Earlier this year I had a task to fulfill: Write a one-page short story, not more than 400 words, Fiction/Drama. I did that, submitted it, and waited. A while later the reading was ready. It took quite some time until the information got to me, but finally, it’s here.Listen to the Short Story Reading below.
I waited in my grandmother’s salon. The entire house seemed to walk on tiptoes. Did they really think I didn’t know what my parents wanted to tell me?
I was in the living room yesterday when they broke out in one of their arguments.
“I think we should take Stephanie to that boarding school. It would be easiest for her not to see her home being sold, our belongings split up, and us moving to different cities.” My father had said.
My mother replied acidly: “Yes, like you cared a lot about our girl, when you came home, day and night, drunk, reeking of perfume and other women.” My father yelled. “Stephanie never saw anything like it.” He lifted his hand as he wanted to slap her, but my mother screamed fearfully: “Don’t you dare to hit me again, not in my house!”
A calm and controlled voice behind her said: “The way I see it, this is still my house, daughter. I don’t want to hear one more word about it. As for you, soon-to-be-former-son. I don’t want to see you ever lifting your hand again against my daughter or anyone else in this family. It is time you both move on with your plans. Does Stephanie even know you separated and will get a divorce? You cannot just ship her out like a package and expect her to accept everything upon her return.”
My mother replied sourly: “It was his job to tell her. But we all know he is a coward.” My father hissed at her. “How dare you saying that.”
My grandmother shook her head and made up her mind: “I’ll tell her tomorrow.”
Now I stood in front of her in the salon. The door to the back fields stood wide open. My grandmother explained in a few words: “Listen, child. Your father and mother will get a divorce. They planned to have you go to school somewhere else to save you the trouble of listening to their arguments any longer. But I insisted you stay here instead, live with me for the time being. Is that okay?”
I nodded. “Yes, grandmother.”, tears streaming down my face. Then I turned around, darted through that open door, and did what I would do all my life. I ran towards the sun and light, into freedom, away from those who caused me pain and darkness.
It was a difficult decision for the jury. But we had a lot of fun and want to thank all poets for their wonderful poems.
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Thank you, Raymond Walker and Sherry Perkins for their jury work and offering one of their books to the winners. I appreciate your help and support!
Now, please permit me a word on my own account:
The Halloween-Poem Contest has brought us all a lot of work and fun and many wonderful Halloween poems, showing how much talent there is around.
However, it also showed us, with this year having the lowest number of participants, that our poets have shown all their skills within the Halloween theme.
After five years of organizing the Annual Halloween-Poem Contest and hosting it on ‘Writer’s Treasure Chest,’ I think it is time for something new.
It was five years of fun and I wanted to thank everyone, all participants, and in particular all jury members from the first to the last contest, for making this a wonderful experience for me! Thanks so much for all your work, your help, your support – and the wonderful books you offered as prizes in the five years! You all are amazing, not only as authors but also as wonderful friends!
Please respect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from each of the poems author’s is strictly prohibited and violates copyright laws in the country you are reading this work in as well as in the country you are trying to re-publish this work in. – Aurora Jean Alexander
When willows arch their backs in reverence,
bowing toward the earth below.
When evening breezes messenger the coming of the moon’s pale glow.
When night birds telegraph their omens,
fresh from lunar heights, foretold and hearth sides showcase flames emblazoned,
burnished embers edged in gold.
From deep in silent, grassy places sodden with late-evening air.
Ambivalent to strange embraces,
lilies bring their buds to bear.
Amidst the stony tributaries built to those no sound may reach.
To evidence impermanence,
engraved with lessons, yet to teach.
Here begets the Witching Hour, slivered apex of the night.
All at once, begun and ended,
metaphor for mortal plight.
Taunts all life with fear and splendor,
dreams of flying, long since lost.
Tempts the grave with memories tender.
Glimpse the light, whatever cost.
Coiled within the misty shadow,
serpentine and poised to strike, lay the horrid reckoning
feared by both chaste and foul alike.
