Feb 02

Therapy Thursday

Dear Birdman: I don’t know if you can help me or not, but I have a little problem with vomiting in bed. It’s almost as if it’s not worth a trip to the washroom, just to be able to puke in a dirty toilet. I should let you know that I’m a bit of a boozehound, and this always happens after a couple of snoot fulls of red wine. I’m wondering if maybe it’s the brands that I’m choosing, or maybe it’s because I eat too much while I’m drinking? I have heard that you know a lot of things about a lot of things, so I figured I’d give you a try. My counselors only ever offer to help me quit drinking, even though I’ve tried explaining that it was always food coming up, and that we need to get to the root of the problem. One time it was a half digested hamburger that I woke up with; it wasn’t half digested wine. Anyhow, if you can help me figure this out, I would really appreciate it, I really don’t want to give up the vino.

Tossing Tess

Dear Tess: Your counselors are idiots. If you love to drink wine, you should drink as much as it takes to make you feel happy, pretty, smart, etc… I have a surefire way for you to be able to enjoy all of the wine you want, and never have a mess in your bed.

What I did, when I was on my own, was to get an Exacto knife, a five gallon pail, and a pair of bolt cutters, and cut out a 12″ diameter hole in the mattress. You need to go all the way through it and most of the box spring. It takes a while, depending on the coil and spring situation. After that, you slip the pail into the hole, and rim it with a towel for padding. Then you only have to go to bed and pass out with your mouth over the lip of the bucket, and let ‘er rip.

Another nice thing is that if you need to have a dump or a piss, you never have to leave the bed. Five gallons is a good size too, because you only have to empty it around once a month, they’re easy to clean, and you can pick them up free at most restaurants, or mechanic shops.

Dear Birdman,

You are a degenerate.  It’s a good thing I knew nothing of this side of your personality before I agreed to marry you.  Ah, who am I kidding?  Like I could turn down 1.30 cts of diamondy goodness, and all the sex I can handle.

I love you despite your shortcomings,

Mrs. B.

Now…onto the real topic at hand:

Dear Tess,

I don’t want to state the glaringly obvious, but I’m afraid you may have a problem here.  It ain’t natural to puke in ones bed.  No member of the animal kingdom willingly fouls their own bed if they have a choice.   Just to play devil’s advocate, let’s just suppose for a second that EVERYONE threw up in their beds after a night of carousing.   If everyone did it regularly, no one would mind if they woke up covered in the contents of someone else’s stomach.  Unfortunately for you, this isn’t the case.

You see, if you get a reputation as a friend who is too damn lazy to get up and run to the john when you feel a rumble in the jungle, you will find yourself with fewer and fewer offers to spend time in the homes of others.  Also, gentlemen callers might be leery of sharing a night of fun with you for fear of wearing more than just your DNA the next day.  (As an aside, may I strongly suggest you stay away from hotdogs before a night of drinking…the smell of half-digested wieners alone is enough to gag a maggot).

I am going to share a story with you, Tess.  It may or may not be true.  One time back in university, after an evening of molson poker, I found myself sharing a twin bed with a tall, dark and mildly attractive fellow. (Strictly platonic, I swear it).

He also spent the night playing molson poker, and I found out shortly after we fell asleep that he wasn’t one to hold his liquor.  It’s true, Tess.  He threw up.  In the bed.  On my head.  Not good, Tess.  Things didn’t go well after that, and our friendship surely suffered from that night of mixing too many different kinds of booze.  It’s a cautionary tale, Tess, and one that I believe can help you out.  Keep a bloody garbage can by your bed, and USE IT.  That is all.  I have no further advice.  I need to go gargle…

I get knocked down, but I get up again,

Mrs. B.


 And one from the Abby archives

DEAR ABBY (and Birdman): I am a bachelor in my early 30s. I don’t share an apartment with a female because of my high moral standards, and I am not yet ready for marriage.
When I used to share an apartment with another bachelor, people assumed that we were gay. I now have a very nice place of my own. However, if I have bachelor friends over, I am still perceived as being gay. And if I entertain a female friend, people say I am bisexual. (I just can’t seem to win!) Why is it that a single man cannot have friends over for a simple card game or to watch TV without people thinking there’s something sexual going on? I am straight, and I am sick of all this ugly talk. What can I do to stop this vicious gossip?



