Warming up with Brandi

Some people like a tissue, some toilet paper, others a towel.

I met Brandi when she was a waitress. She was the kind of girl men looked at. Blonde hair and a tight body. A great smile. Warm and friendly. She was easy going and had few expectations from life. Uncomplicated in her attitude. She was also a few credits short of a nursing qualification but I wasn't sure she'd ever finish her course. I don't think she was either.

Brandi chose her men much like she chose her birth control. She was messy with it. And at 26 years old she had a young daughter to prove it. The daddy wasn't around. Not that she didn't know who he was, they'd even tried to make it work for a little while. He just decided fatherhood wasn't for him and moved back to his hometown.

So waitressing in a small logging town she'd meet all kinds of men. Most of them single. Desperate for company. Always trying to get close to her. When there was little industry there were also few people who stayed. With four or five dollar stores and bargain centres on the main street, the town wore it's economic climate on its sleeve.

Brandi's older brother was married with kids and ran the local Doggie Daycare. I knew him from dropping the dog off. He was outdoorsy type in a wilderness community, so Brandi was introduced to many of his friends. Mountain bikers, mountain climbers, kayakers and kiteboarders. The guy she was seeing when we met was a mountain biker and appeared to be much like her. Easy on the eye but not much driving force to do more than enjoy the things he enjoyed doing. And Brandi was one of those things.

When they got together there was fire. It was frantic. Fun. They'd drink together and laugh out loud around the pool table. And Brandi had that air of someone who liked sex. She was sexy. Perky little breasts and a tight ass that looked great in jeans. The way she looked at him when he came in to pick her up after shift told you that they had a good time.

One day she was running late for work and threw on her clothes from the night before. She always looked disheveled her clothes unironed, bleached blonde hair carelessly pulled back. Waitressing at the pub the only real uniform requirement was the apron they gave you.

After a couple of hours on the floor running between the kitchen and the bar, Brandi started to warm up. She started sweating. Putting down plates of burgers and fries at a table of guys, they asked for tomato sauce and as she walked to the waiter's station to get it that's when she could smell it. The distinct smell of sex. She knew she hadn't showered but that wasn't it. She actually smelt like cum. She walked the sauce back to their table and went to the bathroom to check herself out. She washed her hands and smelt her armpits, cupped her hand over her mouth and breathed out, washed her face and the back of her neck, but nothing. There was nothing crusty in her hair. Turning around slowly in the mirror front, then back. Nothing on her shirt. Nothing on her skirt. It was as she was turning back, filled with confusion when she finally saw it. There it was. The culprit. She'd almost missed it. Between the shoulder blades, across the back of her black t-shirt was a white snail trail. The heat of her body warming it up until it gave off it's scent. His cum.

That's when it dawned on her. She'd reached down on the floor after sex and grabbed whatever she could find to wipe off and hadn't remembered she'd used her t-shirt until it was too late. Once she was busy at work. With only the clothes on her back. Her body had warmed up and revealed all. For all those around her to see and smell.

Some people like a tissue, some toilet paper, others a towel. Brandi, she uses her clothes. And that day, everyone in the pub knew it.

What a boob!

I admit it. I’ve been involved in drunken sexual experimentation all in the name of science.

I have at least four friends who have had breast augmentation – a boob job, fake breasts implanted, their tits perfected. I say at least because I've been caught out. The first girlfriend, I had no idea she had even had it done because I have a theory that everybody gets something. Some girls a pretty face, some a spectacular set of boobs. So it just never occurred to me that hers weren’t real.

We’d spent a night drinking red wine. Several bottles because we worked for a man who had unlimited funds and an outdoor cellar with plenty of wine on hand. Rumour had it the wine had frozen over the winter and was no longer any good anyway. We didn’t care. It did the job. Relieved our boredom and kept us chattering and entertained for hours every night after work.

So we were drunk and talking about sex, as girls do, and we got around to breasts when all was revealed. From then on all I could think was I wanna touch them. I want to know what they feel like? What guys feel? I knew her chesticles looked good, better than my soft and ever descending real ones, that had I had the choice would have been much smaller. Much easier to run with and much less likely to be the first thing that men looked at when they looked at me. But alas that was not the case and I grew to love them over the years.

