Since when did it happen that only women want to be healthier, eat healthier, care about their body and aspire to look or feel better in general by eating more good food and less junk food?
But first, let me go off tangent here and say that actually there’s quite a lot of “diet food” that is masquerading as junk food. It might look healthy, it might lack butter and sugar, but some of that crap is no better for you in the end.If your diet food comes with a warning about anal leakage, you might want to re-think your plan.
This rant is brought to you by all the makers of Yogurt.
Put on your thinking caps here, close your eyes and imagine all the yogurt commercials you’ve seen recently.
Got it?
Now then – where are the men?
Oh look, there’s a man – wait, no, not really. He’s eavesdropping on his wife’s ambiguous phone conversation about yogurt-porn and all these gorgoeous flavors she’s eaten lately. Key Lime Pie! Apple Turnovers! And, I’m losing weight! Where’s hubby? Like the dipshit that media plays him up to be, he’s digging through the fridge looking for these yummy desserts and oh teehee he’s like totally not getting it that it’s really the yogurt right in front of him that she’s talking about! Oh, the hilarity. Silly man. Yogurt is for girls!
And not just the diet yogurt commercials. Same brand as above, their middle of the road yogurt. Surely you all remember the annoying commercials with the quirky black girl and the elfishly cute white chick extolling the virtues of said yogurt above and beyond useless things like bridesmaids dresses, flowers, shoes, men, etc.
It’s like the industry as a whole is saying that only women eat yogurt! I can only recall one commercial that showed a man eating it – of course, he was feeding it to his lover like it was a sexual game, so I guess that made it more acceptable. Oh, no, I correct myself – there is one other set of commercials that show a man eating yogurt. It’s for the new “healthy bowel” yogurts that “regulate” you. Does this change mean that they’re going to stop forcing the feminization of yogurt, or is it just that type of yogurt because it’s unsexy?
I’ve been trying to figure out recently why marketing gurus have taken this approach. I, personally, know men who eat yogurt. They’re not the unicorn that commercials make them out to be. Is it that calcium by way of dairy is a big weight-loss boon only given to women? Is it because men, the lucky bastards, can supposedly drop numerous pant sizes without trying so hard as to need this magical weight loss staple called Yogurt? Or is this, yet again, a case of the marketing honchos not really knowing a good goddamn thing about real people who live real lives?
In trying to recall what other foods are commercially valued as being feminine, I thought about perhaps diet soda(pop). Maybe 15 years ago, but I can’t say anymore that most people truly feel that diet soda is for women. Then along comes this Pepsi Max commercial and they actually have the balls to be marketing this right at men and only men. “The Manly Men’s Diet Cola!” But then curiously it shows men being dipshits again and getting themselves nearly killed while shaking it off with a manly “it’s cool, I’m fine, there’s no need to worry about heart damage from that electrical zap or a Billy-Mays-esque bump to the head that might kill me in my sleep. nah. it’s all good.”
Before I go off on 15 more tangents, let’s recap: Marketing and media think that yogurt is for girls and men are accident-prone dipshits. Got that?

Can you think of any other foods being marketed and force-feminized?