Joe: I guess that you probably should just suck a big dick, or grab lunch at the “Y”, and get it over with, . It’s okay to live with a woman out of wedlock, the same as it’s okay to be gay, and it won’t affect your “high moral standards” either. Being married doesn’t change how you feel about the person you’re with, be it a heterosexual, or a gay union. It’s all love baby, and it is not immoral, unethical, or “ugly”. There is no shame in choking down the love of another man, no matter what your bible says. Leviticus is dead, and his words should have died with him. If people start implying that you are gay, do what I do and go with it. It’s either that, or you could admit to yourself that you’re a homosexual, which will make it easier to admit it to your pickle-up-the-ass parents, and the members of their church. Once all of that has been put out in the open, you can take your high moral standards and shove them up your tight pink asshole. They won’t be much help in getting your prostate milked, but if you position them just right, they will gently scrub your colon clean. This will make it more comfortable for you to sit on your high horse or to go fuck yourself.

…and here’s what Dear Abby said

DEAR JOE: Unless you can be certain who is behind these allegations, and prove that their ugly accusations have “damaged” you — there is nothing you can do other than to ignore it. Those who know you already know the truth. And anyone who would base an opinion on unfounded rumors is not someone you would want as a friend.

(Way to keep it real Abby, you fucking cooze )

Jan 28

One Messed Up Night

A good friend asked me to recount a night in the 90’s when a horrible thing happened to some friends of ours. I’m not going to put in any names of the people in the accident, because of the circumstances, but it’s still a story and I’ll try to remember what I can of it. This story isn’t intended to lay blame, but to try and drive home how stupid and thoughtless it is to drink and drive, or allow someone else to.

I can’t really remember how old I was, but I’m guessing at eighteen or nineteen, because of the car I was driving, and the crowd I was out with. My buddy Steve and I went out to a pit party at the Centreton sand dunes. I wasn’t drinking, but Steve had had a couple, and it was starting to get out of hand around there. There was one rich kid that was trying to burn his quad, because he was drunk, and an ***hole. A bunch of others were just getting stupid. I guess it was because they were all younger than us, so we decided to take off, and head for Harwood. As we were getting our proverbial “sh**” together, we noticed some really good friends were leaving too, so we stopped to chat. I noticed that the girl driving was pretty wasted, so I tried to talk her out of leaving, and we tried to get everyone out of the van. The driver told me that someone else was going to drive (I think it was her brother or something like that), and that they really weren’t leaving right yet, so I asked my friends to please not go with her, and I’d give them a ride. They said that they wouldn’t, and I left it at that.

I know my mother is against it

I got in the car and started to drive Steve and I home. We were just driving along, shooting the shit, and we had made it to the Centreton Rd. – Hwy 45 intersection when we turned right and started to go north. There had been headlights coming up behind us pretty fast when we got there, and I wondered if it was the OPP, so I was looking in the rearview to see if they had turned the corner. Steve was looking in the side mirror when all of a sudden the lights were spinning through the air, and whipping all around. We realized that someone hadn’t seen the stop sign in time, and had rolled across the highway.

We turned around fast, and went back there to find the girl’s van on it’s wheels, and one of our friends strapped into the passenger seat. She was frantic, and trying to get her seatbelt off and open her door. We tried to calm her down and find out where the other two were, because there was no one else in the van. She was hysterical, and rightly so. I asked her to please go across the road to the restaurant, and call 911 to get the ambulance there as soon as possible. We heard moaning coming from under the van, and looked in to find our other friend pinned underneath. The axle was on her head or neck, and she was not in good shape. She started screaming about the pain from the van being on her. Somehow we lifted the van up, and got her out from under it. I don’t remember who had stopped to help, but I’m sure that Steve and I didn’t lift the van, and pull her out all by ourselves. Her neck was in bad shape, so I got Steve to stay with her and keep her calm and lying still, and I went to the other side of the van to see what had happened to the driver.

She was a little way from the van, and was conscious, but seemed incoherent. I went over to her and tried to talk to her, but then she started to freak out. I noticed that she had what looked like a hole in her head, and she was banged up pretty bad. I guess she was thrown about fifteen or twenty feet from the van, so you can imagine there was some bruising and swelling. I got her to settle down, and held her head until the Baltimore Fire Department arrived and took over. I was just trying to keep her calm by stroking her hair and talking to her, because you could see the terror in her eyes. When the firemen came, and then the ambulance, I was relieved beyond measure. I was so scared that one of them was going to die, and there would be nothing we could do about it.

