ma and pa: if you're reading this, again, please come back another day! I wuv you!
So I guess you want to know about the burlesque class. Let's start with this: I've developed a complex about my nipples. Damn. I figured my nips were fantastic little rose-colored speckles, but after that class I've found out I'm a monster whose
nipples areolas don't fit under large pasties???
They, of course, do fit under regular quarter-sized pasties under certain circumstances, but no matter how much I rubbed and pinched, I couldn't get them hard. Performance anxiety?
And to top it off, I can't figure out if I'm normal or not, because I won't Google Image search "abnormally large areolas." Can you imagine the inconceivable horrors awaiting in a big nipples image search? Apparently my bathroom mirror can. Wah.
I know. I know. ENOUGH ABOUT MY PERSONAL CRISIS!
We walked into Self Serve, the neighborhood sexuality resource center, with at least three pints of Kelly's disgusting brew in our tummies. Self Serve is a fantasy cupcake house for the sexually educated. They are well stocked in great vibrators and other toys. They had fantastic leather paddles that leaves heart shaped red marks on your ass. DROOL!
The two ladies teaching the class were wearing classic ruffly and sparkling burlesque lingerie. They were both young and looked mean, but still beautiful. The one named Cookie Fortune was handing out boxes filled with pasties.
"What size would you say your nipple is?"
And then everyone grabbed theirs out of the small and extra-small boxes. I told her mine were medium and grabbed a silver star-shaped pasty with purple tassel. When I went in the bathroom to make sure it covered everything, I panicked. They covered my nip but I guess my areola was having self-esteem issues and needed to be seen at all costs. I went back and exchanged it for an ugly large black heart with silvery tassels. Try again. It was literally the same exact size only the heart shape lent itself to better hiding it. Still, I went back and asked for a larger one at which point she looked at my chest and pointed to the extra large pasties box. There was only one and it was a putrid shade of gray and the tassels looked like diseased spaghetti. I went back to the medium box and picked out green stars. They sort of remind me that green plush fabric at poker tables. Class-ay!
The two ladies, Cookie Fortune and Holly Rebelle, took about an hour, maybe hour and a half, to explain burlesque to us.
The diff between striping and burlesque ... layering clothes ... peek-a-boo dancing ... bedazzled panties ... proper pasty coverage ... making your own burlesque name (the best: Camille LeToe)
As soon as my ass was fully asleep, we got a 10 minute break and everyone changed into their sweatpants. Finally, I got a chance to look around the class. There were a dozen women of all shapes and sizes. A skinny girl with pixie-like petite features and red lipstick. A couple heavy set bff's wearing geekwear. An older professional lady with a briefcase and expensive haircut. A lesbian couple who immediately took off their pants as soon as the music started. And a slightly young-ish girl with long black armpit hair. Our little hipster asses appeared to be the youngest/coolest of the bunch. The first thing we learned is how to sexily take off our thigh highs. We sort of snapped our ankles and whipped them off. And then we used them to rub against our boobs, neck and arms. Then she handed out feather boas and we slid it across our body. Blah blah, we paid money for this?
We finally got to the pasty part of the class and everyone took their shirts off and stuck their pasties on. Jessica had silver and white showgirl style ones. The girl next to me had on pretty ruby red heart pasties. And I was the only one with the green stars. Earlier in the class, the teachers were telling us about merkins, which technically are pubic wigs, but in burlesque, it's not usually hair, it could be anything you want to tape to your muff. Cookie told us anything larger (and including) a dollar bill would be fine.
Spinning is when you get your tassels to spin in circles and the only way to learn how to spin is to figure out how to get your boobs to bounce. I'd say the girls with A cups had it easiest because their boobs were so small and light, they barely had to jump around to spin. The B and C cup girls had a harder time getting those tassels revved up. First of all, our boobs are at least 3 lbs heavier than theirs and sometimes I'd get one tassel going and the other one was being a bitch. But truthfully, you'd much rather watch our fatty chests bouncing around then the smaller girls. There were also a couple older ladies there with D and DD and DDD chests. This is where I tell you a story.
So there we were, a dozen girls and ladies standing around trying to get our boobs to bounce and spin the tassels. Everyone's eyes are on their own springy jugs. Occasionally, a voice will rise up and start chanting, "I got it! I got it!" for a few seconds. We're all having fun and giggling and then the lady in the corner raises her hand as if we're in 4th grade again.
"Yes?" Cookie asks.