–
~Lilly~

I’ve rarely been a person to deny herself pleasure. I’ve done some things in my past that I am not proud of anymore, in pursuit of said pleasure. And by “pleasure” I’m not just talking about sex, lol.
But sometimes it was about sex. Or food…..yeah a lot of it has been about food. Sometimes material possessions. But food, oh food. Yeah I’d say that about 60% of my inability to deny myself pleasure is about food.
And to be frank, it’s the pleasure from food aspect that has kept me fat and happy but unhealthy for so many years. If I wanted the decadence, the richness, the silkiness….I was going to have it, dammit, come hell or high water. Why? Because it was SO EFFING GOOD. Creamy, fat-laden premium ice creams and gelatos. Silky and sumptuous cream-reduction sauces. Gooey and sweet melted cream cheese in the form of a grilled cream-cheese sandwich. Good beef partnered with sauteed mushrooms and flavorful cheese. Oh god, Maine lobster dunked in clarified butter, I could swoon. Fat, glorious fat. It gives flavor, it gives divine texture. Food that you enjoy with every fiber of your being, food that makes you involuntarily say “Yummmmm” as you eat. Food being referred to as “better than sex”. Foodgasm, my favorite word. Food, glorious food. It makes mouths happy, it makes *brains* happy because of the endorphin rush or whatever. At least to me and those I call favorite people!
I’m so sorry, I just totally porned out on you all, didn’t I. Food…….food is my porn. Melty and creamy and silky and gooey and cheesy, these are my naughty filthy words. A friend of mine begs me to tell her about my breakfast/lunch/dinner if it was particularly indulgent; she says “talk dirty to me, honey”.
There was a point to this post, other than to make some of you hungry or some of you jealous of my mad cooking skillz and my refined palette.
My point is: how in the hell am I going to get healthy when I love food this much? All I see when I look at my near and (hopefully) temporary future of “healthy eating” is bland. Boring. Longing. Craving that which I can’t have – which leads me to binge and fall off the wagon. I don’t do well with moderation, I don’t do well with denying. All I see when I look at diet plans or healthy eating plans or whatever label they want to stick on it is a big world of no. No, you can’t have that. No butter! No white bread! Sugar!?! Heaven forbid! No food after 8pm. No more than X ounces. Weigh, measure, calculate and decide.
I realize that to so many of you reading this, you think I’m going about this all wrong. That I’m looking at the glass as being damn near empty. And I also know that there’s going to be some of you who are nodding and swooning with me, who nearly creamed their panties reading about my food porn up there. I guess I need a guru, a coach, a drill sergeant. I need to be taken by the hand and shown (fed) wonderful, tasty-to-me foods that satisfy my pleasure center without bursting my cholesterol and weight through the roof. I need to find a happy medium balance, where healthy foods exist that don’t lead to the seedy city of Falling Off The Wagon -ville.

–
~Lilly~

Recently I talked about how I was trying to find my femme side again. When my husband finally read that post, he came to me with heartfelt tears in his eyes and said “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to see this happen”.
Since the death of my father 12+ years ago, I was different. For a long time, even though this difference waxed and waned through the years, it was still there. My husband knew me for years before the death of my father and was the person closest to me so the difference was glaring to him. And in the first 6 months, hell even the first year, I knew that difference was there but I chalked it up to grief. But usually I just buried it. And then buried it a little more. And then buried myself. And even when little puzzles pieces of the old me started coming back, my husband knew that they still weren’t right. But, he kept quiet.
Why? Because he didn’t want to be anything other than my lover/fiance/husband. He didn’t want to become a father figure by giving me the heavy-handed control that I probably needed (and right here it’s obvious to many kinky readers that hub and I decidedly do *not* have a D/s relationship in the least); nor did he want to become just a friend by giving out too much advice and roadmaps. Instead, he waited patiently for it to happen in the way it had to, in the way it was supposed to. I had to find me again, by myself.
He watched me – over the years and other flings/lovers – superficially change for the others. But never for myself and never for him. He swallowed the feelings of wanting to take that personally, and just kept on. And now granted, the catalyst for this puzzle falling into place was not solely achieved by me…..it was by a person who was not afraid to take the heavy-handed father-figure advice-giver role and make me wake the fuck up. But at least my want for change is a want for myself, for the benefit of my own psyche and even my own health.
Because I can still be fat and sexy – *me*, I’m sexy, the person and personality – but I’m not fat and healthy. Mentally or physically. I am suddenly waking up and saying “I care about myself and what I look like to myself in the mirror but also to other people”. A commenter on my blog, regarding this topic and that afore-mentioned post, said that those polished and femme women I see and envy are merely trying to cover up their own perceived flaws. Maybe, maybe not. I’m inclined to call bullshit. I look at those women and I see not only the surface elegance and beauty but I see a woman who stands up straighter than I, who cares more than I do/did.
I’m saying I care. About me. About not scaring those who love me and worry about my health. About not wanting to be in such pain and if taking better care of myself health-wise might have an affect on the pain, then it’s damn well time to step up and do it. I have to. I can’t do it alone, though, I’m going to need help. And I’m not going to be afraid to ask for it.

I wear a size 20. Depending on the brand and the style of the article of clothing, I might even wear a 22. At the age of 32 (and I’m usually told I don’t look a day over 25) I am not yet ready to dress like my grandmother.