Have you noticed there are no groups that are FOR drinking and driving

I’m sure it was much worse than I remember, and I imagine I’m leaving out a bunch of my own freaking out and not knowing what to do, but it was at least twenty years ago, and I really had a hard time recalling the events. I think it’s been at least ten years since I’ve even thought about it, so when Rachel brought it up last night, I started to think about how I could tell a story that I maybe don’t remember as well as I should. I then thought that it was worth trying to remember, because of the fact that the driver had been drinking, as were the passengers. All of them were begged not to go, and had assured us that they wouldn’t, but did anyway. I was pissed about that for years, but looking back, I’m now very angry with myself for allowing that to happen. I should have taken the keys from that girl, and made them find another way home, or get in with us, and I’d drive them to where they were going. Because of my poor judgement, my friends were very nearly killed that night. Luckily they were all given second chances.

I urge all of you, no matter what your age, size or gender is, to do whatever you can to get the keys from someone who’s drinking, and don’t ever trust a drunk person to do what’s right. If they tell you they aren’t driving, then they shouldn’t have a problem giving you their keys for safe keeping. If they won’t, then wrestle them away from them, trick them, or knock them the f**k out, but get the keys from them. You won’t be able to live with the remorse if you don’t and something terrible happens. Remember that  just because my friends and I got a second chance, doesn’t mean everyone else will too. I’ve felt horrible rethinking that night, and trying to remember my actions, but I’m thankful to Rachel for reminding me about it, and ultimately changing my perspective on who’s responsible for who’s life.

I think we are all responsible for each other when someone isn’t able to think for themselves. Alcohol affects our judgement, and I’m not saying we shouldn’t enjoy it, I’m just saying we aren’t always thinking straight when we do, so if you see a friend in trouble, help them out. They will thank you the next day, even though they will call you a no good so and so that night. I’d rather be a so and so that gets to hang out with my friends the next day, and I don’t mean going over to put peroxide in the pinholes that her halo put in her scalp and skull. I have done that once, and as crappy of a job as it is, it’s better than her not being here to do it for.

And when your brother is troubled, you’ve gotta reach out your hand for him, ’cause that’s what it’s there for,


Jan 26

Therapy Thursday

(Editors note: I don’t even know where to begin with this, but in the interest of free speech, all things lurid ,and the fact that we are all adults here, I’m posting it.)

So I know it’s Friday the 13th and I missed Therapy Thursday but I have a question and really need to know if I am the only one that feels this… So every morning I go through my regular routine, shower, kids up and dressed for school, lunches made, send them on their merry way then usually head to the washroom for my 5 minute read on the throne! So here it is…as I sit there and my sphincter starts to pucker I can’t help but want to slow the process down as it is almost orgasmic! Yes, the odd night of anal sex with my man is much better but sometimes just taking my morning crap makes my day! I know we all have different erogenous zones this not being my only one but for sure is one of my top 3!

So tell me, am I the only one that feels this…or am I the only one that admits it? I await your rebutthole, I mean rebuttal or response.

Miss Hankey

Dear Miss Hankey: Thank you for the renewed interest in Therapy Thursday. It is one of my favourite parts of writing this blog,and I’m happy for any chance to answer reader’s questions, but I wonder who this question is directed at?

If it’s me, then I don’t share your affinity for a nice, slow bout with the loo, but I have spent plenty of time there. If I had my druthers, I’d like to get that job over with as soon as possible, because it doesn’t take long for my legs to go to sleep. I also have hung rats that felt like a softball coming out, and it felt great, but only because it was finally done and over with. What pisses me off is that I’ll have a look, expecting to see a bloody cantaloupe, and there is nothing bigger than a roll of loonies. WTF? Why did that turd hurt more than slowly crushing your hand in a vise? I almost want to pick it up, just to see if there was a fork in it, or maybe some deck screws that I accidentally swallowed. I guess I’m a wimp when it comes to the ass, but it’s something that I never seem to get used to.

Now, the big thing here is to not feel any shame, and to know that it’s completely natural to want to explore the pleasurable options available to you. I will tell you what I think you should do; it of course doesn’t mean you have to do this, it’s merely my suggestion.

You should spend less time on the shitter, and more time having anal sex. I know that your man will get bored of having it with you every day, and when that time comes, you call me. I figure that he and I can alternate days for a while, and if one of us needs a few days off to heal, I know a few guys that could fill in. Now don’t get all freaked out because you are nervous around new people, or because I’m getting married soon, to the sweetest, most beautiful person I know. She would totally understand, and support me, because she understands how much my readers mean to me. I’m not saying she would join in or anything, but if we explain how it would relax you, she might rub your back or something, and perhaps give me drinks of water. Let me know how that sounds to you, because I’m pretty negotiable when it comes to anal sex helping someone out.