The cold and misty air contains a deathly musk
A stench that hovers over the graves
Stirring from the ground of depth
Lost souls looking upwards to be saved
Bony hands clutch their invitation
Tight to their skeletal chest
They hope to attract a new dead mate
One they can touch and maybe caress
Darkness is their familiar friend
As they sit beside their first date
Beauty is in the socket of the beholder
As a specialty, their head rotates
Stripped of flesh and brains
They now judge on spirit alone
They talk about previous lives
And reminisce about earthly homes
The church bell sounds its tune
Its time to swap around
The truth is they will never find new love
While they all sleep six feet underground
Pleaserespect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from each of the poems author’s is strictly prohibited and violates copyright laws in the country you are reading this work in as well as in the country you are trying to re-publish this work in. – Aurora Jean Alexander
There is a being, you see, upon this evening’s brow;
two stories up, where the night’s extinguished candle was used to enshroud.
Over the flame she turned, over their breath she heard, their pensive dishes of gruel and meat,
their spoons clashing, bread ripping, as they spoke of things without understanding;
without understanding at all.
Notes of music spilt onto the wooden floors; clanging mouths and spit soon sealed every door.
A rush away, chains soon met.
Truth was heard whispering nevermore;
it was beckoned back through the Hall’s front doors.
Now with violence ripped and pages fell,
Darkened calendars and lighted gold,
the lady of the manor haunts her lonely, ever darkened but discreet,
Halloween Halls.
A party had gathered the night of Samhain
When a stranger arrived. “Won’t you please let me in?”
He was no acquaintance; his horse threw a shoe.
With the rain, might he stay and enjoy the fun, too?
His hair, black as pitch; his frame, mighty tall:
The ladies were swooning all over the hall.
In this golden era when Victoria was queen,
By turns they told ghost stories each Halloween.
The house master waited. He told his tale last.
His guests scarcely breathed till the story had passed.
His ancestor conquered this manor by siege
And ousted the king who had long been its liege.
But people still loved him. For full victory
The conqueror lashed the old king to a tree.
In public he severed the fingers and toes
Of the king one by one. Then he lopped off his nose.
The dying man gave his last curse to the land:
“You may prosper today. You may think your luck grand.
But I promise you this: Nuada shall return!
My torture and murder will be overturned
When I visit on you what you’ve given to me.
Not even your children will ever be free!”
The master’s eyes gleamed as he warned the hushed hall,
“One night he’ll come back here to murder us all!”
By now, all the house guests were too scared for bed.
As midnight approached, the house mistress said,
“It’s time to tell fortunes. Who wants to go first?”
They fled to the parlor from thoughts of the curse.
They each took an apple and sliced it nine ways
In front of the mirror. They’d find true love’s gaze
By eating eight pieces, then tossing the last
Over shoulder by candlelight. Inside the glass
Some claimed to see friends or that gleam in the eyes
Of the one they loved best, like young Lydia’s prize:
The stranger in darkness who stole her first kiss
While the guests, rapt with stories, saw nothing amiss.
At last her turn came, but her lover had gone:
Vanished into the night with the horse he rode on.
Young Lydia, pretty, the house’s last daughter,
Saw gilded glass ripple like midnight water.
Her love’s noseless visage grinned wide like a skull:
“King Nuada’s back! Now your family line’s null!”
Nine months, and poor Lydia brought forth a son.
Her father’s grim gaze knew whose battle was won.
In the boy shone the stranger. No fingers or toes.
The most frightening thing was his lack of a nose.
Now Lydia nurses her babe by the hour,
Guarding his life from her family’s power.
No mere mortal child will inherit the land:
One look at his face shows King Nuada’s brand.
On Samhain, the veil between worlds grows too thin.
Be wary of strangers and don’t let them in.
She appeared
out of the night.
Dark mystery arousing
curiosity,
distraction, concern.
(When will I ever learn
to let these heartbreaks
in the making
pass me by?)
Voodoo of attraction,
sacrosanct intimacy.
Impelled to submit in throes
of flagrant ecstasy.
Do what you will with me
in our secret rendezvous.
Then relinquish me to go
back to my wastrel ways.
She grabbed me with such force
I felt I could die.
And that was just her eye
pulling me close
to continue
our conversation.
Great conflagration
arose in my heart.
So adept at her art
of igniting
imagination.
Cruel fate
mocks nocturnal fantasies.
Yet, swept up in delight,
facing dualities,
the wrong and the right,
I too easily sell my immortal soul
for her eternal night.
She tastes my sin
drip laughing from my skin.
I freely forswear my life.
Fierce pierce and suck
lunge in the for kill.
There’s no greater thrill.
We descend into dark fall.
Fade into shadow before approach of light.