But the brick-and-mortar stores at my disposal think otherwise.

In the past 6 months I’ve had to shop for my own tiny (casual) wedding, a dressy wedding I was attending as a guest, a sexy party in New York City and clothes for work. Every shopping trip is stressful and drawn out. For my wedding, since I already owned a skirt and needed the proper top to go with it, my selection was already narrowed down. This led me to visit Every. Single. Store. Every store in my area that even hinted at carrying a few plus-size items. If a sales associate was brave enough to offer help I kindly turned it down for their own sake. With aching feet and and a sense of defeat the size of Texas, I chose a top that I wasn’t thrilled with but thought it “good enough”. Shopping for that party in NYC? Puhlease, I barely looked at the stores in my area. Instead, I combed the internet with fingers crossed and hopes held high. In the end my outfit worked better than I expected, but still had a few tweaks and flaws. I had to buy each piece from a different retailer.

Why? Why do clothes designers assume that if you’re plus-sized you’re 1. over 5’9″ and 2. over the age of 45 or “matronly and modest”. Some department store plus-size sections will carry the occasional fashion-forward pieces that are age-appropriate for me, but it’s like finding a needle in a haystack. Combine that with them also offering styles that most plus-size women should not wear and an abundance of matronly/modest articles, and it’s no wonder I hate shopping.

I have read various uncredited sources that claim as much as 50% of the American female adult population wears a size above 14 (16 and up is considered “plus). If it’s even just 40% then pray tell WHY are the plus-sized sections so damn small?? Old Navy won’t even carry those sizes in the store. Macy’s, Sears, Bon-Ton, JC Penneys, Target, Wal-mart, Kohl’s etc have a plus size section that equals only 10% of the “regular” sized women’s clothing. Plus sized clothing gets maybe 20 brands on average, while the other section has a hundred or more. They will convert only a tiny percentage of the regular sized clothes into plus-size. I can’t tell you how many times I walk by a cute/sexy top at Kohl’s with a wistful sigh, wishing it came in my size.

So we’re relegated to shopping online. Women on average have a much harder time with clothes fitting, than men, jut because we’re all shaped differently even at the same dress size. But plus-size women have even more issues with clothes fitting at our size, our being flattering. If the item is shown on a model, usually that model is barely a size 14 and has toned upper arms and a mostly flat belly with an otherwise “proportionate” body. Um, hello, I don’t look like that! So now we’re forced to shop online where we can’t try on things first, we have to guess. We have to subject ourselves to the measuring tape if we want a better shot at the clothes fitting, but that’s not even a gaurantee.

In a time when brick-and-mortar stores are pulling out all the stops to bring in and keep customers, you would think they would try to appease a larger cross-section of their customers. My local Target leaves only a paltry (and shameful) -6- racks for the plus-size section. Maternity gets more racks!! I can assure you there’s less business from Maternity women than plus-size. I’m not asking for equal shares, I know better. But if all these department stores committed to doubling (or tripling in the case of stores like Target) the plus-size section I can gaurantee you they would see a huge return on that.

I should not have an easier time of finding a cute top for MY CAT than for myself for a party in a fashionable city like New York.

As a little kid I can remember being quite the tomboy. I disliked Barbie Dolls. I preferred my toy guns and make-believe horses to baby dolls and playing dress-up. I can remember being just as dirty as a boy, with just as poor hygiene habits. Shameful, but true. Eventually peer pressure and friends ahead of me in terms of femme influenced my behavior (in other words: Junior High).

I can remember painting my nails. I can remember that it never lasted long, I picked even back then. I can remember owning numerous skirts and dresses. In fact, I had one year in High School where I wore little other than skirts and dresses to school. Why? No clue. I think perhaps I had just truly discovered that boys were attracted to my looks (and by looks I now realize it was more like my C cup tits). And of course I used to wear pantyhose a lot with those skirts and dresses. I owned numerous pairs of cute dress shoes. Not high fashion, mind you. And keep in mind this was the 90′s.

And then it all tapered off again.

Recently I thought very hard as to why; what happened, what was the catalyst?

