Category: Sinful Sunday

It’s easy to give away a part of yourself.

It’s easy to show people your better side.

It’s easy to let them halfway in.

This is a story that starts with a black shirt. Black shirts can, as Maria Sibylla diplomatically put it, veer into “Johnny Cash territory.” In fact, I tend to avoid black as a colour full-stop – or rather, socks aside, I use it judiciously: a fucking sexy Ted Baker jumper, and a tatty old one from Ben Sherman, retained only for its sentimental value (ahem, ex-girlfriend, ahem); sports wear, though not always out of choice; work shoes.

And then there’s the shirt. It’s sartorial Marmite, like my fuchsia trousers, my Versace (for H&M) boxers, and my blue velvet shoes. Yes, really – I went there. Some people love all of those, while others just think I look like a dick…and I’m fine with both of those viewpoints. It’s a long time since I really cared about what other people think of my clothes – or rather, it’s a long time since I let the negative opinions bother me. As long as I like something, I’m happy, and if other people think it looks good too, that’s a bonus.

So the shirt went online, and was swiftly followed by a description of my full outfit that day. It was only when I went to the bathroom shortly afterwards to take this photo that I realised the underwear I had on was in serious need of replacement. Luckily, Twitter was on hand to help. One particular suggestion resonated, mainly because it felt like it brought the whole discussion full-circle – black boxers rarely appeal, but as soon as @ferns__ tweeted this link, I was taken with the idea of buying a pair.

And so I did.

What do you think?

(See below for other photos from this set)

Two fantastic anonymous submissions this week, very different in tone but both celebrating the joy that sex toys can bring to our lives, from the basic physical pleasure they provide, through to the ability they have to shape or enhance our sexual identity. Many thanks to the two people responsible, for their willingness to share them here.

Sweet Spot

For me, androgyny is the sweet spot between masculine and feminine. I’ve always thought androgyny was beautiful, but it was some time before I became comfortable playing with it. The first time I wore a strap-on, I felt like an idiot. I was too insecure and sexually inexperienced to embrace having a cock. Now I love the sweet spot. I love the surge of hyper-femininity I feel when I slip into a harness and the low, steady hum what I can only describe as masculine sexual energy that accompanies it. It isn’t something I indulge in very often, but playing in the sweet spot is a tremendous treat.

Untitled

Fickle pleasure, sometimes it comes so naturally, other times it’s just out of reach…

What to do when surrounded by mountains, snow, clear blue skies, generally stunning scenery, and, crucially, no people? Why, strip off and make a snow angel, of course!

…even if it does leave you looking you’ve just enjoyed a good spanking afterwards…

Last Friday, I bought new jeans. I’m a creature of habit when it comes to what I regard as functional items (shampoo, toothpaste, denim…), and I’ve worn the same jeans – brand and size – since I was in my early 20s. I find that continuity comforting, but it also serves a practical purpose: it’s what I use to track my weight.

As a man, I’m not under significant external/social pressure to maintain (or attain) a svelte physique. I don’t own a set of scales, and “Have you lost weight?” is a question that only my mother asks me; even then I suspect it’s pre-emptive justification of the fact that she’s about to force-feed me the contents of her fridge. I could tell you roughly what I weigh, but it’s not one of those numbers that stays burned into my brain, and as long as I can squeeze into my new jeans each year, with their 34″ waist, I doubt that will change.

That said, I’m still as vain and insecure as the next man. I suck in my stomach for photos, and avoid mirrors that give me even the hint of a double chin. I worry about my lack of chest muscle, my skinny arms, and my chubby cheeks. Like a lot of people, I find it much easier to be body-positive about others than about myself – it’s a tragic irony of modern life that most of us don’t even see the ‘flaws’ that our friends and partners obsess over, yet can’t help but apply that same forensic, critical focus to what we perceive as our own physical deficiencies.

Back in September, I wrote about feeling fat and lazy at the start of a new hockey season. Last Saturday, the season finished. Hockey has little impact on the bits of my body that make me feel uncomfortable: it doesn’t fill out my chest, or give me bigger biceps, and while playing/training twice a week may take some of the chubbiness out of my cheeks, the food and booze I consume the rest of the time quickly puts it right back in them.

On the other hand, as well as being immensely enjoyable (which should always be the #1 reason for doing sport), hockey helps to tone my body in ways that do make me happy and more confident. By the end of March, my legs and arse feel strong, and while my back may ache more than it does after a long, relaxing summer, the muscles around my core are pretty taut and solid.

I was thinking about that the other day, after taking pictures for this next week’s Sinful Sunday. As I scrolled through the camera reel afterwards, one photo in particular caught my eye. It’s not a staged shot: it was snapped casually as I scampered down a snowy slope, and under other circumstances I might just have deleted it. Right now though, after a long, gruelling season, and in a week when body image has been at the front of my mind, I keep coming back to it. I feel like it captures some of the things about my body that I am pleased with; and which look different – better – after six months of playing hockey twice a week.

Looking at that photo makes me feel happy: partly because I remember how exuberant and energised I felt when it was taken, but also because I see in it something about myself that I like.

I have a huge amount of admiration for anyone willing to show off the parts of themselves – physical and emotional – that they dislike, or feel insecure about. It takes a lot of guts, and one of the best things about the Sinful Sunday project is that people feel empowered to take that leap, in the knowledge that they’ll be offered support and encouragement, rather than abuse or ridicule.

Exposing myself in that way is still something I struggle with; I might not worry about my weight, but my overall body image is still complex enough that I find it easier to focus on the bits that I’m ok with.

There’s room for both, I think, and in the end that’s the key to Sinful Sunday’s general body positivity: it accepts both equally, without judgement. The people who dismiss it as a playground for narcissists and perverts are just as wrong as those who see in it the exploitation of the vulnerable and insecure. Instead, it’s a place to explore whatever side of your sexuality – and body image – that you find interesting, whether that comes from a happy, confident place, or a more conflicted one.

I’m typing this with a raging hangover after my hockey club’s annual dinner/dance, so I’m going to keep it brief! This month’s two anonymous submissions are very different in tone, but share a common theme of empowerment: both see the body as something to be enjoyed, and each – in her own way – is taking charge of how they do that with these photo posts.