Coffee Rhetoric: Redux
Showing posts with label Redux. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Redux. Show all posts

July 30, 2012

Nostalgia: "Quadri-Boobs"

I've been feeling busy lazy nostalgic, so decided to dig into the deep, dank, dark, slimy underbelly of Coffee Rhetoric, to dig of posts of yore and re-post them. Twitter and Facebook weren't social media staples my first full year as a blogger [née hopeful short-story fiction writer], and so some of my more personal, obnoxious,WTF posts never had the luxury of ever dancing across any "timelines" or "news-feeds".

The following post I'm about to re-share is near and dear to my heart. It's that moment in space and time when my proverbial "spot" was blown up by the Hartford Courant, my anonymity flew out the window, and my former co-workers came to work side-eying me with questions lingering on the tips of their nosy tongues, the Monday after an article had been published in a Hartford Courant Sunday feature by Joel Lang entitled; "Decoding The Blogosphere".  It generated several comments as well. For shits-and-giggles [and because I need a reason to post it], I'm also attaching a rather ... disturbing... video at the end, as the only addition or change. 

This is from 2005. I'm old. Enjoy. 

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Quadri-Boobs -- September 25th, 2005 


I have a staring problem of epic proportions. This is one of the primary reasons why I wear over-sized, dark shades. I feel they give me license to stare until my heart's content. Generally speaking, I guess it would be referred to as 'people watching'… whatever. 

In my head, I critique people's fashion do's and don’ts or I try to read their faces to determine what type of day they've had. I'll use what I see in my literary art if it's interesting enough. No man, woman, or child is exempt from my vigilant (yet shrouded) gaze. On occasion I may rubber neck (within reason) at attractive men, in appreciation of a woman's well put-together ensemble, or at a horrible fashion doozy. Needless to say, this past Tuesday late- afternoon while I was en-route to my mother's house after work, I was waiting at one of the designated stops, to transfer to another bus.
While waiting, I indulged my staring problem for the 10 or 15 minutes it took for my connecting bus to arrive. I watched people stomping up and down the street, looking relieved that their workday was finally over and done with. I spied various types of women (and men) taking long awaited drags off of their cigs. I saw women of all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages... some chic in their workday threads... some looking like they got dressed in the dark confines of their closets. I spied muffin-tops bubbling over the waists of ill-fitting trousers, protruding through equally ill-fitted knit tops. I also saw men wearing too large shirts, crammed into wrinkled khakis creating an unflattering blouson… like deflated parachutes. Regardless of fashion sense, lack thereof, size, race, etc. I noted one problem in particular… 

Too many women wearing horribly fitted bras. I'm about to share a nasty, nasty figure... 80% of women wear the wrong bra (and panty) size. This petite young woman of ample chest (very ample) who trounced by me illustrated this alarming fact. She had on a stretchy white cotton cap-sleeved fitted tee and I could clearly see through the fabric of her shirt. She had a bad, bad case of what I call the four-boob syndrome. Her cup size, seemingly, began just below the nipplage mark. The whole top half of her rack spilled over the cups of the bra. (Unless you're wearing the proper-size balconet or a demi bra, this should not be the case)- She was pushing Double-D turf. Her DD puppies looked like they were crammed into a C-cup... she was killing me... and not softly. I shook my head, irritated... wishing I'd had a tape measure and the moxie to intercept her path, measure her rack, and to tell her to immediately go and buy whatever cup size she actually was

Teenaged girls and women within my age bracket tend to be the primary offenders of this horrible trend. They see a cute bra and they buy it anyway, notwithstanding the fact that it doesn't fit. Some women have gouges in their skin, because their bras are just way too tight... prompting their back-bacon (regardless of body type) to spill out from the sides. Undergarments are supposed to feel comfortable. If fitted properly, they make or break an entire outfit or the appearance of one's rack. During my college years, I was walking around wearing the wrong bra size, and hadn't even realized it, until someone waged an intervention. I was walking around wearing a DD (which was actually too large). Often-times, I found myself tugging the back of my bra relentlessly and my tops just didn't seem to fit properly... but still, I was ignorant to the fact that my bra wasn't the proper size. One summer, several years ago, while shopping in a popular store at the mall, my intervention played out. This store had bras on sale. I decided to buy a couple. Upon walking up to the feisty, petite, Latina cashier to pay for my wares, I got schooled in Brassiere 101. Feisty happened to note the bra size I was about to purchase right before she rang it up. She took one look at my bust (which is ample and full, but not huge) and turned up the corners of her mouth in disapproval; as one would do to an insolent child. 