Ahh yes. I can almost pinpoint it now. I gained weight slowly after my dad died. So slowly at first that I almost didn’t notice. I bought cheap, crappy “temporary” clothes because I was in denial. But then they became tight as well. In short, I got fat.

The fatter I became, the less choices I had for clothing. The worse I felt, the worse I looked. I can remember a time period when I barely wore makeup, hell some days I didn’t even wear a proper bra! I worked retail jobs so my work clothes were a genderless outfit. I wasn’t a big social butterfly, so my other clothes weren’t that great because they didn’t need to be. I had a fiance who loved me and wanted me just the way I was, so what did it matter? It only mattered when I was occasionally around a certain friend who always looked pretty no matter what, who was thin and wore better clothes. I felt “dumpy” no matter how hard I tried, when I did try. I reverted back to my tomboy childhood ways and stopped caring. I scoffed at the women who got manicures. What a waste of money! How silly! I could spend that $50 on a computer part and be WAY happier! Oh how I laugh at that, now.

The catalyst for the revival of femme within myself was that I met someone online; my monogamous relationship opened up. For a while there though my style was half-femme half-slut. If it was low cut and sexy while still being flattering and covering up my bad spots, then it was for me. In some ways that is still my fashion sense. Over the next few years I slowly, very slowly, crept back into my femme.

Last year, meeting my then-dom created an even bigger catalyst. He didn’t try to change me, he just saw the potential in me and he knew me – he knew that I saw the office women around the city and felt incredibly inferior and ugly. There’s so many women surrouding me that are SO put together. They looked like they had been through a grand makeover and came out as a shining example of what happens when a skilled stylist has a good canvas to work with. Classy, feminine, always in heels that are still going to be out of my reach.

He encouraged me to go get that manicure that I laughed at years ago, and after a few weeks of attempting on my own to transform my nails from raggedy jaggy stubs to healthy canvasses I gave in.

I think I must have stopped to look at them 50 times in the first few days. Then I became minorly obsessed with the littlest hang-nail or chip in my polish. I always had my nailcare kit in my bag. Now that I don’t have him to appreciate that work, I’ve slacked off a little but I’m ready to get back into it for ME. I don’t want to look longingly at other classy, feminine, pretty women and be jealous. I want to BE one.

I managed to find a pair of “heels” that are femme and cute and make me feel better than my dressy Sketchers. Kitten heels, but its progress. I’ll never wear the towering heels, because my body/feet just can’t do it. But I’ll keep on the lookout for more like these heels.

It’s been years since I would allow myself to leave the house without the basics in makeup, but I need someone experienced to teach me the finer points of being polished. I want to learn more eyemakeup styles. And oh my hair…..my poor hair. I have the fine/thin unruly hair of a stylist’s nightmares. Either I am completely unskilled or my hair will just never have that polished feminine look. The 35 different hair products cluttering up my tiny bathroom are a testament though that I try.

I’m still fat. I’m still thoroughly discouraged by my clothes and the clothes that I can find in my size that are equally flattering, age-appropriate, and the right blend of sexy and classy. Perhaps if I had more money to spend on clothes, then I would dress myself the way I want. But for now, the only way that I see out is to lose a lot of weight. And man, that’s about as depressing as looking inside my own closet.

Maybe not. Maybe I just need a mentor. A Femme Guru. Send me to finishing school where I learn to walk in heels with a book balanced on my head.

Or just fuckin nominate me for “What Not to Wear”.

Young & Stupid

Long ago and far away, my now-husband and I first played around with his ass. If I recall correctly, the first time was quite unremarkable and was little more than an exploratory teasing session that kept going. He seemed to really enjoy the sensations and was comfortable with it. The next time had purpose, and I brought out my smallest dildo. While I played with his ass and his cock, I witnessed a level of pleasure that I had never seen him reach before in my presence. When a glorious orgasm finally burst forth, with my dildo firmly up his ass, we were both in shock and awe. And then confusion. What did that mean?

I was young and stupid and I freaked out a little bit, thinking that maybe his liking anal play also meant that maybe he was……gay?

Like I said, I was young and stupid, and uneducated. I had never heard of a straight man enjoying anal play before.