My friend was down with me going the grope because she was a bit drunk and is good like that. I knew a male colleague or two had already had the chance to feel them and she's very comfortable in her own skin. So as we stood there in our clothes face to face, me with one of her breasts in my hand, and she with one of mine in hers, I could feel the firmness of breast that had eluded me all those years.

And while they certainly don’t feel natural they don’t feel bad. They're not little rocks. Rounded on top yes but the implant is pliable. Once it’s warmed up every morning that is. It would seem like just another chore in my day to have to rub my breasts into shape. But I guess I might find the time if I no longer had to fold them into my bra though.

It’s hard to get past the fact that fake boobs look good too. In such a visual world, no sag at the side in a sleeveless shirt and nipple not pointing somewhat south would be nice. Being braless without a sweat building up under them in summer would make me happy too. There's an American comedian who does a great bit about giving it to your woman from behind and knowing that you're really good if the titties are swinging around like a propeller. Every time I bend over and get a pendulum happening I'm reminded of his comedy.

African Jungle titties was what I renamed my girls after breastfeeding two kids! Well they were babies, I'm not one of those crazy ladies that feeds her kids breast milk into their toddler years.

Photo courtesy of National Geographic Magazine 1959

My other girlfriends have had their boob jobs more recently and all felt they had nothing if not very little to begin with. And they wanted to look different to men. I guess that if I felt I’d never had much breast then I might be envious of other women who have bigger ones. I just don’t look at women that way. It never occurs to me whether women have big or small breasts. Unless of course they're so big you can't help but wonder how much back pain the woman has? Punky Brewster had that problem and had a reduction from memory. 

I don’t identify myself as different to men because of my breasts. There are plenty of other reasons I've been shown to be different to men and most of them are less what a man sees physically and more the way a man perceives himself in relation to the role of his mother. 

I'm not silly. I  know men look at my breasts and I’ve gotten better about showing them off and not trying to hide them. I just never wanted them to be their sole focus. Two lumps of flesh under my chin more interesting than my face or my personality. More often than not blocking my vision of my feet and pulling my back forwards. The twin peaks as some call them. Well not mine if I'm flat on my back. More like two fried eggs each yolk trying to flee as far as possible under my armpits from the other.

Women love to call other women out for having had a boob job. As if they've done something wrong by trying to buy a place to stop their necklace from swinging around their neck when they walk. As if they're wrong for trying to draw the attention of men, when a basic need for many is the love of the opposite sex and/or procreation. As if women with fake boobs have some sort of secret power they don't have. With a bit of effort anyone can decorate a cake to make it look tasty. It's not about having fancy ingredients. 

If I’d paid to have bigger breasts then I’d need to have them on display at all times. After all, based on what I’m told, I think that’s why women get implants, to be recognized as feminine. And you don't buy a boat to keep it in the garage under a tarp.

What would you prefer? Bigger? Smaller? Or perfectly content with what I have?

ps When one friend recently had her boobs upgraded I asked her to request to keep her original set. And she did. The doctor put them in a little box for me and I will keep them as an antique for my daughter. One day she may be able to sell them on ebay as a collectors item. Like an original Mac Computer!

I love myself, I want you to touch me

I'm one of those people who loves to be touched by strangers. I'll even pay good money to have someone touch me. And it's completely random too. When the mood takes me I just decide I need to be touched and find someone who'll do it. And then we arrange a fee for said touching. It's a simple exchange really.

I have trouble understanding anyone who doesn't love it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love to be touched by people I know too. Especially because they rarely request a financial transaction to do so. But when there's money involved it can be easier. Easier to get the feeling required. With people I know it can be difficult to demand it how I like it.

I was last touched in Fiji. I paid good money to a young girl. Nui was her name. Not too young mind you, at least in her twenties but definitely younger than me. And her age was not something I chose. She was simply interested in touching. And she was nice too. That helps.
Nui is still looking for the right person to be her partner for life, so until she has babies, touching is her thing. We shared a little personal information, you see. Some idle chatter to break the ice.

People spend all sorts of money to feel good about themselves. Dressing themselves in pretty clothes, riding around in fancy cars, getting haircuts, tattoos and fake breasts, paying for sex, going out to events and dance parties, drinking only the high-end alcohols, taking holidays...

Me, I like the touch of another human pressing on my skin and rubbing away 

all of my bodies stresses. Being massaged is my special treat to myself.

