I want to rip my tits off.
February 8, 2023
I want to rip my tits off.
You know, before all this – this occupation of my body by a moist, hot, growing blob – I HAD PERFECT TITS.
I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t say that. Shouldn't measure breasts on some arbitrary scale of goodness.
But mine? They were a soft hearty handful of chamomile flowers. Buoyant enough to never need a bra. But lustrous enough to invoke fantasies of milky, fragrant, soothing bounty.
I mean, I used to go to play parties and offer my bosom to anyone who needed a good nuzzle or suckle. I’d pet their brow and tell them they a were suuuuch a good little bay-beee. Yes, ‘twas informal (insanely powerful) c-ptsd healing, and I had a kink for dishing it. (Are you surprised??)
But now, the fantasy is dead. Reality killed it.
The reality is: I have a fever under my tits. A fever that has caused a rash. A rash that feels like the worn leather of a sunburnt football to touch. A rash that itches like a yeast infection, except directly over my heart. Which means I’m irritable. Very very irritable.
No. There are no more fantasies of adults as babies sucking my titties.
Seann and I were on a sex roll for a while there. But now the only thing that’s rolling is the anti-itch ointment onto my bumpy blistering chest armpits.
February 10, 2023
The fine folks of the Internet suggested I try cold cabbage leaves under my titties.
I now know God truly does grow in the garden.
In case you’re ever to try this at home, let me give you a detailed play-by-play:
The first time you put a refrigerated cabbage leaf under you tit, you will squeal… loudly. It’s like an isolated cold plunge for all your rashy bits.
About 4.7 seconds after the leafy green goes in, your whole chest starts to sigh relief.
Then, you walk around topless, laughing hysterically at the flapping bits of limp vegetable tucked into your titty-cracks.
This lasts for a good 7 minutes, until you realize, God’s cooling gift from the garden is suddenly… warming.
Your feverish tits are cooking the cabbage.
The scent that was only the faintest hint mere minutes ago, is now growing into the likes of a stew on the stovetop by your old Polish Aunt Elsa.
You take the cabbage out to examine and it looks like it’s been run over by a bicycle a good 7 times. That’s what 7 minutes under your milk-pumping tits can do to man. I mean… a cabbage leaf.
You start the process over again, this time, a little less shocked by the chill, a little less entertained by the hilarity of it all.
You lay down in bed, turn on some Netflix, doze off to sleep. Only to wake with a half-baked casserole between the covers and the sheets.
You toss your leafy greens to the bedside table, slowly shake your head and wonder, what else will I do for this kid?, knowing the list is never-ending, and this… this is just the beginning.
February 13, 2023
I was 7 years old. My was mom drying off after the shower, and I was standing 3 feet tall, flat-chested, with a head full of wily curls, watching her.
I remember a strange specific feeling, as I stared at her naked body. Bewilderment. I was bewildered and a bit frightened by the confluence of blue veins that permeated her 42-year-old, once-upon-a-time milk jugs.
I’d never been exposed to maiden tits in the flesh. And mine hadn’t grown in yet. But instinctively, I knew: my mom’s breasts were worn and used beyond the sexualization of youth.
At that age, I simultaneously feared and longed for her supply.
I’d nuzzle my head into one of her soft pillows on the couch and she’d shout in pain that I was hurting her.
Was that normal? A part of her so lush and fluffy, tormented by a hardened ache?
Back then, I never stopped to consider that I could be the cause of my mom’s hyper-sensational matured lactation pouches. All those pregnancy hormones. All that tugging and sucking, biting and pulling.
I didn’t feel the slightest sense of responsibility in the transfiguration of my mom’s tits. Just a longing and simultaneous tenuousness. Disgust and equal hunger.
Now, as my own once-maiden boobies begin to engorge and droop, veins of blue all over, I wonder what it was like for my mom back then, when everything started to change.
I wonder if she ever put cabbage under her tits. Desperately rubbed them with anti-itch ointment in the middle of the night.
When I ask her, she just says, “It was all so wonderful! I loved every minute!”
And I chuckle about the “mom amnesia” they warm you of; a selective memory where you stock-pile the good and forget all the bad.
Maybe that’s why no one tells you you’ll want to rip your tits off.
But I’m here to say it loud and clear… before the post-birth oxytocin kicks in and I’m love drunk and seduced by the cutest lil nugget on earth:
Pregnancy is the fucking worst.
You’re welcome.
xox,
Rachael
PS – The cabbage works, in case you’re wondering.
PPS – Another thing that works when you wanna go to your next creative edge, is to coven it up with an intimate select group of other temptresses willing to to get brave and naked together.
(I mean naked metaphorically, although if you wanna strip down, clearly I won’t stop you.)
Early Enrollment for the SIREN COVEN is open until the end of February.
How free could you be after 6 months of immersive solidarity, celebration & support around the creative lifeforce that wants to burst through you?
I wanna find out. You?
Read more right here and apply today. Two bonus 1:1s, a potent death/rebirth ritual, $2k off & the best payment plan all apply when you do Early Enrollment. xo