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He is strong, the man from your dream.
who whispered your name, “warrior”
in a foreign tongue

Anointed your lips with his seed,
scooped by his fingers from where it lay
cooling on your belly.

He is fierce enough to return
two nights in a row to your vivid place
that defeated all before him.

Urging you, arched back and splayed legs,
open and unafraid for him. Oh yes,
he is strong. And he is coming for you.

You know it the third morning
when you wake, tangled in the sheets
like a wild cat… feral and alone.

How do you feel about your body? Is there anything you would change? Would you rather yourself a curvy woman or a very slim woman?

Asked by Anonymous


This is a rather personal question, and my first reaction is something along the lines of…

But I will answer it because self esteem and body image are issues that are very important to me.

I adore my body. My body is fucking incredible. Do you have any idea what it can do? What it does do, daily?

Every day, my body kills off billions of cells while other cells clean up the mess and replace them. It protects me from the infection of various nasties through multiple lines of defence. Though sometimes I feel small, my body contains within it no less than 7 X 10^18 joules of potential energy - enough to explode with the force of thirty very large hydrogen bombs, were I so inclined, and possessed of the ability to release it. (My ex-lovers can probably attest to this.)

Your body has the same qualities, too. But we aren’t talking about that, are we? We’re talking specifically about how I feel about the size and shape of my body.

The shape of my body is what you’d refer to as “curvy”. I’m not talking the smooth little bumps on a Victoria’s Secret model that magazines would hail as “Healthy Curves!”, I’m talking large breasts and a narrowing waistline that swerves dangerously into fecund Scottish hips.

I’m 5’4, of healthy BMI and wear an Australian size 10 (which is an American size 6). I’ve never heard any complaints about these proportions.

I will never be rail thin - that was just not my genetic destiny. Yes, I think thin women are beautiful (as I think all women are) and I understand why the fashion world centres around them so fully. Thin women are clothes horses, everything drapes and fits so perfectly on them. The viewer can fully appreciate the garments because they are not distracted by the flesh. Thin women are no less “real” than I am. They are just shaped differently to me.

I don’t look anything like a supermodel. If I did, I’d be a fucking supermodel. That’s just not the case, so why would I waste precious energy striving for that?

There is a sickness in our culture that encourages women to feel pain - yes, actual pain, in the form of self-hatred, insecurity and doubt - because they don’t look exactly like a very small set of the human population who genetically possess figures we see as aspirational. 

When we focus on our physical appearance and feel miserable about it, we are telling ourselves that all of our good qualities - our intelligence, our compassion, our skills, our love of others, our wonderful, sparkling personalities - don’t mean anything. That what makes us worthy is how we look, and nothing more.

When you really examine this belief, you see how ridiculous and sad it is. Yet it is so inherently ingrained, we berate ourselves every day for not being x, y or whatever z we think will make us happy. Changing your body shape will not magically cure your past and your pain, it just won’t. It is not easy, but with practise, mindfulness and treating yourself with love, you can stop persecuting yourself in this way.

I eat healthily and well, I enjoy exercise but am not a slave to it, and I get told I’m beautiful at least once a day. Sure, I have days when I don’t feel beautiful, I think every woman does, however on these days I am reminded that there is so much more value in my life than what I look like.

As you see, I have a very healthy body image. I don’t hate my body, or want to damage or starve or cut it up. I want to respect it, nourish it and let it experience pleasure.

This in fact is remarkable, when you consider that while my body is thrumming merrily along each day, just doing what it does to survive, I (the personhood who recognises this body as my own) am utterly pummeled with images, text, conversation and suggestions that to be worth anything in life I must alter my body.

I must reduce, tighten, tone, sculpt, eat less, move more, clean eat, cleanse, starve, restrict, be fitter, be thinner, be other than that which I am. 

Everyday I am told that in order to be worthwhile, I need to be less.

It’s no wonder so many women spend their whole lives dieting, binging, starving, and obsessing over becoming an impossible media-perfect image. Berating themselves for the falsely perceived wickedness of their bodies.

In answer to your question, no, I do not want to be shaped differently than I am. My life is much more than the pursuit of an unachievable disappearing act.

Reblogging because this got such a response on Dark.

From the dust

Perdita stirred, finally. As consciousness embraced her, she wished that it hadn’t.

She reached for the glass of water on her bedside table, instead mistakenly grasping the empty wine glass from the night before. Adding injury to the dull throb in her head.

There was a lump of hardness beside her. Hot flesh. She briefly recalled that his name was Adam. Casting her eyes over his sleeping form entwined in her expensive sheets, she could attest that he was indeed the christian god’s image of the first man.

His beauty moved her not.

She roused tired feet to the floor and tiptoed to the ensuite, inelegantly dipping her head to sip from the faucet when she reached it, grateful for no witnesses.

