I recently came across a beautiful blogger who decided to share very eloquently her experiences and transcendence regarding the daunting sexual tightrope our society holds over women of certain ages, or for that matter, for women of all ages.

Now, I don’t know if she would ever be notified of this rather random across-the-country link, but if you do happen to come across this somewhere on the blogosphere, I thank you Erica for the liberation you have given so many women out there. And although I do not prescribe to your outspoken audience as an eighteen year old blogger, I think yours was single handedly the catalyst for this young naive not-yet-women lady to feel pleased with her sexuality, in a long while now.


Note: for the photos in between, it was inspired dearly as my own representation of a personal phone-idea of a boudoir photoshoot, so please don’t try for measure against a professional. It was simply a first ever. Cheers to that. I now enthusiastically agree that every women should indulge in this art form. It makes you feel absolutely ethereal.

From time to time over this global journal I share, in between all my none practical humor and occasional intelligent comment, I talked about my past sexual experiences. None of which were something you would giggle over with a few past-time girlfriends over coffee. Deep down I do think I have a trust issue. I have an issue with relying on people. I have an issue with not being able to stop myself wanting to trust somebody, and sometimes, sometimes, acting on it. And of course, instantly regretting it, and then goes questions of my sanity, but that’s another story. At nights I remember a similar issue on a sort of abandonment or another. I would recall how incredibly awkward and unsatisfying sex was. How cheap and thickly tangible you would feel in the discomfort of your own skin, speaking largely and fairly accurately of teenage-hood; it wasn’t even vanilla sex. It was arguably worse. It wasn’t something I necessarily dug up, unless I really felt like being a bitch to myself. Then maybe, but I’d get over it.


This past January of 2015, I was let go of my job. It wasn’t that shitty to be relieved from an overcompensating manager who threw his weight around. I was sad, but I tried to get over it. It just so happens that the male coworker whom I sat across had developed quite the sexual theory regarding my supposed representation of a certain kink, promoted most thoroughly in modern pornography. An Asian female with large glasses and tongue piercings among my other body modifications. So he acted upon it, very much so aggressively over text message. It kind of threw me into a time loop. It’s like I have not improved at all since two years ago, the last time I indulged physically – Man it has been awhile – It made me feel sadly unattractive; I questioned my ability to be a character – as if my entire persona was overshadowed by a few choices in the way I liked my body decor.


So I drew the line, and I cried when he got mad even if it was just an almost-stranger-coworker. It made me cry all the way to the gym where I worked out some stress. In retrospect, I think that’s where the sexual tension came from. The next day I might have pursued ever so secretively in that feminine way all the ladies in the world knows how to work her way into. Well I got it, this fellow coworker’s number, whom was rumored to be into me, so we chatted. Sexted to be precise. Casual words were thrown around, fantasies were indulged. I told myself it was cute, something I was entitled to enjoy as a single female with needs. Two days, then three days, and now five, that’s all we had spoken about – all we had in common really. We never actually did anything though, as ironically mother nature was overstaying her welcome. In between I told him about my age, as he was 25. I didn’t really care for it, but another thing I loath myself for is my age among other things. I struggled with my humble cleavage. I compared myself to fellow Caucasian peers – their eyes, their hair texture, everything. And perhaps all the people reading this who are to the right of that figure may think I’m crazy, and you are perfectly right to do so, practically everyone around me thinks so too, but it’s just a thing.


I hated how I was the last to be independent. I hated how my mother would curse and moan about finally packing up her bags after she was done raising me. She loves me, but those words never, ever ventured further than the back of my head where it lingered when I needed an extra self beating.

So I told him. And that I hadn’t been with anyone for these past two years while I worked through the junk in my head, running the marks down my arms and doing other mentally incorrigible things. He told me I worried too much, ironically. I was relieved, but still all we talked about was sex. All he messaged me for was how hard he got and how we need to just get together, so I took a court case against myself: Here’s a perfectly attractive guy who was actually decent while I was on the job, and here was my shot to just do something out of character…And here’s a small version of myself who binges on Disney and watches her close family members, mother, sister and cousins fall in love and stay devoted to a partner for the last 5 years. I said that those crazy things just don’t happen for people like me.


I ultimately told him I couldn’t do it. After reading Erica’s word, granted she’s much more wise in the subject, sex seemed such a beautiful euphoric place that everyone should explore ideally with a trusted partner. And between this man and I, there had not been one formal conversation where I could test any chance of a witty banter against my closet sarcasm. He says he’s not mad, but we haven’t really spoken since.


It feels alright though. Somehow this event made me catch up with a few of my past male friends. Two of whom I actually trust without having to compensate sexually. So tonight, I toast that I no longer banter with myself morally(for the moment anyway, who knows where this nutcase will put herself through next). I celebrate my own body shape and feel delight in my sexuality; that it makes me not a victim, nor a tease, that most importantly I don’t owe anybody a god damn thing with regards to my body, but just someone who’s starting to get more comfortable in her own skin.


Oh and one last thing, for a happy ending, because I believe in that stuff –  This Duck went for an interview in a downtown hotel hospitality position and chances are high that she landed herself a more suitable role ! Keep posted !