The lady looks downtrodden as she states, "I can't get my tassels to move at all," while holding each huge drooping breast in either hand, "I mean, I can't get them to move unless I physically spin my nipple." Her breasts normally hung down to her belly button, but while talking she had one in each hand, gesturing.
Cookie, with the seriousness of a heart surgeon, calmly focused her gaze on those two bulbous lumps in the lady's hands. The rest of the class stopped all movement as we stared at Cookie's face, waiting anxiously for a suggestion to the problem of unbouncing titties.
The corners of Cookie's blood red lips stretch upwards and she smiles, "Oh, don't worry! A famous burlesque dancer can't move her tassels without manually holding her breasts in each hand too!" As she takes her own triple-D's in either hand and spins them like flags at a Nascar race.
The entire class shrugs it off and returns to the exercises at their own chests.
I literally had to think about sad puppies for the rest of the class to keep from laughing about the ladies' wet sock boobs being spun around like pinwheels.
So besides procuring bad juju, that's basically it. After class, we all looked at the vibrators, toys, porn and body chocolate within the store. Well, except ...
I guess, overall, I kept thinking "20 dollars? 20 DOLLARS?!" Twenty dollars to listen to two burlesque dancers talk about their tits? One of them physically hugged her boobs while saying "I don't know about you, but I LOVE my boobies," with a teeny bopper crazed fan look in her eyes. I feel like I have to be an asshole here and remind everyone that boobs are for babies, pussy is for adults (via blognigger). Look, boobs are great, in that they are fun to squeeze and watch bounce, but being obsessed about your own boobs is what the theoretical fat chick does. Move on, have vaginal sex and stop staring at your own tits. This applies to boys obsessed with boobies as well, although titty fucking is ok sometimes as a novelty.
In short, yeah yeah, I may have gigantic areolas that need extra large pasties, but at least I've moved past pre-teendom and realized my pussy is where it's at. the end.
I'm old.
We walked into Self Serve, the neighborhood sexuality resource center, with at least three pints of Kelly's disgusting brew in our tummies. Self Serve is a fantasy cupcake house for the sexually educated. They are well stocked in great vibrators and other toys. They had fantastic leather paddles that leaves heart shaped red marks on your ass. DROOL!
The two ladies, Cookie Fortune and Holly Rebelle, took about an hour, maybe hour and a half, to explain burlesque to us.
Spinning is when you get your tassels to spin in circles and the only way to learn how to spin is to figure out how to get your boobs to bounce. I'd say the girls with A cups had it easiest because their boobs were so small and light, they barely had to jump around to spin. The B and C cup girls had a harder time getting those tassels revved up. First of all, our boobs are at least 3 lbs heavier than theirs and sometimes I'd get one tassel going and the other one was being a bitch. But truthfully, you'd much rather watch our fatty chests bouncing around then the smaller girls. There were also a couple older ladies there with D and DD and DDD chests. This is where I tell you a story.
I guess, overall, I kept thinking "20 dollars? 20 DOLLARS?!" Twenty dollars to listen to two burlesque dancers talk about their tits? One of them physically hugged her boobs while saying "I don't know about you, but I LOVE my boobies," with a teeny bopper crazed fan look in her eyes. I feel like I have to be an asshole here and remind everyone that boobs are for babies, pussy is for adults (via blognigger). Look, boobs are great, in that they are fun to squeeze and watch bounce, but being obsessed about your own boobs is what the theoretical fat chick does. Move on, have vaginal sex and stop staring at your own tits. This applies to boys obsessed with boobies as well, although titty fucking is ok sometimes as a novelty.
Hint: I won't be accepting dollar bills into my pearl thong.
Jessica signed us up for a class where we'll get a couple heart pasties and instruction on burlesque dancing. HEY BIG SPENDER! No, actually, it's only 15 bucks.
Round boobs. check! hips. check! non-flat ass. check! Good, looks like I already have the foundation in place. The sensual nature, the curves, the mystery, sure, piece of cake. But, I'm out of shape. I'll be panting the whole time. Maybe I can work that into my act? Quick! Somebody sew a couple floppy doggy ears. woof. I'll go jogging today and evaluate how weak I've become.
But only if I find my sports bra, can't lose those round boobies!
And, of course, this happened last week:
About the class, wish me luck. If anything, it gives me an excuse to bedazzle a hula hoop.
it tastes as good as it looks
Ok, real talk now. It started out as regular onion soup with a side of brie and crackers. yum, ri? Except the combination of veggie broth and onion soup mix was a little gross so Marc added sauerkraut. And unsurprisingly, the soup tasted like rotten worms and sweat stains.
Thank you! Meow!
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