It's unfathomable that the human body doesn't take a beating every day in one way or another. And while the body's very equipped for the amount of stress on muscles, organs and even the skin as it carries the mind through life, its very helpful to allow those stresses to be released. Its both relaxing and refreshing.

Sure a good hot bath can work wonders too. But physical touch is known to keep us connected as humans. To keep reminding us of our spiritual side.

I've had many massages over the years, some paid, some free! And I often buy massages for friends and family as gifts.

I've fallen asleep during a massage or two, even snoring. Knowing I was snoring because it was so loud I woke myself.

I've been massaged fully clothed, which was kind of like being stretched by another person. Think chewy that you pulled from your mouth as a child while you held the other end between your teeth. Nonetheless something I would do again.

And I've had my bare breasts massaged by a lady whose young children played on a mat beside us. Ah Thailand, land of the happy ending, for both men and women I guess?
(Mind you I was never massaged in the golden triangle, so the titty rub might be as far as they go with women? Not that I asked for it either. It was quite a surprise! And it's a funny feeling trying to decide if you will offend someone by saying 'no rub my boobies please' so I just let it happen. Chalked it up to yet another experience.)

I like it hard. I like long strokes, cupping, shiatsu, pounding, kneading and I love hot rocks.

It is the kindness of these complete strangers that touch upon which I rely.

It can't be easy to be presented with a naked body in all it's shapes and sizes and knead away at it, having to touch bumps, lumps, scars, crevasses and all types of moles and holes until relaxation creeps over the soul. Wondering if your touch is a wanted touch? An enjoyable touch? 

I've never been massaged by a man I didn't know. And just realizing that, I will make it my next massage experience. I know they're out there. Massage men for hire. My only worry is that the touch of a man I don't know might not feel the way the touch of a woman does? It might feel better? I might like it in a whole other way?

Music for White People

Some things are inappropriate, simply because times have changed. Just ask Paula Dean or more recently at Halloween, Julianna Hough. Both of whom have been considered to be disrespectful to black people. Is that the right word? Black? Or is coloured the preferred term and if so preferred by whom? It's not my intention to offend.

I tend to be drawn to things that are controversial though. And to me, often inappropriate is up to the individual.

I bought this sheet music at an auction house many years ago. It cost me $10. I wish it wasn’t ripped but that's another story. Its still a very good sign of the times and how they have changed. Back then it wasn’t considered inappropriate by many people. It was entertainment. Today however some of the songs are likely very offensive.

But I’m still fascinated. Look at songs. My favourites are 'Mary’s gone with a Coon' and 'My best friend was Mother.' Not songs that would be appreciated today. As far as I know Minstrel performances no longer exist, so they're quite out of context simply as sheet music. It’s still amazing to think that these songs would have been written, played on the piano and possibly even recorded. Mind you future generations (even my own right now) might think the same of Miley Cyrus's song Wrecking Ball with accompanying horrible video!

Additionally the picture of the man on the cover of the book, I'm guessing was to encourage sales of the sheet music. Its Billy Kersands. He was a black comedian-dancer and very popular in his day, particularly for his work in blackface minstrelsy. In his performance he is thought to have been able to find a balance between trying not to reinforce the negativity of social sterotypes and enjoying social satire.

I wonder if Ms Barwell, whose name is in handwriting at the top of my sheet music and whom I imagine to be a white lady, had any opposition to learning these songs or whether she entertained others with her renditions on Sunday afternoons?

Beach Bum

Backpacking around the US I met Mike. We were staying at the same hostel in South Beach, Miami. He was fresh from interviews hoping for work on Sovereign of the Sea, a Carnival Cruise Liner. I was simply on holiday. Enjoying a break from real life and catching up with a friend.

Mike was from Canada and he liked a drink. So did I. So we spent the fair part of a week at the beach or in the South Beach bars. It was great.

In an area with a lot of homeless people, particularly because of the warmer weather, the hostel would lock the front doors after a certain time and you would simply buzz the buzzer, look through the glass doors and either wave if you knew the person on the desk, announce your room number or hold up your key.

I’d worked in hostels on a previous trip to the US so I knew how important it was to feel safe as the desk clerk but I also wanted to feel safe inside as a guest. The system worked for all.