"Honey, this is not the right size." she said. "But I've been wearing this size for a long time" I argued, so sure I was correct. She looked at my rack, one more time, before driving her point home... "Trust me, you are not a DD. I know what I'm talking about. I am used to women coming in here buying the wrong bra size." I started to protest once more, but Feisty shushed me, draped a tape measure around her neck, and stepped from behind the counter. "Come here" she ordered. I obliged, lifting up my arms, to let her wrap the tape around my back and just under my bust. "40D" she said with an 'I told you so' smirk on her face. 

Silent, I returned the bras I was about to purchase back to sale rack, and got their replicas in a 40D. That was about 4 or 5 years ago, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me. My tops fit a lot better, my boobs aren't squished uncomfortably in their cups, and the bra tugging is at a minimum. Wearing the proper-size in bra compliment my rack if I do say so myself. Most department and fine lingerie stores offer bra fittings for free, yet women don't take advantage, because they don't feel comfortable getting their sweater puppets sized up. I advise all women, young, middle-aged, and old, to suck it up and do it! It makes a huge difference as to how you fit into your clothes. 

Knowing your proper undergarment size also makes it easier to shop for bras sans the guessing games.... and failing miserably. Bra fittings should take place at least once a year, as a gynecological or dental exam does; and if you’re still not comfortable asking a salesgirl to measure your tats, then I implore you to give your best friend (paramour or husband) a tape measure and ask her (or him) to do it. Your breasts will be so grateful, that they'll breathe a sigh of relief.
 

March 02, 2012

Date Like A Dummy, Think Like a Foolio, REDUX

Foreword: Overcoming Interracial Dating Myopia

I realize this is the second time I've re-posted an essay but I've been a bit lazy busy working on a few other things and I've got a few topic ideas I need to mentally sift through before blogging them. Additionally, I've been reading some rather… disappointing things across the Black Blogosphere and feel that certain posts apply. Rather than blogging the same thing in some other written variation, I figured I'd offer a brief foreword as a prelude to the re-post. I've been reading some interesting articles (none of which I care to link) and some equally as interesting-- (if not downright disturbing) -- commentary from readers... many of whom are Black women. It seems as if a certain sub-group of my sistren has the dating game all twisted and are vigilant about 'White Knighting' other ill-informed forum commentators… throwing other Black women under the bus in the process.
The concept of agreeing to disagree, respectfully, seems to get lost in translation whenever the issue of interracial dating comes up.

Living and letting live, would be the ideal way for one to date however, those of my sistren (mostly) and brethren who are emphatic about dating other don't seem to be genuine in their dating intentions, as they almost seem to be political. In pushing their agenda(s); climbing on a soapbox and using their respective relationships to antagonize others for who they're attracted to-- (even going so far as to resort name-calling). In being completely frank in my assessment, much of the vitriol I read, came (and comes) from a collective of Black women who are seemingly still hurt by prior relationships and harbor feelings of resentment (despite proclamations of feeling empowered and free). I actually just learned about terms like "DBR" (Damaged Beyond Repair) - Black men and have read pointed attack-words like "stupid, weak, (fat) Black women" and my favorite, "DBR enablers".  Language like this is counterproductive and sanctimonious, as the people at the helm of the hate, demand to have the right to love who they want to love yet, can't seem to do so in earnest.

I never understood why the topic of interracial dating has us (the Black community) at such odds with one another; or why some folks are supposedly so happy with the opportunity to explore their options, yet are so pressed by who someone else is sleeping with or dating and seem bent on projecting their personal aesthetic on others… and will lash out when all their prodding is rejected.
What the hell is wrong with us? Why can't folks just genuinely like who they like, date and marry who they want to date and marry, without there needing to be a motive or agenda behind it; and leave other folks to their own dating devices? Do we really need a How-to manual written by a few self-righteous proselytizers with an axe to grind on something as superficial as "how to attract a White man", belittling other Black women for not trying "something new" and demanding that they mold themselves to fit a beauty mold, dictated by societal norms? Additionally, do we need to be subjected to rap songs ridiculing Black women for not having the right complexion or hair? People who are genuinely empowered, free, and secure with their dating choices, don’t need to indulge in extraneous foolery. Folks have got the game all twisted and need to succumb to the four G’s (Good Goddess Get a Grip!) Just... stop.

