Get A Load of Those Shoulders!

Whether perusing the manosphere or more, uhm, mainstream masculine spaces, a woman might conclude that men are just slaves to women's asses.  Or tits.  Or legs (which are always supposed to "go up to there," wherever "there" is). 

These standard criteria for judging feminine beauty have always troubled me.  In my winsome youth, I was the girl for whom the expression "Such a pretty face...!" was coined.  Seriously, from the neck up?  I was gorgeous.  But, sadly, full-length photos (or mirrors) were never my friends.

Although my face (even pushing sixty) is assessed as "attractive" by a few, and "pleasant" by most, my ass has always been mediocre at best.  My tits, though once bodacious, are well past their expiration date(s) -- although I can still summon formidable cleavage with adequate support.  And as for my legs?  Let's just say that there was a reason I was called "Stumpy" by a few of my crueler grade school peers.* 

What with my calcaneal bone spurs and ever-falling arches, I can no longer even flash what Victorian gents might have wistfully referred to as a "well-turned ankle."

So I hardly need tell you that I was downright thrilled to read on Julian O'Dea's website that there are men out there who are most enthralled by a pair of shapely feminine... shoulders.

Finally!  A category of Feminine Beauty Olympics I can compete in!

Because, folks, I don't mind telling you:  I have awesome shoulders.  First of all, they are rather narrow (which makes fitting clothes, at 200#+, a real bitch).  They are lightly muscled (yes, I can still bench press my own weight), but smooth and plump, with no discernible underlying bony structure.  My skin is flawless, thanks to a life-long scrupulous regime of Jack Daniels, minimal UV exposure & motel room soap.

My exceptionally attractive shoulders compelled me to seek "cold shoulder" fashions long before (and after) this style enjoyed its brief heyday.  My greatest frustration in life is that acceptable professional attire does not include strapless dresses or halter tops.
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* The upside?  "Learning to fall" in ski bunny class was a lead pipe cinch, given my extraordinarily low center of gravity.

Hey Fat Chick!

My only concessions to vanity these days are (1) having my hair professionally colored on a strict monthly regime, and (2) biweekly manicures to maintain my "perfect" acrylic nails.  I blame the cross dressing circle I sometimes hang out with for the latter indulgence.  Their nails always look fabulous:  I know one cross dressing engineer who sprays his press-ons with model enamel and an air gun.  (Their wigs, sadly, are another story.)  For all I poke fun at the cross-dressers, who sometimes represent to me "the worst of both worlds", they have taught me a lot about how to perform my gender.  (And I knew that I had overdone my makeup when I was identified as a cross dresser in a gay bar once.)

It's not that I've become indifferent to fashion.  I love pretty clothes.  It's simply that I enjoy seeing them on other people as much as wearing them myself.  Maybe that's a function of my age.  As we get older, and our youthful beauty inevitably wanes, we turn outward, away from the mirror.  So we take up gardening, painting, photography, and other hobbies that invite us to look beyond ourselves for visual pleasure.

Unless we're Iris Apfel, that is.

When I was younger, it was an ongoing challenge for me to find fashionable clothing that fit, even though I was only a size 16-18 in college.  In high school, it wasn't being fat that held me back socially so much as not having the proper clothes to wear for dances and sports.  As a result, I learned to configure "uniforms" that basically consisted of jerseys and jeans, or black knit pants and blazers that could have doubled as kevlar armor.  I managed to look presentable (albeit a bit matronly), but dressing remained a chore, never a pleasurable means of self-expression.

That's why I find the young "fatshionistas" (of widely varying degrees of girth) on blogs like Hey Fat Chick fun to follow.  Most of their get-ups would not be "age appropriate" for me (i.e., too too short), but sometimes I get ideas about what I could wear, and where I could obtain such items. And I'm always inspired by their gumption, their joyful defiance, their refusal to be repressed, ignored, or "shamed."

A young fat woman nowadays has an array of choices that would have boggled my mind thirty years ago.  (Unfortunately it is also true that unless she lives in a large city, she still must shop primarily online, which requires its own skill set.) And although I am not a "fat apologist" by any means, I celebrate that young women of all sizes can enjoy dressing in ways that exercise their creativity and make them feel good in their own skins. 

What's hot, what's not

Roosh, who believes women exist primarily to provide men with boners, spends a lot of time thinking about which women meet his "boner" specifications and which do not.  Apparently, a woman's capacity to give him an erection on sight is his operational definition of "beauty."   (Asian women don't cause his penis to stir; therefore, they are not beautiful to him, contrary to the experience of millions of men around the world.)  Whenever he has nothing else to tweet, he'll post some random woman's picture with the caption "Would you bang or not?" 

It's caused me to think a bit about my own definitions of beauty and sexual appeal in both sexes.  A woman doesn't have to be bisexual, as I am, to enjoy looking at images of both men and women, of course, or to respond sexually to either gender.

Most of the women Roosh seems to find appealing are what the current "Hollywood" ideal deems "beautiful," and although I agree they meet the popular current criteria of "beauty," they are a bit plastic:  augmented breasts, big hair, lots of artful make up, etc.  I know that is what we are "taught" to like, but it's a shame how popular media divorces us from the beauty and richness of diversity.

I find that, at least for myself, sexual allure is quite a different thing than beauty.  Beauty is often a rather cold and sterile thing: "look but don't touch."  Perfect symmetry of features is cited as the universal standard of beauty, but it isn't interesting.  On the other hand, people who project the most sexual "heat" are often what the French call "jolie-laide" (pretty-ugly). 

Grace Kelly?
or
Anna Magnani?

Alain Delon?
or
Serge Gainsbourg?

I once had a boyfriend that was the essence of jolie-laide in masculine form.  He looked a little like Iggy Pop.  His mouth was too generous, his rugged facial features somewhat crowded on to a narrow face.  He was not handsome, and he was not photogenic..His frame was light and wiry, a combination of strength and delicacy. Although he was dominant sexually, he had slightly effeminate gestures.  He freely copped to the fact that his sexual promiscuity was his compensation for being ignored and bullied as a boy.  Yet, ever the bundle of contradictions, he was supremely self-confident.  I never got tired of looking at him (or fucking him).

I find some fat women incredibly appealing.  I have a serious girl crush on Queen Latifah: her intense, knowing eyes, her warm, authoritative voice.  Also Rebel Wilson (whom I fancy looks a bit like me, back in the day): that combination of soft, blonde prettiness and self-effacing wit is pretty irresistible.  And again, self-confidence.  I found the late Anna Nicole Smith, may she rest in peace, gorgeous -- both fat and thin, made up or natural. 

I am hard pressed to find any person "ugly" in terms of physical appearance.  Some folks are more stereotypically attractive due to symmetry or conformity to fashionable ideals.  Almost anyone who is willing to "work on" themselves can achieve a pleasing or socially acceptable appearance.  Even people who have been born with congenital "deformities" or have been disfigured in accidents can be gorgeous.  The "difference" seems to draw more attention to their physical assets, somehow, and makes them "POP."

Take J.R. Martinez, for example.  Hot and a hero.
or

Bree Walker.  Exquisite face, lovely figure, what a smile.
or

Peter Dinklage.  The eyes, the facial structure, the voice...

I feel sorry for people like Roosh, who have such narrow, rigid, and unimaginative ideas of what beauty is. They miss a lot of opportunities to be pleased and gratified by the endless array of interesting people to look at.  Can they even find the beauty in themselves?