Enter Aneros

After that first freaked-out discussion, couples-time anal play wasn’t brought up again between the two of us for quite some time. However, he had quite liked it, so he eventually sought out more information himself. Enter the Aneros line of prostate toys. Back then they had fewer choices, but nonetheless the site was extremely informative about the wonders of the prostate and the boundless joys of exploring it. Through this site and the forums, hearing from actual guys, it becomes very clear that anal play hasn’t got a damn thing to do with one’s sexual preferences. Duh!

Reading that site was like a light bulb being turned on. My previous misconceptions were gone and I was eager to explore it with him again. We bought one for him, and we continued to use the dildo and sometimes the Aneros toy. I learned that I quite liked being able to give him that much pleasure!

After my education, from then until present times, I encourage all my male friends and ‘friends’ to relax about exploring their ass. I feed them the safety information, I show them toys, and assure them that not only gay cowboys like having things up their butts. Granted I don’t bring this topic up with just *any* male friend, for example, none of the ones I work with!

The Fumbling Domme & the Too-Small Harness

Not too long after Hub and I began our initiation into the world of prostates, I had started seeing a guy who was sexually submissive. I was really very new to the BDSM scene, but I quite liked this person and thought “if this is what gets him off, I want to explore it too!” and away we went. He is the first guy I ever “pegged”.

Well, to be accurate, I should say that I TRIED to peg him. Oh it failed. It all failed so miserably.
During our first encounter with the intentions of butt sex, he brought along a harness that he owned and had been used by a previous girlfriend. Said previous girlfriend weighed about 100 pounds less than me and of course this wasn’t one of those really-and-truly-one-size-fits-all harnesses. Thankfully he was blindfolded as I fumbled with putting on the damn harness. I hadn’t a clue how to properly go about it, but I quickly figured out that the first problem was that it was just too small for me. But hey, he was blindfolded and so I let him believe that I was all suited up – it added to it, mentally, for him.
Let me interject here to beg of those interested in pegging their boyfriends to PLEASE educate yourself on safety, proper ways to ease into pain-free pegging, and so on. When I think back now to all of the mistakes he and I both made, it’s quite embarrassing actually.

For our future encounters, I didn’t want to admit to being too fat for the silly harness so I researched other options and I happened upon the Feeldoe. The intentions of the Feeldoe are good, but again there were a few caveats and research points that I didn’t delve into. The first being that I didn’t know just how much size matters when it comes to the butt. The second is that the Feeldoe isn’t the greatest choice for pegging, because the resistance in anal means that you have to have PC muscles tighter than a steel bear trap to keep the pony end of the dildo inside of you. Once again I saved face with a blindfold – he couldn’t see all of my behind-the-scenes/butt fumbling and so when I resorted to just using it as a standard dildo, he didn’t really know. Of course, it also turned out that the Feeldoe I purchased was just too big for his butt to manage, and so it never was meant to be for us.

Prostate vs Pegging

Knowing what I know now, reading the harness reviews that I have, I know that there are indeed very comfy harness options for a gal my size. But I see pegging and prostate play as two different classes. Just like penetrative sex and g-spot play can be really different. Pegging (and dildos in general) are more about the “fullness” sensation in the ass and against the prostate. The pegger can also be the one in control, but the pegee doesn’t always have to be submissive. Pegging requires a man with a more open mind – any latent homophobia will rush to the surface if he’s not open.

Prostate play is less about thrusting and fucking than it is just pure pleasure and manipulation of the prostate. It can easily be either just a solo masturbation act or a partner activity. Prostate play can involve toys (proper ones, please!) or just fingers.

Myth Busting – How to make men understand that liking anal play doesn’t make them gay

There’s really only so far a girl can go here. I’ve educated a few men in my time to realize that anal play doesn’t make them gay. And of course there are others that I just am never going to get through to. Education, reading the experiences of other straight men and their partners, talking about it with your guy and slow consensual playtime can all go very far. If there is a level of trust there he might agree to trying it out with you, but don’t be surprised if his society-driven mental blocks keep him from fully appreciating it.

First let me explain my take on the “typical” brain of feminine vs masculine. I do realize that just by saying that I’ve already ruffled some feathers. The saying “Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus” DOES have its valid points.