Anyway, without further ado...

October 06, 2011

Coffee Buzz: See You BACK on the Flipside!


This past spring, I had the rare pleasure of being invited to document the behind-the-scenes drama that went into building a main-stage play.  Hartford, CT based Theater Company; HartBeat Ensemble extended an opportunity to me to blog their experiences finally bringing their play, Flipside to fruition in its entirety. For about 6 months, the creative undertaking allowed me to be able to tell a "day job" to kick rocks and I got to see what truly makes actors tick; Their methods, their frustrations, their elation when they have a nervous breakthrough... It was like reality television, but with more substance, minus the physical altercations, minimal wig-snatching, and without any dubious, "piecey" editing. Here's the in-depth skinny on Flipside (insert flashback music here)...

Working in tandem with a local filmmaker and video producer named Helder Mira, we caught the Flipside actors and director during some of their most vulnerable moments, as they worked tirelessly to bring their play to bigger main stage, in Hartford, CT. We also saw them take a donated space in the renovated, LEED certified, multipurpose commercial space, The Hollander Building, and make it their own; building a stage, painting, and putting their personal touches on it, turning it into an intimate performing space that would later be used to host fundraising shindigs, jazz concerts, and poetry showcases.  
Sitting in that performance space during rehearsal proved to be some of the coldest days I ever endured. It was in the middle of one of the most horrific winters of my adult life, here in the northeast. However,  it registers as one of my most memorable collaborations to date and I enjoyed it; Cold, dour, and ugly. 
Needless to say, Flipside had a successful spring-summer run. Audiences appreciated its take on the War on Drugs and its effect on the surrounding communities.  

Flipside is based on actual interviews with two real people, and tells the story of a friendship between a Hartford teen named Bo and an undercover narcotics agent named Nick. The show combines original music and spoken-word poetry throughout the play’s narrative on drug use and trafficking in neighborhoods.  Audiences agree that Flipside relays a compelling discourse on the War on Drugs and is interspersed with a little humor and very catchy musical numbers…

Directed by Co-Founding Artistic Director, Greg Tate, Flipside involved two years worth of painstaking research and subsequent workshops in partnership with Central Connecticut State University’s Center for Regional and Municipal Policy, Portland Oregon’s Sojourn Theater and Manchester Community College; HartBeat has lead open dialogues and over 40 individual interviews on the subject in order to create the play.
“We found that no matter what a person believes about drug use and selling, they tend to be very passionate about their feelings on the matter.” says Tate, “Of course that makes for great theater.  It’s tricky, and very fun stuff.”
(Queue back to the present) ...

Now, back by overwhelming demand, Flipside will be making a limited run this October 13th-29th at The Hollander Building in downtown Hartford at 410 Asylum Street! Show times begin at 7:30 pm and will run every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Tickets are $20 with a discounted price of $15 for all students, seniors, and Let's Go Arts! members. Call 860.548.9144 or visit http://hartbeatensemble.org to purchase tickets. 
 
HartBeat Ensemble recently had a raucously good time celebrating at the Mark Twain House and Museum, in commemoration of their 10 year anniversary. For the past ten years, HartBeat Ensemble has been creating original, professional theater based on stories from the Hartford community. Through Main-stage plays, Open-Air performances and Education programs, HartBeat makes theater accessible beyond the barriers of class, race or gender.
Since it’s founding in 2001, HartBeat has created six full-length original plays. HartBeat’s flagship education program, the Youth Play Institute, works in partnership with five different school districts to bring urban and suburban youth together for intensive month-long play building residencies in which they create and perform original one-act plays. HartBeat also conducts bullying prevention programs in schools called “Startin’ Drama.”


Check out HartBeat Ensemble's behind-the-scenes, Flipside documentary series 
Also, read my behind-the-scenes guest blog posts





July 13, 2011

Not Defeated...

