My Boobs, My Sexuality, and the Glorious Mess Between!
Tits out, truth loud — my bi awakening and these gems? Both a vibe. Messy, sparkly, unapologetically mine.
My boobs and my sex life? Linked. Not because one can’t exist without the other, but because figuring them both out has been the same wild, messy, beautiful journey. And girl, the lessons? Chef’s kiss. Here’s what I’ve learned: I need sexual healing. (Cue Marvin Gaye vibes — you sang it too, don’t lie.). Sexual healing is an art. And baby, I’m Picasso in this bitch. The art of sexual healing is messy. But messy can be fun — ever finger-painted as an adult? Exactly.
Finding acceptance in the mess? That’s the glow-up. Now, let’s be clear — coming out as bi and realising my body wasn’t just some man’s future property? Not the same struggle. But both were… complicated.
When I came out to my dad, he hit me with the classic: “I don’t know my little girl anymore.” Cool. But sir, you never did — because when I popped out of the womb, his reaction was basically “How do I love a daughter?” Spoiler: He didn’t. Growing up, my sexuality was treated like a glitch — something to ignore until marriage magically fixed it. My body? A placeholder for some future man’s enjoyment. My curiosity? Shut down. My pleasure? LOL, what pleasure?
So yeah, I’ve spent years knee-deep in the mess, untangling the lies. And guess what? I’m still not done. But here’s what I am: Healing. (Slowly, chaotically, but surely.), Bi. (And thriving.), A woman. (Not because society said so, but because I do.)
A human with tits, a pussy, and other elite accessories. A whole being who knows herself. Here for MY pleasure — no one else’s. Would it have been easier without the mess? Sure. But then I wouldn’t be me — a glitter-covered, boundary-setting, self-loving disaster masterpiece. And honestly? Worth it. Okay, let’s talk about it — sexual healing starts when I stop pretending my mess isn’t chef’s kiss perfection.
Low-cut tops? Obsessed. Now, I don’t have that classic “spill-over-the-bra” cleavage — mine is more like “Hey bestie, we’re gonna do our own thing over here.” Wide-set, with a deep V between them that’s smooth like a runway, not a canyon.
And you know what? I love showing off that delicious dip. It’s kinda like how I bi. I don’t walk around with a neon “HELLO I LIKE WOMEN TOO” sign (though that would be a serve). But when I casually drop that I’ve dated women or defend LGBTQ+ rights? The shock on people’s faces? Priceless. “You’re bi? But you don’t… look bi?” Babe, what does bi look like? A side part? Doc Martens? A secret handshake? I’m in Texas, dating a man — so to the untrained eye, I’m just another “straight-passing” girlie. But my truth? It’s right there, peeking out like my cleavage — subtle, sexy, and sparking conversations. I don’t owe anyone a performance of my sexuality, but when I do let it show? It’s delicious. This is where the magic happens.
Openness, imagination, kink, love — my sexuality is a whole damn palette. I mix, I play, I make messes. Paint gets everywhere — inside, outside, dripping down my thighs, staining my heart in rainbow hues. And my tits? Oh, they’re part of the masterpiece. Who knew having boobs and a sexuality could be this much fun?
The Bottom Line
Life isn’t a clean canvas — it’s a riot of colour, a collision of glitter and truth, a mess that somehow makes sense when you step back and squint. My boobs, my bisexuality, my pleasure, my healing? They’re all brushstrokes in the same wild, unapologetic painting. I used to think self-discovery meant arriving at some polished finish line. But honey, the magic isn’t in the destination — it’s in the smudged fingerprints, the accidental splatters, the “oh fuck it” moments that turn into revelations.
My body isn’t a placeholder for someone else’s desire. My sexuality isn’t a glitch to be patched. They’re the raw, sparkly materials of my becoming.
So here’s to the mess — the sticky, sweaty, glorious mess of owning yourself. To cleave that defies expectations and a love that refuses to be boxed in. To heal, that looks less like a straight line and more like a drunken kaleidoscope. I’m not a finished piece. I’m a work in progress, dripping with desire, rebellion, and the kind of joy that comes from saying fuck it and dancing in the paint.
And honestly? That’s the sexiest thing of all. Now, if you’ll excuse me — I’ve got a life to keep painting. Tits out, brushes up. Let’s play.