I’m equally a logical and emotional person. It’s hell, lemme tell ya. I need to totally *understand* something, I need to know why. Why, why, why. I’m like a 2 year old. I cannot just do something “because”. If I at least know why I’m doing and what comes next then I’m much better able to do my part. But I also act and react very emotionally, I’m very much an empath. Anyways, back to the logic. I have fibromyalgia which is a very misunderstood disease (but they do know that brain chemicals are either affected or a partial cause and I believe that the main chemicals affected are serotonin and dopamine) and I have a dopamine deficiency. ADD, ADHD, whatever label you want to put on it. When you run down the symptoms, I’m a textbook case. But I have other oddities that make me hard to diagnose. So in the course of trying to figure out what is wrong with me, I’ve done a lot of research. Learning what others like me are like. Forming my own theories that may or may not be a grand revelation to the science community at large.

Even if you don’t have a “mental disorder”, I believe that everyone’s brain hormones/chemicals are not all at perfectly balanced middle-of-the-road levels. Everyone has a skew, and that forms your personality. It’s when the skew is to severe that one is then diagnosed with depression, anxiety, bi-polar, ADD, etc. So my outlook is kinda like…..a horoscope. I am most compatible with other people that have a similar chemical skew/imbalance. If their dopamine is lower, I’ll get along with them. ( I hope this explanation makes sense to you all, lol).

They already know that biological men and women use their brains differently. But that’s what they can see and measure. What they haven’t been able to measure yet are the levels of the brain hormones. So I’m not saying here that my thoughts on the chemical differences pertain to *biological* male/female roles, obviously, but the self-identifying masculine/feminine roles. The typical feminine brain skews a little lower on serotonin. The typical masculine brain skews a little lower on dopamine. Disclaimer: I’m not saying that this is fact, I am saying that in allmy logical thoughts, this has to be true. One big reasoning is that many of my little ADD-quirks/issues/problems….to some lesser degree are all complaints that wives generally have about their husbands. I’m more likely to forget birthdays and anniversaries. I lose track of time. That whole domestic drive to clean the house and run errands when you’d really rather sit on yer butt? Yeah I don’t have that and you’ll find me sitting on my ass till there’s no clean undies and we’re outta milk. When a female asks me if I notice anything different, I’m going to be staring blankly at her just like most men would.

I hope I didn’t lose you – this topic of brain chemistry and why I, without fail, get along the best with people with similar chemistry levels as my own, this is all seriously fascinating to me. Even if the knowledge doesn’t do me any good with treatment I still like understanding it all as best as possible.

Anyways.

I’m the girl in full makeup who’s fixing your computer and babbling in geek-speak.

I’m the girl wearing perfume who’s hanging with the guys, playing MMORPG games and being just as competitive as them.

I’m the girl in the group of people who will admonish the man with a “Don’t be such a pig!” to his pervy comment all the while silently agreeing with him and staring at that chicks ass right along with him.

I’m the girl in sexy clothes and kitten heels who is happily tagging along to a muscle car show, admiring the details and work on big, loud car.

I’m the girl who’s weighing the cost of a manicure against the cost of a new mouse and trying in vain to pick one.

In my mind I objectify women as I ogle them, but I don’t let on outloud, for that’s not proper. I know it’s not right but it happens anyway. I’m terrible at being domestic even when it has to be done. I didn’t inherit the gene that makes my mind think “We’re having company! I better dust!” like my mother and her mother before her. I drive too fast, I swear too much and I don’t remember your birthdate. I could spend just as much money at Sephora as I could at Newegg.com. I am competitive beyond compare and fuck you if you beat me.

And when I read about other bisexual or bi-curious women talking about how softly they would kiss a woman, how the sex would be sensual and spiritual and *cue sound of abrupt record-scratching to signify a halt* – I think “why??” I want to kiss and be kissed like I would kiss a man. Kissing men, kissing women, it’s not a different activity for me it’s kissing a person and I like it passionate. Not feathery kitten kisses. I want to have hot, sweaty, kinda-rough passionate sex with a woman just as I would with a man.

