VALUES and Nails: Week 1

VALUES are one of my big ongoing personal/spiritual/work projects. The (free, awesome) relationship skills class I took in 2016 taught me how much work I need to do on my own value system to be a better, happier person in relationship to other people and myself (and to work).

I wish I could say I’ve completed working on my value system in the two years since then, but I’m still wrestling around with it. Here’s what I want to do:

IDENTIFY & CLARIFY MY VALUES

What do I value?

ASSESS

how my values do and don’t fit in with other people’s

ARTICULATE

Be able to confidently & coherently articulate my values with pride

PRIORITIZE MY VALUES

What do I value MOST? Which values will I choose to navigate by?

LIVE IN LINE WITH MY VALUES

Commit to practicing and living in line with my values, securely relying on what I feel and have thoughtfully determined is good, beautiful, healthy & human.

This year I picked three straightforward, basic, tangible ways I can practice living in line with my values. One is to take care of, enjoy and present my fingernails and toenails in ways that are in line with my aesthetics, and reinforce my personal values around cleanliness, gender, time and money. I’ll also blog about the other two soon.

My goal is to do all of the above with my nails this year. How do I think hands and feet and nails should be cleaned and presented, and how important is it?

Here’s how I plan to live more in line with my values in 2018 by focusing on my nails:

  • check in with myself on a weekly basis
  • share pictures of how well I’m practicing hand, foot and nail hygiene
  • reflect on experiences, values and issues related to hands, feet, nails, and being clean and presentable
  • welcome and encourage other people to reflect on and talk about individual and cultural values around cleanliness, presentation, investments in body maintenance and presentation, etc.
  • celebrate and feel good about my body and healthy values

Cleanliness and personal hygiene are super deeply emotionally value-loaded bundles of standards and procedures for living and doing and loving and judging ourselves and each other. What is clean and dirty are some of the very first and most important things we’re taught. Pretty much immediately after being told over and over and over again to identify ourselves and each other as either boys or girls; I’ve experienced values about gender and cleanliness as being deeply (and dysfunctionally) intertwined.

I feel shame and embarrassment over that picture of my toenails. Even though I spent time and resources to maintain them (tea tree oil, letting them breathe/no nail color in months, pushing back cuticles with orange stick, exfoliating soles and calloused places, rubbing minty lotion on them at night, keeping clean underneath the free edge) in the weeks preceding this, they do not meet my standards (and I’m painfully aware they don’t meet other people’s standards). THOSE NAILS ARE TOO LONG!! They need to be trimmed and filed! They’re not pink-white enough / they’re too old and yellow-y looking! The cuticles are still messy! And that’s not even getting into judging the aesthetic value of my feet and skin. And my pilled-up leggings.

Compared to my toenail picture, I feel only a little embarrassment over my fingernails on the same day, which is funny because they are MORE out of whack with my personal values (I like short, shiny, well-groomed, super clean fingernails) than my feet are. Maybe because aesthetically I think my hands are more beautiful? More likely because I’m overly aware of how many people think feet are dirty and gross and that you’re a slouch if you don’t trim your toenails to the quick on the regular.


Maybe talking about values and cleanliness and gender aren’t the porn you came to my site trying to find, but they have SO MUCH to do with whether or not we feel good about our bodies and whether or not we feel good experiencing sexual pleasure. My relationships and continued work as a webwhore depends on me peeling back all of the layers and lessons I’ve gotten about gender, cleanliness and personal presentation to be realistic about what work I invest myself in, and to find healthy ways to let go of gigantic resentments I have about the absurdly different ways men and women are taught to clean and present themselves.

Are you interested in any of these topics: values, beauty standards, cleanliness, pictures of hands and feet, gender, and personal grooming? Or do you think it’s just totally weird for me to go into this remedial examination of fingernail clippings like they’re spiritual tea leaves for 2018?


 

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Very Nice Next-Door Lady-Person Boobs

Hi. My name is Trixie!

You might perceive this as my condescending face . . .

big breasts shirt stains

. . . but really it is my “I have chocolate on my shirt” exasperated-with-myself face.

I have thick glasses . . . and big natural boobs!

nice lady trixie's big natural boobs

Some people like my boobs and even think I am a nice lady.

disarming next-door-lady smiles in glasses

They give my boobs one thumb up . . .

thumb up for big boobs!