Frustrated... Back to Square One... Need a freakin' break... Cheated... annoyed... ANNOYED ... In need of a reprieve... mentally exhausted... have no time to sulk but I really want to sulk ... At my wit's end ... DETERMINED ... Deserving... Mercurial ... Would love to curse aloud ... Desperately wanting to break things ... sick of heavily sighing ... Want to go far-far-FAR away ... Am introspective... Misanthropic... In need of company...$ being > than my growing list of of needs... Sick of politics... Sick of politicians... disgusted by the economic state of this country and the world at large... sick of getting shafted... tired of working from this crummy ass laptop... sick of people and their bullshit... Over indecisiveness... over being over... blah blah, so forth, so on, and blah... 
But I'm not defeated... 

May 23, 2011

Exotic Fragrance Redux!

A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about the smellnificent, creamy soft wonders of Exotic Fragrance perfume oils and shea butter... a Hartford-based company owned by Zaahir Qawi. I've corresponded with him several times since then and spoke to him on the phone, only to find a pleasant and driven business man working hard to hustle- (to much fanfare as illustrated by the initial email I received, that made me privy to his business)- my favorite type of products to use! Since that time I've discovered that Zaahir is in the process of checking out rental spaces in the area, so as to have a store front for us Hartford folk to frequent for high-grade perfume oils, incense, oil burners and natural products for skin and hair.
In the interim and to appease all you fine readers who inquired about Zaahir's products and for those who are just plain ol' interested, he was generous enough to offer a Coffee Rhetoric discount... Order from Exotic Fragrance and save 10% off your order! Are you stoked?? I am! I like Amber Cream, Egyptian Swirl, and Rihanna's Reb'l Fleur (much to my surprise) myself and I've gotten a lot of compliments from wanted and unwanted admirers, but I digress. I use raw shea butter by the tubs and he just got batches of fresh raw shea in- (Shea butter is magical. Trust)- after having been sold out. The Coffee Rhetoric discount is from him to you. Get on it! 
--> Exotic Fragrance Coffee Rhetoric Discount
That is all. 
 

January 01, 2010

New Year & The Best of Coffee Rhetoric

The New Year is upon us. Good times. After a night of drinking and debauchery, I've always felt a little indifferent about sliding into yet another new year. Somehow, I feel especially excited about Twenty-Ten. Perhaps because I'm getting a lot more serious about accomplishing some goals that've simmered on low, on the backburner, for a long while? Not sure, but I'm a little giddy about this new year. I don't want the feeling to end. In the meantime, while I mull over new and more exciting ways to spill open on my blog (I've been at this since 2004!), nostalgia has prompted me to re-post some of my favorite entries.
Like this one; Entitled "Like Water for Chocolate"

December 11, 2007

This Is It...

I finally (and successfully) transported all of the essentials, and regretfully left certain other things behind (which is the worst part of moving because you want to take and keep everything you don't necessarily need anymore). Pay no attention to the beat looking mattress in the background. It served its purpose and I left it behind. Anyway, the whole process of packing up, moving, storing, starting fresh is a bit harrowing and exhausting. But one must do what one needs to do to move forward. I am anxious for what the near future holds, and will tackle every new challenge with fervor! While I don't relish having to move all of this ish onemogin, I'm hoping that the new dig I get will be bigger, more cost effective, and will prompt me to entertain more. While I wont miss dealing with my leasing company (my last year with them was somewhat tumultuous) and my high ass energy bill (I'm convinced I was also paying for the surrounding bars' and clubs' energy as well as my own), I will miss the drunken debauched seediness of my former 'hood, the convenience of living downtown, and the friendliness of many of my neighbors. I do anticipate moving as close to the downtown area as I can, however. I'm a constant fixture down there, so my presence will still be felt and known (to anyone local, who actually gives a damn about it). My muscles are sore, and while I don't know what I was built for, it sure as hell wasn't for heavy lifting of boxes and laborious tasks of the like. While much work and organizing still has to be done, I was finally able to decompress for a few hours today, and had some delicious Bubble Tea. While doing some serious thinking and planning.
I've decided not to bother entertaining any paramours or dates (not that there were any worth entertaining or caring about to begin with) - because I am completely focused on myself and my restructuring (I've also decided to commit myself to even more self absorbency and remaining aloof). Of course I will keep all interested parties abreast.
P.S. I attended a wonderful holiday party in the midst of all this madness, this past Saturday, and Anika Noni Rose's (Tony award winning Broadway actress and most recently from the film Dreamgirls)- daddy was there. He was very nice and not pretentious at all. The sole purpose of my relaying this story is to brag. That's it.