But yet I want to be swept off of my feet in romance. I want the grand gestures. I want the Daddy Dom type to a degree. I have my days of wanting to be pampered and beautiful and wanted and loved. You don’t have to hold the door for me unless my hands are full, but I’d appreciate it if you compliment how I look, even though I may blush and dip my head. Don’t placate me, don’t patronize me, I can do it for myself, please help, tell me what to choose, tell me it’s all gonna be alright, I am woman hear me roar, I’m a little girl please take care of me today.

I am a contradiction in flesh and blood and sometimes I just don’t know which way to go.

There are two sides to me. The Lilly you see online and the L that most others see in reality (and how I feel in reality). Sometimes there is a bleeding of the edges betwixt the two worlds and I am gaining comfort in that happening more. This isn’t to say that Lilly is a contrived persona. In fact, not at all. Lilly is what L truly is under the surface. Lilly is the no-holds-barred version of L. There are most definitely pixels shared between the two. A Venn diagram, if you will.The better I know someone and the more comfortable I am with them, the more Lilly and L meld together as almost one.

I don’t mind people staring at Lilly because it’s all virtual and I can control it. But in the stark lights of reality, L feels scrutinized. L says “Don’t look at me”. Lilly says “Oh hey, its naked time? Wait for me!”.

I think that the Lilly you see on Twitter is really more of a meld than most other places. Granted, a lot isn’t shared there but it’s much more of an equality of the two. Would L have the cohones to say to a just-introduced guy “Well HELL-o cute boy!!”? Nope. And will Lilly let her Eeyore side out online? As little as fucking possible, thank you. I think the matter at hand is this: how much more Lilly does L need to absorb into her public persona? For I know damn well she could stand more than she’s got.

Ya know why?

Because L needs a goddamn date, that’s why. L needs to move onwards and upwards and find the guy who’s somewhere in between side dish and main course.

And Lilly is way more date-able. No, not because she’s got a bit of teh slut, but because she’s confident and happy-but-snarky (usually, unless she’s pissed off because SOME men think her every sentence must be met with “witty” innuendo-laden replies). But I have news for ya boys: L/Lilly doesn’t fuck on the first date anymore. Sorry, day late and fifty dollars short.I have fully embraced that my brain is my biggest sex organ and if you can’t tap that, you can’t tap this. I will never again let a man get past kissing me if our conversation doesn’t make my eyes sparkle with the lust of intelligence and character. In the beginning of my blog, Lilly was akin to a puppy. Wiggly and new and cute and into everything. And as I merge a little more L back into Lilly, we’re seeing a little more Lady, a little less Tramp.

When I posted on my blog a few months ago about my flaws it was the first time that readers really saw more of L. And I was scared to put that out there! Sometimes I feel like this anonymous blogging / dual-personality shit is fraudulent. I mean, it’s not – not one bit of Lilly the personality/person is a lie. But I know that L isn’t very shiny and sparkly a lot of the time anymore and that can be a bit of a bummer. I’ve met a few people offline that knew me as Lilly for awhile and I do believe they ended up disappointed with L. I can’t say as I blame them either. Lilly is who I would be all the time if I were surrounded by friends/family/co-workers just like those of you that I know online; Lilly is who I would be without my neurosis.

So what is this? A crisis of identity? Multiple personalities disorder? Split brain? Split pea soup? One thing I do know is that I’m learning about myself in ways that I didn’t expect when I started the blog. I am more self-aware than ever before. Some days it’s a painful awareness but most days it’s a good thing. Good bits like the sexy attitude that comes with wearing cute little heels. Painful bits like wanting very much to tell people in L’s world about something very exciting in Lilly’s world. It was very hard for me in the weeks leading up to my NYC trip to spend time with bloggy friends and attend the NYC Sex Bloggers Calendar Party to have to constantly lie about exactly why I was going to NYC. I tested the waters once, and when someone asked me what all I was going to do there I listed off a few things and one of them was “see a Burlesque show”.

Silence.

Confusion.

“……what’s ‘burlesque’???”

I tried a few vanilla, simple explanations and when the look of confusion just expounded with each word out of my mouth I finally gave up.

“Nevermind. I’m going to see a show and it’s nowhere near Broadway.”

And that, my friends, was the last time Lilly opened her mouth in L’s world.