. . . sometimes two thumbs up, but most individuals only have one (cough) “thumb”.

You might think this face is reserved for corny heard-it-all-before penis euphemisms . . .

tasty trixie sticking tongue out

. . . but I don’t mind that so much. This is actually how I feel when people give me compliments. I have to try not to look that way, instead being gracious and self-confident rather than off-putting and strange.

It’s important to be a nice lady when you’re sort of just a regular average-to-comical-looking person making money with your boobs and stuff on the internet. Make people feel happy and good. That means smiling in a genuine fashion and being relaxed and not hurrying from one expression to another. It also means making pictures brighter and saturated with fleshy warm colors. But I don’t always have time for that (like today), or for being a nice relaxed simple booby lady with no complaints or complications. Or ghastly wrinkles on her neck (chocolate on shirt helps draw eye away from crepey turkey wattles . . . but not as much as boobs / not wearing a shirt at all).

androgynous glasses nerd dork

I don’t really believe I’m that much of a lady. It’s all a bullshit charade (and boobs).

Okay, it’s not ALL a bullshit charade. But a lot of it is an illusion.

posture head-tilts self-censoring shiny blonde (fake) hair BOOBS eagerness-to-please responsive facials & head nods raised eyebrows tiny smirks omg this is exhausting pretty little dresses fortunately I don’t have to work at loving cock

cute Trixie with crooked teeth & glasses & big nipple

My teeth are crooked! I think crooked teeth are cute: charming, disarming and natural.

When we show our crooked teeth that makes you feel like you can trust us and we could never ever hurt you. We’re goofy! Shy! Quick to roll over and show our bellies! But if you really look at any still version of a smile it’s just a scary grimace of bared teeth.

*****

Today on the train I looked down at a really pretty lady driving in her car and she looked up at me and our eyes locked and I immediately uncontrollably blushed and smiled/grimaced. And she smiled back (with straight teeth and lipstick) and it made me so happy that I don’t care if any of it is fake or scared monkey business.

I don’t know how she kept driving straight without crashing, it felt like she looked at me that long; it was like an old movie (or Pulp Fiction) where the people don’t have to look at the road and they’re just very beautiful and the cars drive themselves while they engage with their passengers. I guess I was like the poor girl on the train in the movie who the pretty lady decides is the one she can seduce into killing her husband for insurance money, promising me we’ll make off for Mexico and live happily ever after in the sun eating tortillas with butter made from goat milk. Except I failed to fact check whether goat milk butter is any good or a suitable product for home-making and for the rest of my life in prison I have nightmare visions of rancid goat butter escalating into a severed goat head on a platter with those gross cooked goat eyeballs gleaming death at me.

The pretty lady was like a cross between Sofia Vergara and Tousled Elegance. And she didn’t seem at all like a film noir femme fatale . . . her smile was so pretty I felt like I didn’t even deserve to have her spend that much time looking at me. Which is exactly why if she’d been wearing a trench coat waiting for me at the train station I would have gone with her and done ANYTHING SHE WANTED. The muscles in her face and neck were so naturally relaxed, she couldn’t possibly do me or anybody any harm.

It Just Is

image

I love men’s bodies. I love men’s hands. I love men’s hands on my body. I love those hands moving around to different places on my body, pulling me and pawing me, or being gentle or inquisitive or senselessly in love with touching. I love the fucking hair on men’s bodies.

I love when I can see the boyish face shining out of a grown man — unabashed new joy and wonder, like I’m ice cream and puppies and the first time you realized touching your butthole felt good. I love when I get to see this boyish face shine out of women, too.

I love the way men sound when their dick is starting to feel really good inside my body, and the way they sound as they start feeling even BETTER, and the way they sound when it feels like the best thing in the world. Happening inside my hand or mouth or pussy or ass, or in their own hand onto my tits or feet or belly. I love feeling their bulk bumping up against me. I love the ways they are soft, and where they are bigger than I am.

I love that I have the luxury of choosing when and if and for how long and how many men I get to wallow in. That I am not bound by anything to any one man or any JUST ONE person in general or to men at all if I’m not in the mood for one.