Pleaserespect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from each of the poems author’s is strictly prohibited and violates copyright laws in the country you are reading this work in as well as in the country you are trying to re-publish this work in. – Aurora Jean Alexander
goblins and ghouls shrieking all night
it’s halloween! the witches dance and sing
haunting humanity with terror and fright
vampire bats wake and take flight
tender young necks a delicious thing
goblins and ghouls shrieking all night
gravediggers shovel dirt; sneering with delight
human spare and found parts they fling
haunting humanity with terror and fright
the boogeyman tall, fearsome and might
terror and dread his shadow will bring
goblins and ghouls shrieking all night
zombies moan in the bright moonlight
out of the grave and wandering
haunting humanity with terror and fright
the graveyard bathed in an eerie green light
it’s halloween! the witches dance and sing
goblins and ghouls shrieking all night
haunting humanity with terror and fright
Curvaceous candy stick girl
Her brash hair is pink
Her nails are too
She sashays by and disappears.
A tickled pink apparition
of rainbow stripy stockings.
She teases with her lipstick smile
Twirls by too darn quick
Like champagne bubbles
Blinking through false lashes. See
a passerby’s hair is now lollipop blue.
Nails a pretty sky hue
Captured joining sweetest nibbles!
She sighs, candy-lipped
As sensual silks sway
in symphonies of sweet organza.
Come bubblegum hearts
Sugar sweet babes,
Licorice all-sorts.
Let’s sashay away marshmallows,
tempting.
Trick or Treat, sugar-tipped
Coins, gum, pick and mixes
Chewy, jelly, sherbet fixes
Candy cone bites mingle
as Joker snatches bonbon handfuls.
Devils desire red chilli sweets
Vampire fangs dip in space dust
Pumpkins gobstopper around
Addams family – Cousin Itt
who sits with VIP scary magic minx’s,
Witches, and sugar twitches
Cocktail umbrellas and alcohol pitchers
The party heightens and revels
Trick or tricksters tumble
trapped In sugar-coated ditches.
Ghostly gatecrasher’s senses tremble
One chocolate heart’s never enough!
Skeletons, please… die, resuscitate
Join us for one last fizzing bite!
A hooting owl
Sits on a bare branched yew,
While shadows from the moon
Creep across the tombs.
Fog rolls in from the east
And the churchyard sleeps.
The chiming of midnight
Is a doleful sound.
It wakes up the corpses
Who live down in the ground.
One by one
They moan and taunt,
And go a-haunting
As is their want.
They rattle their chains
And scream with all their might,
The living hear them and fear
All things going bump in the night.
No one is safe
Until daylight seeps through
The bare branches
Of the aforementioned yew.
The rusty, creaky iron door
Welcomes you in to the land of the dead
Where, to Hades’ ravenous earth,
Bodies of the dead are fed.
The chilling wind and moonless night
Are a reminder of their last moments-
How their body went cold and eyes lost light,
How they took a last wheezy breath.
The gravestones stand like sentries
On the battlefield of the graveyard,
Each guarding its own;
For who knows when claustrophobia might strike ’em.
Each one with a different epitaph-uniform
Like the shortest biographies in the world,
A whole life crammed in a couple lines
Just like the body in the coffin inside.
Some moss-covered, some cracked
Some’s uniform so worn,
You can’t even decipher the engravings
A whole life, forgotten.
Flowers, once red, but now so withered
They crumble into dust at the slightest touch,
Their bond with the living plane broken
Dead, like the subjects of the tombstones.
Here and there you might see a snake
Come to guard the dead from the living,
To see that no one crosses the Styx alive
Lending a hand to the boatman.
The oaks and pines are grave,
Just like the yard they grow in
Realising that none but the gods are immortal
Thanatos will come for them one day.
One day this graveyard will grow so vast
That it covers the entire Earth,
One day no one will be left to give
Living roses to the dead.
Please respect each authors’ and poets’ copyright. The rights remain with the writers. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without expressed and written permission from each of the poems author’s is strictly prohibited and violates copyright laws in the country you are reading this work in as well as in the country you are trying to re-publish this work in. – Aurora Jean Alexander
It was Halloween night, the full moon was bright,
why did you choose the witching hour
to explore this old house, where not even a mouse,
would eat any food, it would be sour.
Then a spooky sound, echoes around.
Claws, clickety, clacking on the floor.
You look all about, and know without doubt.