Bent over, gulping salvation from a crude water source… like an animal.

Chablis shadows

A storm of semi-tannin swirled inside the wine glass, just as a hurricane of doubt whirled within Perdita.

She took a long sip of the buttery-coloured liquid and swallowed. The gulp sounded nothing like absolution, no matter how much she wanted it to.

“We’re all just animals in decay,” Timothy used to say to her. “No different to the carcass on the side of the road. We are embedded in the same process of rot.”

He’d kiss her, a perverse expression in his eyes.  “Everything falls to dust in the end.”

She saw now that he was right.

Hello my name is: Tagged

Azraelwrites tagged me in a thingy. Since he’s the Overlord of Tumblr I’m pretty sure I’m obligated by royal decree to respond. So, here goes.

1. What is the worst movie you’ve watched more than once?

The Happening. First seen in 2008 during my trip to the States, my girlfriends and I sat through all of this horrendous film in the cosy confines of the tiny studio apartment we rented in New York. I found myself subjected to it again three years later at a party despite my passionate protestations. The villain in the film is the air. THE AIR.  It makes people… WALK BACKWARDS. Omg M. Night Shyamalan, no. Just no.

It is literally the stupidest film ever and not even Zoey Deschanel’s exceptionally pretty eyes can save it. 182 precious minutes of my life that I will never get back.

2. If money were no object, what vehicle would you drive? Be specific on this one—I have a bit of a fetish for motorized transport.

I have three and you can’t stop me:

  • Aston Martin DB9 - y’know, for every day.
  • Bugatti Veyron - for when I’m going to a party. Or fleeing the scene of a crime.
  • 1965 Aston Martin DB5 Vantage Convertible - for pleasant weekend drives to the country.

3. If your home were going up in flames and you could save just one material item, what would it be?

Fucking hell. You’re actually going to make me write this on the internet?


My… childhood teddy bear. OkaythereIsaidit.

4. When performing personal…maintenance, righty, or lefty?

Welp, this is a bizarre question. Hands? We’re talking hands, right?

I am boring ole right handed. I don’t live dangerously enough to throw caution to the wind and work with my bad hand to perform such… delicate tasks. Why, do you? *looks accusingly at Az*

5. Assume you’ve been prosecuted for all the hearts you’ve broken over the years, and now sit on death row, readying yourself for that long, last walk. What order will you place for your last meal?

Grain fed, filet mignon steak cooked rare, served with Hot English Mustard.

I’m ready to die now.

6. If you could make your home anywhere, where would it be?

Melbourne or New York.

7. One act or omission from your past you would undo, if you could?


Umm, okay. I won’t bore you with a romantic one. This is a much more subtle life event that didn’t seem to matter too much at the time, but as the years have progressed it is something that I very much regret.

About a year after my grandmother passed away, my grandfather decided to sell the house they lived in. It was more than just R and P’s house (we call our grandparents by their first names - R would never tolerate being called a grandmother. Grandmothers were old. She was beautiful and impossibly glamorous right until the end, toenails painted bright red in her hospital bed), it was the heart of the family.

It was where my brother and I spent countless afternoons swimming in the pool with our many cousins, injuring ourselves bouncing on the trampoline, playing tennis, eating R’s incredible cooking and being together as a very large, somewhat dysfunctional, but happy family. I loved being there so much, I looked forward to sick days when Mum would drop me off there in the morning and I’d have P and R all to myself, doting on their gleeful, ahem, ailing little granddaughter.

On the day of the auction of the house, I was asked to cover a shift at work - my first job in a clothing store. I tried to get out of it, but was told that I couldn’t (really, my boss was a bit of a bully, and I was an adolescent that hadn’t quite learned to stand up for herself yet).

So, I went to work. And the rest of the family gathered in this place that had meant so much to all of us, and supported P through saying goodbye to the house and passing it on to its new owners. And then, just like that, the house was gone.

I have always felt like I didn’t get to walk through it one last time - knowing it was the last time. To say goodbye to it. At least once a week, I dream of being back in that house. Funny how places stick with you, isn’t it?

8. One dream you harbored as a child that you still cling to?

Dancing in the Colosseum by moonlight.

9. You think you may be falling for someone—what is the number one universal deal-killer that would unquestionably halt your descent?

Nasty, aggressive true colours.

10. Describe the first unrelated person you believe you came to love.

His name meant “water”.

I remember the exact moment I fell in love with him. I was the first one awake, the morning after a high school party. He was on the other side of a living room filled with slumbering teenage bodies, and I watched the sun come through the window illuminating his gorgeous sleeping face.

Olive skin, fair hair that curled adorably at his ears, and the most perfect, arched eyebrows I’d ever seen. Fuck, I fell in love with his eyebrows right then.

