I am, what is occasionally referred to as a “sexy sex blogger”. Not only do I write reviews and posts on kink related stuff from an educational angle but I celebrate my own innate sexuality as well. Sometimes this is in erotic writing, sometimes in pictures of lingerie I’m reviewing, sometimes it’s Sinful Sunday. The term “sexy sex blogger” is sometimes used derisively, fuck that.
I began sex blogging via reviews and as my confidence as a writer grew so did my self-confidence. I post images on my social media, with my reviews and on Sinful Sunday. Because I want to and because I’m proud of how I look. It’s important that all women are represented as sexual beings. Not just the under 30’s.
We Don’t Stop Feeling Sexual
We don’t stop feeling sexual as we get older. It doesn’t stop us wanting to be desired. In fact, I’ve found with age has come body confidence I never had as a younger woman. I own my sexuality and no longer fear slut or body shaming. I know I’m not perfect. My body bears the scars of two pregnancies and weight loss and gain. There is definitely a touch of grey in my roots when I care to examine them closely. I hate this so much but It’s part of me. We all must face the march of time.
I struggled with the prospect of turning 40. It really bothered me, the number felt and tasted frumpy and old in my mouth. I don’t feel 40, it felt like such an unfairness that this was be inflicted on me when I’ve not fully appreciated the last twenty years.
Some of this was due to motherhood. That identity stealing fun sponge. I adore my children but there’s no doubt at all that when they were little I was more Mummy than me. There was no time for long baths, or bottles of wine or sexy evenings. Those things became distant longed-for memories. As my days and nights became a hamster wheel of nappies, bottles and supervision of my darling little tyrants.
Now my girls are approaching adulthood at an alarming rate and I feel sadness that this time in my life is passing. But also, resentful at the lost years which could have been spent much less productively but with infinitely more fun.
I occasionally get vilified for my views on motherhood. I’m a tigress when it comes to my kids. They’re my life. but motherhood changes you. For the early years it drains your vitality, and finances. For some women, myself included it meant the loss of my career for a bit. Only a few years but oh the boredom of sitting at home with just babies for company.
I wish I could have been one of these wonderful women I saw on Facebook. Those who managed to dress their children perfectly and still look amazing themselves. Whilst devoting spare time (who has spare time???) to doing creative projects with their offspring. For whom conversation with a toddler was a scintillating part of development. The mythical Yummy Mummy. I was a resentful mess of un-brushed hair in formula stained PJ’s.
In he’d walk at the end of the day, rightfully knackered. But I’d be full of pent up rage at his ability to leave the house without a military operation. Jealous that he’d spoken to other human beings. Because his stories of the day didn’t all involve Phillip and bloody Fern and daytime sodding TV. How I hated being tied to the house.
No reason to get dressed up, or even dressed. My roots grew long, my hair un-styled and un-coloured. My make-up gathered dust. How could I find the time with a two-year-old toddler and new baby? I’d lost myself totally. Gradually motherhood became less tyrannical and I began to find my way back to the me I knew. To find the time for me again.
So, the approach of 40 felt too soon and stung bad. I had only just begun to escape the clutches of motherhood and now I had this to deal with. People (stupid ones) began to tell me I needed to act my age. Ugh what an awful expression this is. Like there is a bloody handbook for each decade denoting what’s acceptable. Bollocks to that. And yet it hit home, the comments about looking “mutton” resonated and finally I caved. I coloured out my much beloved trademark pink hair and set about growing up. Out went the brightly coloured clothes and crazy heels as I attempted to mature my wardrobe.
Refusing to Conform
The thing is, I was already grown up, what I wasn’t was sophisticated or refined. I was ridiculous and over the top. And that should have been ok. But I felt pressured to be the former rather than the latter. You can’t fake sophistication though, and you can’t water down ridiculousness.
I missed my My Little Pony hair. I loathed how much I blended in with my new, boringly normal coloured hair. Yes, I’m a frigging attention seeker, and what? I didn’t feel like me again. Why had I listened to other people!!?
And then I began blogging. And through my writing and my site I realised I didn’t care about what other people thought. I must be me! Dying my hair back Atomic Pink I felt my heart burst with happiness as it dried and I saw the luminous craziness of my crowning glory again.
See Yourself With Love
I love being me. That everyone I know send me unicorns and My Little Ponies. I love that little girls point at me in the supermarket and tell their mums they want to look like me when they grow up. I don’t care if I’m all pink hair, tits and eyelashes it’s just externals.
Regularly I get emails and messages from young women telling me they admire my self-confidence. I wish I could tell them the magic formula for feeling this themselves. I wish I could pop it in an envelope and send it out to them all so they can all shine like the stars they are. All I can say is try to see yourself with love. Don’t worry about what other people think. If it feels right for you then it is right! We are not cookies cut to be uniform. It’s our differences which makes life interesting, like the Liquorice Allsorts tattooed on my arm.
So, fuck it if it’s wildly inappropriate for a 40-year old woman to flaunt her post motherhood body in lingerie. I don’t care if I look ridiculous pouting like a sex kitten because guess what? I feel fucking amazing. My age is utterly irrelevant. I will still be tottering about in skyscraper heels and gluing lashes to my eyelids when they’re crepey with age. And I do not give a fuck. Come at me 50 I dare you!