Dear Reader,
I started running after I went to a queer sex party a month ago. Note here: I’m not bragging about running (read: being a runner?) or attending a sex party where people (and myself) have sex in front of each other. Nevertheless, it was more than a nonchalant attendance. It was an intentional ticket, a must-go of the summer season, a space where I would definitely bump into someone I had slept with in a previous life. I was nervous and waxed and couldn’t stop thinking about being undesirable to look at — I wasn’t though. My hair was angel wavy, my swimsuit was 90s modest with an early aughts zip in the center, my waterproof lipstick stayed set on my mouth and cheeks (the face ones). The party was bathhouse themed party so the ease in which my look could have smeared away was high if not for the waterproofing. I was a 10. I would even say a 100. I didn’t feel that walking in but the energy of the evening dissipated my hesitation and self-consciousness, and I became that hot girl to myself. And I felt it in every single move I made.
I just read this last paragraph back. I did not become a runner because I went to a sex party and felt like I had to change my body. I became a runner — trying to, let’s see what happens — because I, in fact, had the most sexy, affirming, hot time even though it was intimidating. I did see people I have been intimate with and mentally said to myself good for them, I hope they’re happy, I hugged friends I hadn’t seen in awhile, I was recognized from my Instagram, I found myself in a very public shower sex scene with my boyfriend, and I left smelling of pool water with the most clear, smooth skin ever — remember bathhouse: steam, pools, hot tubs, saunas. I was naked, I was sexual, I was exposed, I was happy in my body, I was otherworldly, I was movement.
<Back to running>
Running has always always alway terrified me. The idea of my body moving off of itself in public — no, nope, nah. This is not my first plus-size rodeo. I know how people treat others who look like me / people of size / people who have been told to workout, diet, take “ownership” of their body but then ridiculed when movement becomes part of their personal joy. Honestly, I think those people just want to see us in pain, punished for our bodies. They don’t want a happy plus-size person walking from their Pilates class drinking a matcha latte with oat milk (hello, join me if you’re living in NYC). They don’t want to see a plus-size person walking or running or smiling through a downward dog. They want Jillian Michaels and The Biggest Loser and starving — to be pained by our existence while finding our way to a more “acceptable” body. I don’t accept this. I don’t accept this because sex party Laura won’t accept anything other than an enchanting time.
Over the last few years, I’ve taken a big step back from my vulnerable, personal brand. It was, I think, plus-size, sex girly who writes and dates and talks about confidence and takes nude photos and questions sizism, and like, ya coolio dudes! Now I’m: woman who loves to sleep and make pasta and writes but gets nervous about writing and loves to simply exist as a plus-size woman who just wants the same respect and opportunities as everyone else. Throw in some lipstick content in there, and you got me in 2023. I bit more chill, trying to find peace, attempting to forgive myself for being too intense about everything in the past, making an effort to go for happiness and joy and stillness and calm. So here I am with this beautiful, magical sex party experience as a plus-size woman pushing against this intense fear of jogging down the street.
The running dread was filed down dull when I woke up the next morning — again, with the clearest skin I’ll ever have. It was there but less nagging at my brain. Less everyone is going to laugh at you, laugh at how slow you are, call you fat while in motion, jiggly jiggly off your body, strap down your boobs, fatty in my brain. That voice was swimming in a serene hot tub filled with beautiful people wearing harnesses and straps; drowning under lubricant and waterproof lipstick kisses. Running in public is really no match for the intensely erotic experience of being consensually watched.
<side note: This sex party story is mine. Meaning I get to tell it, meaning I don’t get to speak about who else was there, meaning we’re all going to respect each other’s privacy, meaning if you bring up that you heard I was there from someone else, you’re really uncool.>
My legs are always tired now (from running), and that’s fine. I wake up, put on two sports bras (I need a good singular one), put my dog in her harness, and run with my BF in Williamsburg — breathlessly negotiating what trash can or stoplight we will stop at next . . . each time is a further distance and less harrowing. Every time I feel that overwhelming voice or even a judgmental gaze out in the world, I think of me a month ago and how that woman refused to feel anything but hot.
PS. I hesitated to tell this story for a lot of reasons. That voice. She tells me this will make you all judge me or take away my professionalism or have you question my character — then realistically I know that if that’s the case, then unsubscribing is totally your option and I really can’t control how anyone feels about me. This idea of social purity where everyone likes me, this perfectionism or striving to always be in everyone’s good graces. It’s not sustainable or interesting or really even me. So if you’re not into it, go with god or something. I wish you all my love. The idea of being a sugar-free human to not ruffle feathers or to be more profesh is kind of over, right? Didn’t we live through a pandemic? So like, I went to a hot sex party and now I’m a runner.
Love ya,
Laura
Food, Sex, TV, Beauty, Books
best-in-show
🍝 City Sub hero. Literally get anything.
🍑 Long distance doesn’t need to mean zero intimacy. Read here!
📺 The Righteous Gemstones. I thrive off the second-hand embarrassment I feel when Judy does literally anything.
💄 I got really into this brand via IG but got to try some on when I went to Paris. It has this lightweight, soft, chill-flushed quality — like, it almost feels powdery when applied! Bisou Blush by VIOLETTE.
📖 The Duke Heist. I needed an easy, romantic book so my brain could just be silly and joyous for a bit. Bought it at The Ripped Bodice in Park Slope.
Don’t Forget, Don’t Forget, Don’t Forget
Paris & Italy
The lady in leopard.
Uvoa fresche
Crying at breakfast in Taormina.
Petra and Sissi.
Little girl on the paddle board.
Holding onto Lauren at Lido La Caravella.
Ordering prosciutto at the deli in Italian.
First night pâté en croute.
Fondue.
Nude statues.
Granita and brioche.
The perfect vintage blazer.
Barbie-Inspired Sex Toys & Products
Life in plastic. It’s fantastic.
GNAT Glitter Kink has a ton of incredible, size inclusive items! Plus, I love the idea of a glittery harness! This Party Gurl Baby Collar is so very Barbie that I’m like…can I go as Glitter Kink Barbie for Halloween (or parties)?
Le Wand is definitely the Barbie of the wand massager brands. Their Le Wand Petite All That Glimmers Collection in pink is a great travel vibrator for the size and the power it holds. The set also includes a Rainbow Glimmer Nail Polish and Rainbow Glimmer Body Gel — I love girlhood.
Nox Shop has this beautiful IG aesthetic that gives off a perfect Barbieland quality. This Pale Pink Leather Flogger will leave an impact without too much sting — its velvety soft tails are as cute as they are thuddy.
Gabriela Herstik is this incredible writer, witch, badass angel in Los Angeles. Like, pick up any of her books and you will be instantly connected to your inner erotic goddess. Her latest project is on pre-order and will be available 9/26/23: Goddess of Love Tarot: A Book and Deck for Embodying the Erotic Divine Feminine.
For The Next Time We Meet . . .
I really hope you’re thriving. Like truly. I think I’ve been pretend thriving for the last few years and now I am feeling good. I feel a release of ….apprehension? concern? pressure? perfection? minimalism? I mean, I’ll always worry about money and rent and job security and my family and Mona but right now feeling less troubled by whether or not I’m happy. I am happy — like, so much so that when I sit to write I feel dumb talking about how happy I am. And maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I hope you’re feeling dumb and happy.