A fierce intellect with an incredibly sensitive side, that wonderful boy was my first… everything. Including the first to write poetry about me. How lucky I was to have him as my introduction to love. Is it any wonder I’m such a sucker for writers?

He’s married now to a lovely girl. I smile whenever I hear about him.

Great questions, thank you! 

Perdita to Timothy


I am overcome with the urge to keep writing out these little confessions that you will never read. Really, I write them to nobody… to the wind, like a mad woman.

It was raining today, grey and cold, and a cloud of depression seemed to settle upon me. You always used to tease me for how affected I was by the weather, how it coloured my every mood, and I fear you would have been amused to find me a very terse, sad figure indeed.

Truly, I haunt the streets of this dusty little town, saying nothing real to anybody.

Some try to reach out to me, intrigued by the solitary, well-dressed phantom that I must appear. If only I could tell them that no sublime mystery is contained within this walking corpse. Only despair, and perhaps the promise of their demise.

Were I not so tragically in love with humanity, one might consider me a misanthrope. Really though, it is myself that I despise, and myself that I shall never forgive. And you already knew that, didn’t you?

This evening, alone in the dark, I am awash with lust. I feel all of my past lovers coming back to me at once. Reliving them, one by one, until I get to you.

You, demon lust. You, Timothy the Tender Torturer. I hate myself, but it’s all I can do to stop from begging for the lava of your kiss.

My sex is aching for your touch, having long forgotten the trespass of any other. My breasts singing to feel the sting of your slap, the graze of your teeth. The nether hole tingles for the relentless strokes of your tongue, the insistence of your fingers breaking its resistance, and the delicious agony of your completion pounded into me.

But you won’t lay a hand on me, will you?

This is the exquisite anguish of it all. You will sit, within reaching distance, and you will devastate me with your words as I lie in torment, weeping in vain for your touch. You will leave me before sunrise, weeping and wet, to pen my confessions.

How I have written for you, Timothy.

Presenting dark curved lines on a white page; gifts of an admiring servant. It was all that I could do from where my feet were firmly rooted, despite my evocations. I was afraid of what would greet me when I found you, lured from your dark triad

Didn’t I learn long ago that I would love that which would cause me pain, and keep itself separate from me?

You know I’ve always been weak in my hands, but soldered like iron in how much suffering I can take. Yet at times, like tonight, I feel driven to madness by your spectre. You leave me weak; sickened in the shadow memory of you. I fear I cannot bear it much longer. If I could reach you, I’d implore you. Cease these nightly visits.

Stay gone, from my mind and from this half-waking realm that haunts me in my bed.

Yours for always


Yeah, most people find my self-worth hard to take. They think I should be broken, underneath this smile. I should be insecure and fucked on and fucked up. The fact that I don’t hate myself, don’t loathe my naked skin… it rattles people. Because girls like me should have a shattered back story. Girls like me should fall to pieces at the slightest tender touch. Girls like me should not be whole in themselves. So they sit, and they wait for me to break.

I watch them wait in vain.

—    Deliciousinterludes

Please, beauty, tell me what you find attractive in a man...

Asked by Anonymous

A face! 

Sorry, that was cheap. But you did walk right into it ;)

Some things I find attractive, off the top of my head: Kindness, creativity, humour, ability to put up with (and enjoy) extreme levels of dorkiness, an open mind, a boundless heart, and an unquenchable sexual imagination.

For me, attraction happens very organically. It’s violent and all-consuming. You can profile your ideal lover and make all the wish lists you want, but ultimately chemistry is chemistry. And when it hits you in the face… you know.

labelledamesansdice replied to your post “This really goes against the whole “writer” image…”

Wow, you’re good. <333333!!! Awesome cause though:-)

Thank you lovely! x

elzaro replied to your post “This really goes against the whole “writer” image…”

will try donate later this week. great idea for a great cause.

You’re a sweetheart, thank you.

mj-orchard replied to your post “This really goes against the whole “writer” image…”

i will be cheering you on with a beer in my hand!

Haha, brilliant! A most excellent cheerleading effort :)

rodh80 replied to your post “This really goes against the whole “writer” image…”

You’re fucking amazing for doing this! xx

Not at all, you’re too kind as always R. Thanks dude!

kittygory replied to your post “This really goes against the whole “writer” image…”

Sober is good! Embrace it! *hugs*

Will do gorgeous, thank you! x

Thanks for the support guys. Team five.


rakuli replied to your post “This really goes against the whole “writer” image…”

I did this last year. You’ll be surprised (well, I was anyway) how clear you mind gets when you lay off the juice. I found my ability — and want — to write increased greatly.

Thanks for the donation Luke, you rock! Yeah, I did Dry July last year and it was amazing how much more focused and energised I became. Made me wonder why I even drink in the first place, but then August rocked around and well… wine happened. Stupid sexy wine. 

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