Now if you’re asking the readers, I guess they’ll have to comment themselves.

Stroke it Clarence Carter, but don’t you stroke so fast,


OH HELL NO!!! I’m not even touching this one.

Mrs. B


Birdman answers a dear Abby from 1995

DEAR ABBY: It has been said that you don’t really know people until you’ve lived with them, but that’s like putting the cart before the horse.

The process of dating is for the purpose of getting to know a person. It is a time for sharing likes and dislikes, beliefs, habits and faults, as well as good characteristics.

Each situation, whether a dinner date, movie date, sporting event, picnic, church service, a game of cards, a day at the beach or amusement park, cooking together, presents a different “atmosphere.”

The longer the relationship endures, the more opportunities to detect characteristics of honesty (or dishonesty), jealousy, possessiveness, tenderness, cruelty, etc.

All of this can be done without a sexual relationship.

When and if both parties arrive at the conclusion that this is a lasting love — not lust or infatuation — then a marriage commitment can be made.

I do not want someone’s rejected lover after they have lived together — and then discovered it was no good. —


Dear WE’RE WAITING: You are losers. Not because you’re wanting to get to know each other, but because you are not going to know if that dude is going to be able to get you off, or even if he wants to. You both need your heads examined, but at least you don’t need your crotches examined. Nothing there but moss and cobwebs.

You say you want to share each others likes and dislikes, but sex has to fall into one of those categories, you fucking imbeciles. That’ll be a great time to find out about his sexual deviancy, after you’re married!

“Oh honey, I’m so happy to finally be married to you; this is going to be the best night of my life. Oh, and you might want to bite down on this stick. You’re going to feel a bit of a pinch, followed by a tightness in your abdomen, but I don’t want you to bite your tongue off when I truss you up. I love you so much.”

Nope, that’s the path to ruin right there, and after waiting that long, you can’t divorce him, so looks like you live your life in the bed that you made, oh and also in the bed of ropes that he made up in the basement for you.

Now here’s Dear Abby’s response

DEAR WAITING: Congratulations. Obviously, the more exposure, the better the opportunity to observe the potential mate. I am reminded of the old saying, “If you want to know how a man will treat his wife, take careful notice of how he treats his mother and his sister.” And the same can be said about women and how they treat the men in their lives.

 Whatever, you uppity bitch.

Wake up little Suzy, wake up,



Jan 12

I’m just too tired and unfocused

I’m not doing too much right now. I had a hot bath, and fell asleep in it. Now I’m going to put my wrinkly ass to bed. I’m going to copy and paste one of my favourite Therapy Thursday posts though. Damn I miss those days. Night everyone. I love you.


Yo Birdman

I have a private question for your advice column. I take it from your blog you are a smoker so here goes…. The guy I was goin to for years is out of the business. I’m looking for someone in the area who can hook me up from time to time. I’m hoping you know someone I might be able to meet. I’m dying here if you could help me out at all I’d really appreciate it.. Thanks Birdman.

Dry and Grounded

Dear Dry and Grounded,

I take it from your demeanor that you have glaucoma or anxiety, and are legally allowed to use marijuana for medical reasons, so I will answer your question.

First of all, I am unable to use marijuana, because of possible drug testing for work, so I am not in anyway an expert on finding a disreputable dispenser of cannabis or it’s derivatives.

That said, I can tell you about a fellow that deals only in the finest medical-grade herbal medicine available. If you go and hang out in front of the mall after 4pm, you will see a guy in a checkered coat. Mention in passing, that the weather is hard on your joints, nerves, eyes or whatever and he will make a call. Don’t ask questions, and don’t stare at his goiter, just get in the black A-Team style van that pulls up. Remember, don’t stare at his goiter.

When you get the things you need, you should head to the Intergalactic Trading Company at 410 1/2 George St N, Peterborough ON, K9H 3R5 (705)-749-3070 and grab yourself a pipe, or a vaporizer for ummmmm, incense.

Enjoy the rest of your day,





Now, hold the phone, Dry, if that is indeed your ‘real’ name.  I suspect you realize that MaryJane is neither lawful or recommended under current Canadian law.  I haven’t checked lately, but the last time I heard of someone firing up a spliff in public, there were handcuffs involved.   The police pooh-pooh the use of illegal narcotics in this province, and in all the others too, I suppose.

