really think about sex that much. It shows up in my writing a lot, I know, but as far as conducting my life moment to moment, it is just not that big of a deal. In fact, there were times when I was single that I was voluntarily, happily celibate for long stretches of time. Hours, even. No, seriously. Long stretches.

(Not that sex isn’t important. I am not going to paint myself into a corner, but let’s just say I am healthy and leave it there.)

The last word on this, for now at least, is that while spending some time on these sites last night I got the whole male / visual thing in a completely new way. As I said, I have watched tons of porn, and the fact that men are visual creatures is Man 101. But there was something about the juxtaposition of the sites on which the content was mostly text, framed by especially graphic ads for porn sites – that made the zen leap for me, from just knowing about this difference in how we process information to really grokking it. It is cool stuff, maybe something I could work into a story…

I am writing to tell you that I think you are positively keen. Why? Because your lingerie department is full of oddly sized, inexpensive bras in fun colors and shapes. We’re a perfect match, you and me. Your lingerie department is small yet robust, much like yours truly. You have lots of matching sets of things -even some in purple!- for little women with big boobs and I AM a little woman with big boobs. It may not seem like a big deal to you, but for someone like me, well, I am just thrilled to find you. You have no idea how long I have searched.

Loehmanns, I don’t mean to be too forward, and I hope you won’t think less of me, but why don’t we have dinner together some time? We can talk about the shoe department, accessories… wherever the conversation takes us. If things go well, maybe we’ll go back to my place for a nightcap and I will let you see my bra.

Will you think about it?

Yours truly,
Lauren

As we got ready for the Philly / South Jersey wedding, I mentioned to Scott that I’ve probably spent more time in Catholic churches than I have in synagogues in my adult life. Given my long history with Catholics and their historically long events, it’s not hyperbole. Overall the wedding was lovely. In fact, it may very well be the most perfect wedding I’ve ever attended: elegant but not fussy, free of drama, and full of people who seemed to be having a great time. Still it was weird for me. I was surprised by the amount of cleavage and hooker shoes in a church at 10:30 in the morning, and just as I was thinking that I am so totally over weddings and everything associated with them, the bride walked down the aisle and I got all weepy. Regardless, I kept myself quietly occupied through the service and reception. Here are the highlights.

• Bible passages read with a thick Philly accent are funny, probably to no one but me.
• The priest freaking CHUGGED the wine.
• The altar girl seriously needed  to get her hair out of her face. Oh my god, I’m old.
• Every time the vocalist got to the response part of the call and response hymns, she turned into the statue of liberty: arm straight up, gaze unblinking into the horizon.
• Altar Girl, GET YOUR HAIR OUT OF YOUR FACE.
• Last supper? It was a Seder! Passover! Matzoh!
• “Peace be with you” always sets off a flashback to the first Catholic mass I attended – a wedding with my college boyfriend. I absolutely swooned when he shook my hand and then kissed me in church. Church! With the god and the Jesus and everything! Sadly, though, the effect was short-lived. While crosses on every wall of his parents’ house did little to cast out his desire to sin, it pretty much turned me into a nun for the weekend. (His parents were lovely folks, and his mother was especially apologetic about automatically buying a ham for dinner the first night I was there. I didn’t say anything because I couldn’t figure out exactly how to explain that I didn’t eat ham not because I’m Jewish, but because I’m a vegetarian.)
• Also, during “peace be with you,” I almost blurted out “Om Shanti Shanti Shanti.”
• When everyone got in line for communion, I could check out what they were wearing. Scott and I were particularly enthralled by a girl who looked like a cocktail waitress at a casino. Later, at the reception, while I was still trying to get the concepts “gold tube top” and “Catholic wedding” to occupy the same space in my brain, Scott found out that the cocktail waitress tube top girl was only sixteen. We both felt kind of filthy after that.
• At the reception, I watched a kid eat an entire plate of olives.

The wedding ended early enough that we got back to my mom’s house in time for a driving lesson. Rick took me out in his car, where I was thunderstruck by the realization that I am deeply in love with transmissions. The union of husband and wife may be a symbol of god’s love for the world, but the union of my foot and a clutch is a symbol of god’s love for dorky ass women with control issues, who stay up late at night reading about engines. I know it’s ridiculous to be this excited about driving after barely making it into second gear – so be it. Why didn’t anyone tell me how awesome this is?

I have spent most of my life in some kind of no-woman’s-land of bra sizing, an area that falls just outside of the realm of boob statistical normal, and it has doomed me to ridiculous beige and white contraptions that look more like something that should be propelling a sailboat than lingerie, unless I shell out the big bucks. I’m really tired of it. I’m a 32D, sometimes a C if the cut is especially generous, and I am tired of having to shop online and pay return fees, or go to special boutiques and pay a lot of money. For once in my life, I would like to be able to meander into the lingerie department at Target and buy some frilly polka-dot thing for fourteen dollars and then go home and do a happy little frilly polka-dot boobie dance all over my house.

I recognize that it is weird to be telling the internet my height, weight and bra size, but dammit, people need to know. My kind are out there in abundance. You just can’t tell because we’ve got everything flattened into sports bras.