My naked body

I’ve been alone in my house for the past week, an experience that’s new to me—and believe me, I’ve taken advantage of it. But all week, I’ve been working up the courage to do one simple thing that I imagine other people do on a fairly regular basis: I wanted to take advantage of the safety of my assured privacy to see what my vulva looks like. I tried this once before, in an awkward squatting position in front of my full-length mirror, and it didn’t bring me any closer to finding my clitoris (the object of the mission) than I was before. I was turned off by my “lady parts”—they seemed so foreign, so unlike the rest of me. I guess most of all, I associate cunts with porn, or at least that which is adult-themed. And I may be legal, but I sure don’t think of myself as adult.

So after seven or eight days, I reassured myself that there was nothing wrong—and a lot good—with getting a sense of what I look like between my legs, and so when I undressed for the night, instead of scrambling immediately into the t-shirt and shorts I wear to bed, I sat down on the edge of my bed, leaned back on my elbows, and spread my legs. It was a different woman staring back at me—and that was the point, really: I hadn’t struck the pose intentionally, but the open legs, the pornographically inviting oval surrounded by hair, and the roundness, the adultness, of my hips and breasts, took me by surprise. My braided leather choker, one of the few pieces of jewelry I always wear, had fallen close against my neck, reminiscent of a collar, which only served to heighten the illusion of sexualization and “other.” I hadn’t meant for that to happen. So I folded up my legs and went to the computer to write about it, without taking a good look at my cunt at all.

I was concerned that such a detailed description of my naked body might unreasonably titillate the reader, and that’s certainly not my intention or my wish (though I point out that this is a sexblog, and in such a forum the narration of nakedness seems to be reasonably acceptable). I just want to underscore the contrast I feel, when I sit down to look at my body. Most of the time it’s just there: when I’m in the shower, or getting dressed, it’s with a mechanical, almost clinical detachment that I handle my various body parts. My usual aim in my clothing choices is to hide my body, with a definite subconscious notion, I think, of desexualizing myself in the constant attempt to blend in with the guys I try to associate with. When I occasionally wear a bathing suit or a dressy shirt or dress that shows a little cleavage, I will keep glancing down. “Is that me?” I wonder. “I have breasts?”

So what am I doing, flopped on my bed in a pose that reminds me of the half-dozen naked women I click through in a day, allowing myself a little gasp before I banish the window in embarrassment?


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