December 01, 2007

Please Standby

I'm packing and getting ready to make a move... Restructuring and getting back on track is an overwhelming feat. Packing however, sucks more than anything that has ever sucked. I got rid of some shoes and still have too many pairs to contend with, so for the time being, they're all strewn in the middle of my floor. I've just been stepping over them. Which is a pain in the middle of the night when trying to feel my way in the dark, to the bathroom. Hopefully the very near future will bring welcome changes, a bigger apartment, and new opportunities, which I'll tackle with gusto! In the meantime, I've been killing myself packing and pondering what comes with, what's beat and needs to be trashed, and what goes into storage. I've also been looking into getting a post office box... which would make accepting gifts (hint-hint) a lot easier from kind readers. In any event, perhaps if I stop taking Bacaradi rum breaks, I could accomplish this feat quicker. Anyway, also enjoy this cool picture I took while riding down the street in West Hartford, CT. New England is a beaut, during the fall.

November 20, 2007

The Cure

I'm OMing the pressure off of my chest... Whenever I breathe in, it's reminiscent of weight lifting a heavy barbell and the back of my shoulder pops with each deep breath I pull in.

November 18, 2007

Regression

I'm regressing. And I don't like it one bit. I'm struggling not to go back to black. Not to become morose again. The impending gloom is hovering like a dark cloud and I'm tempted to just stand there and wait for the downpour and risk getting soaked, because I'm tired. The fatigue feels like a heavy weight on my chest and it's constricting my air flow. Literally and figuratively, I cannot breathe. I inhale and then I exhale and I can't seem to catch my second breath... because of the pressure on my chest. Destructive thoughts are starting to dance around tauntingly in my mind... causing my soul to scream in frustration. I'm hard on myself. Am a perfectionist of sorts and when I don't triumph in some way, shape, or form... I become self contained. ... And it's maddening. It's masochistic, because I take solace in being withdrawn... Ugh and I'm effing sick of being sullen! I do realize that people live lives that're far worse than my own... but narcissism and self absorbency has dictated that I am entitled to feel this way! I have a right to be a sullen, sour woman... but I HATE it!
I've managed to smile through it and roll with the punches. Smile graciously when advised "Oh, you'll get through it. Things will work out." When I really wanna shout, "Fuck off! Easy for YOU to say, you aren't in my shoes!" Even though I know friends and family are just trying to stay optimistic for me. And are worried about me. Uncompromising situations usually roll off my back like hot butter on a biscuit, but I get overwhelmed. I got overwheeeelmed. A couple of days ago upon returning home from the store... I put my bags down in my small (soon to be history) kitchenette. I didn't even remove my coat. I started sobbing from the impact of the onslaught. I smeared meticulously applied black eye-liner and mascara. The tears fell down my face, rested on my lips and mixed with my brownie cream lip gloss. I clenched my fists and avoided another one of those angry moments where I smash things in a blind rage... and then realize what I've done after coming out of that haze of anger... regretting ruining my stuff. I sat down. Money, men, wish washy personalities, not knowing, knowing, intuition, paranoia, the struggle ... sometimes it's too much. I cursed under my breath. And then I picked up the cell phone and called my sister...

November 06, 2007

Résurrection

Picture a moment in space and time where you've become trapped in a stifling box. You suddenly become stagnant and lose your place in the rat race, because you've dropped out. Not willingly. Not without lack of trying to reach the finish line, but from fatigue. You veer off to the side, lungs exhausted, holding your sore sides trying to catch your second wind. You've made your way over to a nearby bench to settle. You settle out of mere necessity and survival and no other reason. Your discontentment breeds resentment, because while you've settled in order to survive, you still find yourself hanging on by the tips of your fingers. You're hanging from a cement ledge, decorated with pigeon droppings (some old and crusted over, some freshly dropped), your feet wildly kicking... a desperate attempt to gain leverage and hoist yourself up. But alas to no avail. You basically just give up and decide to meet the asphalt's acquaintance. Just before you decide to let go, someone stomps on your fingers with a lethal pair of oxfords, forcing your throbbing fingers to slip. You fall. arms flailing wildly in the wind. On your way down you glimpse a blur of faces, watching you fall to your death. You hit the ground. Lying flat on your back. You're stunned. You can't move. First your eyes focus on hulking human forms staring at you from where you've fallen. Smug in the grandeur of their positions. At first you can't move. You lay there... looking up at a sea of genuinely concerned faces staring o'er your crumpled body. Sore and possibly broken, you somehow manage to hoist yourself up. Testing your right arm first. You slowly lift it in the air, grimacing from the pain and effort. Stiff, straight you make a fist with your hand. Slowly but surely, you're able to lift your middle finger in a grand gesture of triumph. You aren't defeated nor are you paralyzed. Your joints seem to work fine. More importantly you've managed to survive the fall. Finger in the air, you watch the hulking silhouettes retreat back inside and away from your moxie. Chagrined. It make take brief period to recover from your fall, but you're still triumphant... because you survived it.
Just saying. Imagine that scenario. That's it.