In the immortal words of Mr. Garrison:


However, in the event that my stern warning falls on deaf ears, I want to share a cautionary tale with you.

Once upon a time, there was a young man who loved to curl up with a big gagger and relax on his days off.   One terrible day, he realized that his supplies were getting dangerously low, due to the fact that his rat-faced roommate had been dipping into his secret stash on the sly.

That very day, the young man set out on an epic journey to find some sweet, sweet green.  He met with blank stares and apathy, until one kind soul pointed him to the very gentleman outside the mall with the goiter and the shifty eyes.  After making the required small talk, the black van appeared, and he was unceremoniously shoved into it’s waiting cargo area.

Three days later he awoke in a bathtub filled with ice, and down one kidney.

“Hey…I was USING that!”


All I can say is that if I ever need a kidney, the Birdman is all tapped out.  I think you know what I am getting at here.  At least SOMEONE should learn from the Birdman’s mistake.

Smoke ’em if you got ’em,

Mrs. Birdman

Nov 27

The Naked Truth

or Why I Go Crazy When You Grab The Covers


When I read yesterdays blog post, I was reminded again of what an incredible man I am going to marry.  I wonder how I got so lucky to find someone who loves me this much, and who never lets an opportunity go by to remind me of that.

I also read the comments with great interest.  Gadget and Scotty P have raised some interesting questions.  I started to think about why women behave the way they do when it comes to being naked and sharing our bodies with our partners.  It’s no great secret that not too many of us are strutting our stuff regularly in our homes, regardless of the time of day or the amount of light directly or indirectly hitting our naked selves.  The truth is, we don’t like being naked.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  We like being naked…we just don’t like you to see it.

This leads us to the obvious question of: Why?

What has turned us in to an army of cover-clutching, darkness-loving paramours?  We can revel in our bodies and our pleasure, but only if we are completely shrouded in blackness and your eyes have been gouged out.  Men, being the somewhat straight-thinking creatures they are, seem baffled by our bizarre behaviour.  They don’t understand that they are fighting a lifetime of not-so-mixed messages telling us that we are not achieving the ideal image of what a man wants to see in his bed.

It starts early on, in the toys we play with, and the shows we watch.  Barbie had a waist so tiny, and breasts so large, it would be nearly impossible for her to walk upright if she was a real woman.  As we grew up, we watched shows with lead characters with perfect, thin bodies, and clear, smooth skin.  Girls whose biggest problem was which boy would take her to the school dance.  Meanwhile back in reality, most of us were spending the 7 long minutes of ‘Stairway To Heaven’ holding up the gymnasium wall, diverting eye-contact and watching the early-bloomers getting hastily felt up on the dance floor.

We are assaulted daily with images of perfection from every corner, and we have been all of our lives.  Nearly all of the images we see in the media portray the very small minority of women who have the ‘ideal’ proportions.  According to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, the average U.S. woman is 5’4″ and weighs 152 pounds.   The average working model is 5′ 10″ tall and weighs no more than 115lbs.   You do the math.  Someone has been fucking with our heads, and in the process, has sold us a boatload of garbage.

This got me thinking:  Why do we hate ourselves so damn much?

I have an incredible group of friends.   All of them are beautiful, interesting and intelligent.  I say that without exception, by the way.  Each of them has gifts and talents that impress me and make me proud to know them.  And ALL of them fight with similar feelings of body shame.   I wanted to get some more opinions on the subject, so I sent many of them a message asking them to share their thoughts on the subjects.  Every one of them that sent me a reply did so without the veil of anonymity.  I am assigning random initials to protect their identity, but here are some of their replies:


“When i look in the mirror, I truly hate what I see.  I see the rolls, lumps, cellulite that have accumulated since the birth of my child, and honestly, before that even.  I can’t imagine how anyone would find that acceptable, let alone attractive.  It physically repulses me to look at my naked body.”  ~E.E


“As someone who is transgender, body image is huge for me. It feels like I have parts I shouldn’t and parts I should have. My mind doesn’t match my body. And I know, from talking to other women, this is a common thing among all women. Not just transgendered. I am not ashamed of how my body looks. It just doesn’t match what I see in my head. I think the media is to blame for how women view themselves. A small percentage of women are held up to the world as the “norm.” When in reality, most women are, excuse my language, plus size. We as women need to ignore what the media tells. As long we are healthy and happy, what difference does it make how we look? ” ~V.A

