Please note: This post, and the post it links to, discusses my personal sexuality and sexual practices -- not at great length, but in a certain amount of detail. Family members and others who don't want to read about that stuff will probably want to skip this post.
I have a new piece up on the Blowfish Blog. It's about the eroticism of the Olympics, and the astonishing variety of beautiful forms that the bodies of top-level athletes come in... a variety that, in and of itself, I find erotic. It's called The Eroticism of the Olympics, and the Inherent Hotness of Variety, and here's the teaser:
It’s all too common in our culture to mistake athleticism for body fascism. “Physically fit” is too often used as a euphemism for “approaching a single ideal of perfection that all bodies are supposed to aspire to.” I’ve fallen into that trap myself: I’ve definitely felt lumpy and out of place at the gym as a chubby middle-aged lady in a weight room full of Venuses and Adonises. (It doesn’t help that I work out at a university gym, populated largely by grad students in their twenties.)
But watching the Olympics is a lovely, sexy reminder that even top-level physical fitness comes in a delightful variety of forms.
To find out more, read the rest of the post. Enjoy!