January 21, 2007

Redux

I was feeling particularly bloated and the waist of my jeans a little tight, today... so I figured I'd re-post one of my favorite blog entries from June 2005.

I'm just a girl... With Heavyweight Curves/ or L'anatomie de convoitise

This morning, I woke from an early bed, rubbing the previous night's fatigue from my eyes. I stood, stretching languorously... stiff joints popping gratefully with each pull. I did my usual yogic postures for morning stiffness. As I raised my arms high above my head, I suddenly stopped... taking a moment to look down at myself. This sudden appreciation for my full-form rushed me like a tidal wave. It came and hit me all at once. I took renewed interest in the span of my hips... wide, round, curvaceous, and full. Hips that can sway slowly, round and about, as hypnotic as a fine dispersion of incense smoke; or as quick as a Brazilian Samba beat. An underappreciated species of hips that've carried young African babes and Zulu nations. Hips that have spawned many bouts of self-love and self-hate. A schizophrenic state of mind that will find me full of confidence one month, and empty with narrow hopes the next. Ana never an option as a friend, however. These hips that whole countries have been known to dote on. A fleshed-out, voluptuous form looked upon as a properous and fortunate one. hips that make men consider infinite possibilties and others with infinitesimal minds, to scoff at the thought. Full, firm breasts that inspire poetry rather than truth, for the truth would force lascivious and inquiring minds to answer questions they would soon not know the answers to. Truth that would cause their faces to burn hot with shame. Thighs... firm from walking miles... thick with luscious waves, strong enough to crush myths of what the female form should look like. Enough strength to lift any paramour to places far and exotic, but with the ability to crush another's ego with ferocity and cunning. My derriere, large and round. Full with the wonder that Italians call Bella Forma! with glee and gusto as they watch it stride down cobble-stoned Sicilian streets. Full of the wondernment that cause Moorish American princes to mutter "damn" as they twist their heads in purient appreciation. For they can fully appreciate it better than any other type of man. I slowly bent down... exhaling... head touching my toes, all the while noting thick calves. Easily defined with the arch of a heel. With the ability to choke the life from any cad who deems it necessary to make me second guess my esteem for myself. Like a former paramour I flung with, who remarked,"You have a sensuous look, some men may be into that, and some might not be." I scoffed at his suggestion, for it was my big secret that kept him coming, and coming, and cumming... Refusing to struggle in my web, because it was his intention to be tangled in it. Prey to the same sensuousness that he then questioned. Certain male types have never been able to discern this particular brand of feminity thus, making them nervous with every orgasmic shudder, as I received them. Me, aloof-with-a hint-of- smug, as I politely bid them farewell at the end of the night. They never forgot me. They don't forget me. Memories built on unspoken words, them realizing that full is not nearly as heavy as an empty mind. My sensuous essence haunts them, like a spicy Moroccan scent, blowing in the Mediterranean breeze. They are shocked that they're enthralled by thick, honey-like feminity, so they backpeddal like a sinner ... just saved mere moments before. These are the men who are weak and cowardly... and so they go forgotten... never to be looked upon with regard. Looked at with disdain for their perpetuation of emaciated trophies. Inhaling, I slowly come up from my toes. I touched a full, shapely belly. Ripe with soft secrets. Discovered only via seances and gentle prodding from an admiring lover. Lust ridden and wanting to taste nectar from a peach, ripe with juices as moist as a humid, summer rain. Only real Men need apply. Start the chase with ravenous flirts. Woo with high regard and appreciation for Bella Forma. I may just let you make it to the finish line.