More often than not, we left at a reasonable hour and after the 'triple D': dinner, drinking and dancing, we would come back at a very unreasonable hour. It was not unusual to break off from our bigger group of traveller's socializing, made up of Brits, Aussies, the Canadian and an Israeli, into smaller groups. Not everyone wanted to get messy and all the guys were always trying to get laid so we would often walk home without them.

Mike was a happy-go-lucky guy with a gap between his teeth that made him remind me of the kid on the Mad Magazine. He was obviously more handsome than that kid. One night we went out with a couple of hostel newcomers and Mike gravitated to the German girl Elke. She was nice and she had a smokin’ body.

When the rest of the group headed back to the hostel they came back with us. So it was strange in the morning when the desk clerk from the night before was telling everyone that Mike and Elke had come back to the hostel at 5am, and had to buzz for entry. The desk clerk said she was wearing only her top and underwear and he was in her jeans.

Word to the wise and doe-eyed traveler, nothing is sacred in a hostel. Everyone knows everyone’s business.

After we’d gotten back to the hostel Mike and Elke decided to take a walk along the beach. The stars were out, the waves were rolling into shore, so they sat down and were kissing on the sand. One thing led to another and they decided that with no one around they’d have sex. Mike removed his clothes and put them in a pile beside them and he lay down on top of her.

They were getting their groove on when from the darkness a homeless guy ran up and grabbed Mike’s clothes and ran off down the beach. Mike gave chase but it was fruitless. The guy was too fast and Mike had left a half naked woman alone on the beach where they’d just been robbed.

So naked and without clothes, he had to wear Elke’s tiny jeans back to the hostel and she wore only her top and undies.

If it wasn’t for the loose lips of the desk clerk, forty other strangers might not know of Mike’s embarrassingly funny night on a Miami beach!

Get in the back baby - Lets take a ride

I love old advertisements.

They're wonderful to look at and this one is from a much more civilized era. Gloves, hats, ties and men sat in the back. Apparently he simply swung in and stretched out. This car was all about the roominess. 

Not the miles to the gallon, not the engine, not the safe tires or the fact that it was a lovely mint green but it's appeal was in the ability to ride with your briefcase or your friends beside you!

Courtesy of National Geographic Magazine

When I'm looking for a new car it's all about whether I can fit the car seats in - so maybe they were actually onto something back in 1959!

What Rubbish

The same Judith Reyne, Vice Principal of my school as mentioned yesterday, is the mother of James and David Reyne. James being the lead singer of Australian Crawl, popular band in the 1980’s. Now an independent recording artist. And David, being an actor and musician who has enjoyed a full and long career, in various areas of the Australian Media Industry. Most recently I think I heard his voice as the voice-over for The Apprentice Australia?

Photo Credit: Zimbio.com

As the Year 12 students were looking towards careers beyond school many successful people in a variety of fields would come to the school to talk to them. Mrs. Reyne was instrumental in having one of her son’s come and talk to the girls about their careers and what they did to get into the Media Industry. One year it was James then next it was David.

There was always rumour of when they were coming. And the same girlfriend who would sneak into town with me for chips and gravy had an older sister who had told her David Reyne was coming this particular year and at what time. His arrival was scheduled for after recess. So my friend Vanessa and I decided to be late for class and wait and watch for him to arrive. Maybe even meet him?

Knowing we would be in trouble for being late to class outweighed the opportunity to meet a celebrity. So after hearing the bell we casually gathered our books and took our time getting ready for class. We loitered at our lockers and walked slowly towards the classroom. There was something nice about being the only people wandering outside classrooms as classes were happening around us. And it was a lovely spring day too. The air had the promise of summer not far away.

We walked and talked and headed in the direction of our classroom and soon we were rewarded with a glimpse of David and Mrs. Reyne walking towards us. We nudged each other and tried to stifle our nervous giggling. Our plan had worked and as they got closer we presented as the young ladies we were supposed to be.

“Hello Mrs. Reyne” we both chimed as she walked towards us, hoping for an introduction. Me personally hoping that David simply fell in love with me on the spot and we would wander off into the sunset together.

“Hello girls.” She then pointed to the ground. “Could you please pick up this rubbish and put it in the bin on your way to class?”

“Yes” we chimed looking down, both incredibly deflated. Our one chance to meet a celebrity and we were asked to perform the degrading task of picking up someone else’s discarded rubbish, right there in front of him.

How embarrassing!