They’re coming from just outside the door.
Suddenly … silence … there can be no more pretence.
You know, that they know, where you are.
The window is open, but is that just a token?
Are there others waiting by your car?
The choice is stark, to go out in the dark,
and take the chance it’s all clear.
The handle starts turning, your stomach is churning,
Is it one, or two, or all … Oh Dear.
No time to plead, you must take the lead,
through the window and drop to the ground.
Get onto your feet, run fast and fleet,
over the hedge you bound.
Use all your cunning and keep on running,
The river is near, flowing water they won’t cross.
You reach the bank, the water smells rank.
Time to swim like a Boss.
You gasp and wallow, find the river is shallow,
so you splash to the other side.
Climb out, look about,
there must be somewhere to hide.
The moon is still high, no clouds in the sky,
There’s a light you can see up ahead.
Safety at last? Is the danger passed?
But then, to your uttermost dread.
Howling has started, you feel faint hearted.
They’d found a bridge and had crossed.
To the light you race, without trying for grace.
Then suddenly, the light is lost.
You sink to your knees, your breathing a wheeze.
They found you lying prostrate.
Their fangs were bare, as they grin and stare.
“Good game Mistress, really first rate.”
Your three dogs leap about, as if to shout,
”We won again, fair and square”
Without further ado, with some barks and a BOO,
all head for home, they for treats, you to have a shower.
Whispered to me, on the holy Wiccan hour.
Fool’s searching answers from the Page of swords. The crucible in his poison-lips. My hands turn cold.
Poised for the lovers to show me the mystic.
Eyes so sad, desperate for the eternal witness.
He tasted of a street corner- malice curiosity,
birthed with the caul, with foresight he led.
My body performing for him. He will never want me deeper.
Drink my offering – pray in threes: have me, have me, have me.
Tongs dance with serpents in figure eights.
Hands nailed open, from the past I asked for.
Fingernails chewed to the wick- a warning of fouls profits.
Blistered saws- snubbed out black candlesticks.
He tore away flesh as I fastened my grip.
Powdered salt lips- gently playing to contort.
Bulling out the needle, not thinking of the scare.
Obscurity startled the black ally cat.
Talking in tongs of a lover that meant more.
Standing mute. Under the harvest full moon.
Inspecting my entrails for answers to leave.
I gave thanks to the sacrifice that tended my needs.
The body crumbled, as he revealed his true vengeance.
The spell, broken. I saw behind the seven veils.
This creature of the night. Christened by spite.
Hands over eyes- I was left dancing in crop circles.
On one hallows eve
The text said meet me
In the graveyard
By the guards
Of the iron gate.
It said there’ll be a date.
Though I must say
It was weird in a way
My Vampiric sensors alarmed
I’m not easily charmed.
My sarcophagus quietly opened
I went into the unknowing
The full moon showed the dirt trail
Found the gate without fail
Arrows led me to a stone.
Its familiar name glowed.
The one from the text,
Now had me perplexed.
The dirt began to move,
“Hello, my love, do you approve?”
I felt a pain in my right arm
My blood had been farmed
She and I had become one
“My love, what have you done?
For it cannot be reversed.”
“You are forever cursed.”
“We’ll be together forever,” she exclaimed.
I should feel ashamed
“My love, together forever it will be.”
On one hallows eve.
Once you open the door
it can be hard to tell
under feathers and masks
swan from princess
prince from frog
because so often
they are both
The bedsheet ghosts
can be bribed to go haunt
the neighbors but
once the door is open
your own phantoms appear
an invisible few
you know who
They won’t go away and
never stop talking about
what should have been different
despite now knowing it all
could only have been what it was
which is why they’re dead
and you’re not
Every author and poet are invited to participate and deliver a “Halloween-Poem” to my email address: aurorajean.alexander@aol.com, together with their picture and a link to their website and/or blog.
There are a few rules to follow:
Your poem needs a Halloween theme.
Your poem needs a minimum of 99 words.
Your poem has to be delivered to my email address between October 10 and Halloween, October 31, 2019, 9 pm Central Standard Time.
Your poem has to be delivered together with your picture and a link to your blog/page.
Please avoid violence, bad language, and sexual content within the poems. It would be disqualified.
Every poem that meets the rules and is delivered within the deadline will be published here on “Writer’s Treasure Chest” together with the provided picture and link.