“I know I’m not the smallest chick out there and I am a mother so yes, I have some battle scars.  I have lots of friends, so I assume I’m a likeable person. It must be my body. It must be the way I look.  All of my friends are either fit or just naturally thin, and they complain all the time about the parts of their body they hate.   I wonder, if that’s how they feel about themselves, then they must think I’m one step short of having handlers. Compared to them, I’m the size of a Macy’s parade float! “ E.L

“Media. Be it- in print, or on the big screen.. Porn included.. For this I am affected. The typically man-pleasing porn often has “girls” and I mean girls that haven’t been blessed with child bearing hips, stretch marks and or c-section scars. This, when used for arousal, makes me feel somewhat inferior, as my breasts have not been inflated to work as a chin rest, nor can you count my ribs. However I am healthy.  I work on my eating and exercise choices every day. The fact that men often resort to pleasing themselves with porn, or just using it as a means of warming up, makes me feel as though,  “Okay…if that’s turning your crank, what in the world could you see in my curves, natural breasts and my collection of cellulite?” ~T.W.


I saw from their replies that I was not alone in my own struggle with poor body image.  Every one of us has been raised in a different set of circumstances, and yet we all emerged into adulthood with the same general mindset:  “My body is not good enough”.  How incredibly sad is that?

Even the media that claims it is trying to change the terrible body image women have isn’t doing much better.

Really? *THIS* is average?

The women pictured have perfect proportions.  There isn’t any visible cellulite and their skin is as smooth and inviting as any other fashion magazine model.  Yes, they are physically heavier, but their proportions are perfection, and they also do not represent the ‘average’ woman.  Even in trying to set the standard back to something more realistic, the result only further reinforces the ideal that my body, and most of the bodies of my friends, are not ‘up to snuff’ in the eyes of the collective public.

Luckily something magical happens in a woman’s life when she gets a bit older.  She just stops giving a fuck.


You tell ’em, Julie…

It’s true…we really start to get it later in life.  After spending a lifetime thinking that everyone else hates us as much as we do, we start to realize that we aren’t that bad.  I’m not saying it’s an overnight transformation, but it happens.  It starts slow.  Maybe the soft lights get left on at bedtime, just to test the waters.  If our mate doesn’t throw up at the sight of us, it’s a good sign.  Maybe the things he’s been saying all these years might actually be true.

It has taken the unconditional love of another human being to help me start to see that much of my own problem with body image is largely ridiculous.  It’s true that I love him with all of my heart, and every inch of him is dear to me.  There is not one part of his body that I find repulsive or unattractive, so why should it be any different for him?  I believe it is best said in the reply I received from one of my longest friends :

“Really, i think its WE women who make it something separate. Why should foreplay and sex be any different than holding hands in the car or hugging one another fully clothed?  It’s an expression of love. When he holds my hand in the car I don’t wonder if he thinks my fingers are too chubby or too bony, or if my nails are too long or too short or ugly without polish.  I don’t wonder if he is judging the dryness or texture of my hand… I don’t THINK about it!   I don’t analyze it!!! I just enjoy that he likes holding my hand.  I enjoy the masculine-ness of his hands and the sense of comfort, security, and being loved that comes with him reaching over to hold my hand, even on short drives, even after 22 years together. SO, why on earth should I feel ANY different about sex, foreplay or after play?  I’m the same woman in the same body when I’m having sexual relations as when I’m in the car feeling so securely loved because my husband holds my hand. ”  

So here’s the deal, boys.

Maybe your girl is still hiding in a shroud of covers at bedtime.  Maybe you are still trying to convince her that what you see is as beautiful as you can imagine.  Be patient, and keep it up.  Only time, trust and tenderness will help her undo a lifetime of messages that have been making her feel less than perfect.  What she wants is to be the most beautiful woman you have ever held.  If you keep reminding her that she is, you will be paving over a road of insecurity with love and reassurance.  Beauty is in our hearts and our minds as much as it is in our physical bodies.  When love and trust mate, beautiful things can happen.

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.       

(excerpt from ‘Phenomenal Woman’ by Maya Angelou)

It might seem as if women need to be hand-held and coddled like a child in this respect.  Unfortunately that is the case.  The strong, independent career woman you know and love, who can handle a full time job, children, the responsibilities of home and still manage to be ready to hit the sheets after a long day, has a huge achilles heel.   She is afraid if you get a good look at her naked body, you will laugh, tease or even leave for someone ‘better’.   We have come a long way, baby.  By being a nurturing, loving partner in the bedroom, you can help us soar to heights we never dreamed of emotionally, as well as sexually.

Just grab a hold of my body and mind,

Mrs. B