I love nestling myself in under a man’s arm, head on chest, along his side with his arm around me and my hand playing with his cock. This is a place I love seeking out more than I ever could being married to one or being limited to just one “boyfriend”.

I love how generous men are with love, and having (some) stereotypes about them proved wrong every time I’m with them, or you hear them singing songs. I love all of the different shapes and sizes and weights of penises as long as the men enjoy fiddling with them, and all of the faces that are alive behind the eyes and care to see me and are vulnerable to desire. I love scared limp dicks and fast sudden cums.

I love chub and girth and mass and solid walls of chest and shoulders.

I love hearing Daddy talk about work, and I love when they become my sweet pretty eager-to-please big boys. I love when their faces light up grinning from ear-to-ear or their eyes just get real big at a simple offer to touch my boob that I’ve lazily pulled out.

Talking is hard. You wanna touch my boob? My top opening up or coming off: the greatest story ever told.

I love how easy it is for me to love people. It is a gift, to be able to feel and express love easily, and it crushes my heart to think of all the ways the world (and undue attention to it) throws unnecessary obstacles up in the free path to sharing it.

None of this is true all of the time, but this is all true enough.

I love all of the people who have survived the shit of the world with the incredible capacity to love and be kind. You are all motherfucking miracles.

I love the girl whose favorite doughnut is lemon-glazed, and I love my mom. I love that my wife almost had an assgasm shooting porn with a big-dicked guy in a funny wig and condom who was having a difficult day.

Life really has its ups and downs.

Legs in the Tub

Here’s what I posted from my humidifying tub time last night:

And here’s the version COMPLETE WITH CAMELTOE:

My legs & cameltoe while bathing last night

My head and chest are thick and heavy, but I suspect everything is being timed perfectly for maximum clarifying and enlightening results. I’m super fucking excited about spring approaching, and imagine the phlegm-haze being lifted from my body as the sun gains more and more bright clean time and power.

Watched The Price of Gold over the past few days; surprised one of the things I enjoyed most was actually about Nancy Kerrigan (was never a fan, having been brought up by my mom to treat all princess-types with contempt and being from Tonya Harding’s corner of the country, and obviously being brainwashed by the media to think of Kerrigan very one-dimensionally/as a “princess”). The way she prioritized training for the Olympics in those brief weeks after being attacked and injured, absolutely refusing to waste any of her limited precious vital time on publicly processing or engaging with people about what happened to her was pretty fucking amazing. To see her so unapologetic about protecting her time and health, and refusing distractions is something everyone can learn from.

Time is precious. Youth is fleeting. If you want to do your best at something(s), you can’t do everything . . . especially not drama. Even if you’re hobbled by it. DUH.

Know your limits, protect yourself and just say no to bullshit. You shouldn’t have to explain to people that there are only twenty-four hours in a day and only one gold fucking medal – not enough time to put on a tragic emo catfighting freakshow for your bloodthirsty “fans”. Of course when I put it THAT way it sounds a lot more exciting than a few brief moments “ice-dancing” in Vera Wang, but whatever. PRIORITIES!!

Smoother

I finally shaved my armpits last week AND got a bikini wax:

Trixie's sweet trim

That was actually the first time I’ve gotten anything waxed besides my eyebrows. I enjoyed it. I will do more / the whole kit and caboodle soon.

Before I did all that hair removal, though, I really should have asked one of our friends who was coming to see us if he wanted me to wait until AFTER he saw us; he looked crestfallen and said, “oh no . . . oh noooooo” when I announced the change and displayed my freshly depilated underarms.

Trixie's cute pink slit

That reminded me of being in college in the early nineties, in one of the tons of communities where YOU JUST DIDN’T SEE HAIR ON WOMEN’S LEGS OR ARMPITS so I was an oddity in a tank top viewed with . . . you know, expressions of shock and mortification. I distinctly remember one of my sickeningly smart Republican friends (it used to be easier to have those) eventually expressing his change in attitude towards it, vehemently insisting DON’T EVER SHAVE IT, TRIXIE.

And you know how earnestly those blonde ROTC boys say things. VERY EARNESTLY AND WITH GREAT VIGOR. I thought it was pretty fucking precious, anyway.

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