The contest starts October 10, 2019, 06.00 am and ends October 31, 2019, 09.00 pm Central Standard Time!!
Please, deliver your poem and your picture to my email address within this time frame, neither earlier, nor later. Poems arriving outside these 3 weeks will be disqualified.
This post is part of the Beauty of a Woman BlogFest VI! To read more entries, and potentially win a fun prize, visit the fest page between today and 11pm PST March 11th.
Lies, boring sex and does size really matter?
Once upon a time… It was a while ago I was in a relationship I considered to be happy. It was a long-distance, long-term relationship, and later engagement. And there it languished. If we had lived closer together, I eventually had realized much earlier, that this guy was a lazy, lying, nightmarish sociopath. But for a while I was happy. He made me happy. He made me feel like I was the only one, the prettiest, the most beautiful woman! (I found out later he told this to at least 6 or 7 other women too – at the same time – but that’s not subject of this post).
At the time he made me happy, satisfied me in bed until I finally realized two things: The man had literally no idea how a female body works, and I wasn’t sure whether he was properly educated when it comes to the ‘birds and the bees’.
Maybe this might help him:
Yes, he carefully watched my reactions, and I figure his request for me to let myself go and make noises during sex made it easier for him to see what action leads to what reaction. But other than that, he was more or less helpless.
·He had no idea why women menstruate
·He had no clue how to recognize when a woman fakes an orgasm
·He was totally oblivious how many orgasms a woman can have before dying
·He figured the more orgasms, the better satisfied
·The thought of a woman faking an orgasm just to get him off her finally never occurred to him.
As for me: I finally realized how boring this man was. All he was (and probably still is) interested in is sleeping, eating and sex. And there we go: He was even boring in bed. Due to us being apart for long times and then meeting again, it took me a while to find out that these sexual meetings always followed a certain program. Like a time frame, or maybe a ‘user manual.’
1. Tell her you love her
2. Tell her she’s beautiful
3. Tell her you missed her
4. Repeat point 1 – 3 excessively
5. Undress her
6. shower with her (because she insists)
7. tell her some more she’s beautiful
8. give her oral satisfaction
9. extend that until she screams
10. before she sneaks off (again), finally try to get your own satisfaction (provided it stands)
That was about it. There was no variation, no ideas, no new things, nothing magic, not even much fun after a certain time.
In the end, I finally just sighed and shortened the entire happening somewhere between point 1 and 4 – and again around point 7 and 8. Earlier screaming makes the entire thing end up faster, right?
And there was something else that irritated me to no end: his pride about the size of his penis. I just frowned at him when he mentioned the 9 inches. Do I need to understand what the point is why men need to show off their size? Provided of course they have it! Because of these 9 inches were, if not a lie, at least an exorbitant exaggeration. To this day I still believe he read that one number ‘upside down.’ It would explain a lot.
At the end it came as it had to: The relationship came to an end. Do I regret what happened? In a way, I do, yes. It shouldn’t have taken this long for me to realize how boring the man was, both in and outside the bed.
It took me a while to get out of the grief – but once I got over it, I thought, okay. Next time it will be better. And I thought it did…
*****
Unexpectedly and to my great surprise a man from my past showed up out of the shadows. Over 20 years ago we had worked together on a project, but once the project had ended, we’ve never seen each other again.
That man was so handsome when he was younger! Back then he had swept me off my feet. And now he came back into my life to do just the very same thing again. I’m no kid, and I usually don’t suffer from unexpected hallucinations. He got older, just as I did. We all change a bit with age. The only difference is that I’m realistic about it – he isn’t.
His way of making love with me was to ‘jump on me,’ wild, feral… his foreplay limited to the words “Are you awake?”
Considering the years before I had the most boring sex one can only imagine, this might have been a welcome change. For just a moment. Then I woke up. My man complained I was “too aroused.” I hate to say that, but I had to really, I mean, really control myself extremely hard not to laugh out loudly. Why? Let’s say it this way: As a woman in love, you don’t tell the man of your desire that he does turn you on, but unfortunately he’s got a penis about the size of an IHOP breakfast sausage.
And no, this is not me making fun of him. I’m 5’3″ and never had a child. My gynecologist uses his instruments the size for young girls – and still, I had the feeling having sex with my boyfriend was like throwing a wiener into a garage… What does that tell us? The good thing was: I knew it wasn’t me. He is that convinced everything about him, on him and in him is totally perfect, he had to find a reason why our sexual being together wasn’t as good as he wanted it to be. And since he “is” perfect, it was my fault.
Only a while later he told me, he wanted me to lose weight. – And that was it for me. Couldn’t he find a way to accept me the way I am; even more since he told me before that he would? I informed him that it was time to say ‘goodbye.’
To my great surprise, this got to me. I was extremely depressed after this separation. I missed him horribly… But I am lucky. I have the most wonderful friends on Earth. They helped me getting over him and comforted me.
I think the final moment when I was prepared to let go, was that particular day when I went grocery shopping and heard a song that reminded me of him. In a blur, our time together raced through my memory… and I thought to myself: “Really, girl… did you want to stay together with a man who is that bad in bed?” And then I started laughing.
It is, I might add at this point, a little embarrassing to laugh out loudly and being unable to stop, in the middle of a supermarket, right between broccoli and bananas. However, I made it out alive. The only thing I regret until this day is, that I never gave him “The Kamasutra” for his birthday.
*****
These two relationships taught me three things; I better keep in mind from now on:
1. I need a man who has a goal in life that goes further than meals, sleep, and sex. I need a man who moves his ass and works for what he wants and has a certain fantasy and ideas; a man with a certain education, whose messages I can read without flinching over the misspellings and who is experienced and interested enough to find out how to satisfy a woman. A man, with whom sharing intimacy makes my skin tickle, my skull explode until I can count the stars in the sky and my toenails roll up.
2. Does size really matter? To me, it does, yes. Do I compare? Was that one better than this one? Hell no! The size of the penis isn’t half as interesting as the man that’s accompanying it. But to me, there needs to be ‘something’ to feel.
3. I am, in my very individual and unique way, beautiful. And I deserve better than what I have been accepting of a relationship for the past few years.
I, therefore, decided to celebrate my beauty. I am unique; I am special, I am beautiful, I am humorous, loving, caring and helpful… I am many things; and yes, in bed I’m a revelation. *wink*
I deserve to have what I want, and I deserve to be happy!
Waterolor beautiful girl. Vector illustration of woman beauty salon
This year I signed up to participate in the “Beauty of a Woman Blog Fest”, organized by August McLaughlin. Please enjoy the entire Blog Fest by clicking the link.
It is with great pleasure I am able to present my blog participation with the following post:
Beauty changes during the time:
In the 50s and 60s, the ultimate beautiful woman had a so-called “hourglass” figure. A chest, a butt and a small waist. Let’s travel back in time: in all big “fashion houses” the dresses and clothes were presented to the potential customers. The presenters weren’t window dummies – but real life “Mannequins”. We would call them the predecessors of the Models and Top-Models.
They were women – chest, hips and a small waist were their trademark. Even the most beautiful actresses and female stars of this time were fuller-figured women with the same measurements. Female beauty ideal back then was curvy, beautiful, feminine, showing their amenities and being proud of them.
The 70s and 80s show women, who remarkably slimmed down, their curves are still there, but not as explicitly distinct anymore.
I don’t dare to talk too much about the hairstyle and makeup which in my opinion, used to make women of these times look a little bit like extra-terrestrial clowns… but in many ways, their styles showed how much they enjoyed being women.
And then, with the entrance into the new millennium the female beauty ideal quickly went into the “nothing”… just skin and bones, no hips, no breasts, nothing: walking skeletons on wobbly legs.
Is this really how we women should be, or how we want to be?
When I was talking about this to a group of people a few years ago, a wise man told me: “Don’t starve yourself to this kind of figure, girl. You are right, the way you are. Skeletons aren’t sexy.”
Maybe a few might be curious why I was going through all these changes and travelling back in time: What made me? – How do I look then? What is my figure like?
I have always been a little on the “more”-side and the criticism I had to take for this from all sides have hurt me deeply. During the years, when I had found out that my figure was very fashionable and once a beauty ideal all women wanted to have, I found this fact amusing – but not more. How was this useful for me? I wanted to be fashionable now. With my figure, I was born about 30 years too late.
Am I ever going to be most beautiful to someone who I’d like to welcome into my life? Someone who loves me, just the way I am? With my soft heart, all the love I have to give and my hips, breasts and hourglass figure?
Now I’m curious… Have you ever had experience with criticism on your figure? Are you happy with yours? Let us hear your experience.
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