The Body Pride Effect

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On January 27th comes the one year anniversary of the first Body Pride. I often remind myself of where I was a year ago, tangled in a web of clothing and apprehension amidst a society-induced fear of the harm my own naked self could do. I remember the awe and admiration I had for the women involved in the Bodysex Workshop documentary and how friggin’ ballsy they all were. I remember the continuous narrative going on in my head trying to find out why this was ‘ballsy’, why the connection to my own body why so terrifying that I considered it ‘ballsy’ to allow myself, let alone other people, to see it.

Body Pride is definitely something that challenges you (literally). I cannot remember the amount of nerves I had racing through my body every time I announced to a room that it was the time to undress. But it was within seconds that I was washed over with warmth and love from every person in the room who also stepped forth and allowed themselves to be seen.

It is healing to see each other as we are. I think it is not the confirmation to know that we are ‘good enough’ or ‘bad enough’ but just to have that all encompassing truth that we all exist within each other.

I went to a Winter Solstice in 2010 in a yoga studio in Toronto. There were about 50 women in that room ranging in age from 10 – 60, all wearing white, sitting in a circle. Two things we did that evening remain with me:

1. We all wrote down on a piece of paper the things we could do without from the past year, all the anger we may have had, all the injuries or sickness, all the addictions or reliances we had formed. You could share with the circle if you chose, but you did not need to, as you shared, you walked in a circle within the group and then lit your list on fire and let it disappear.
2. Second was writing a new list, of all the things you wanted to welcome into the new year.

It only struck me recently how similar Body Pride is to this, carrying its own form of ritual. When you release and share all of your fears and inhibitions that remain on the surface of your physical self, they find a home in the center of that circle, along with the confessions of the rest of those within the circle. You know that your fear is other peoples fear, and that your guilt or shame is met with others guilt and shame. And with the acceptance and love and joy that prevails over these stories comes the start of healing.

I was scared, too. To all of the girls brave enough to conjure the courage to say the unsaid. There were many moments when I revealed something I had never told anyone, and I was shaking on the inside about the judgment that was about to be hurled at me… But it never came… And once it was said, I never thought about it again.

But the most important part was the dancing. It’s as if all of the things shared were released from our bodies officially as we shook and swayed and jumped and sung. This was when all of the joy washed over me and I was witness to so many people overcoming a barrier and let themselves fall into all encompassing relief and happiness.

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I think I accidentally stumbled onto a practice that is embedded in our history as women. This urge to get back to the roots of ourselves and our bodies, to wash away the shame and fear and hate that has been written upon our physical selves since we we born and actually take pride in the fact that our bodies are amazing. We are capable of growing life within us. We are capable of withstanding the pain of childbirth (without the aid of medicine and doctors). Our bodies are literally connected to the cycles and rhythms of nature.

I just wanted to share how starting these workshops has effected me in a very real, very intrinsic way. I hope that we can continue to share these incredible bonding experiences with everyone who feels compelled to join us, regardless of gender. The Body Pride movement has unleashed a whole new form of love and connection within me and I am so glad to have been able to share these experiences with all of the men and women who have attended one of our workshops.

Let’s hope this year brings just as much naked awesomeness!

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Few Updates: BP at CAYA and CrushTO Has A New Home!

First of all, I am happy to announce that the first Body Pride in the public sphere was a great success. Having not been there myself, I hear only from my naked whisperers, and all that is invading my ears are the reverberations of birthday-suit joy. For this, I would like to thoroughly thank the staff at Come As You Are for providing us an opportunity to reach more people and influence their perceptions in what small way we can.

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Secondly, after 8 amazing months at The Central, I’d Tap That is happy to announce that we have a new venue located at Club 120. I’d like to send a big shout-out to the Central for all of the memories and awesome times. You allowed us an amazing space to host incredible parties for the better part of a year, and I thank you for that. Each Crush Party I partook in ignited more love and appreciation for the sexy people of Toronto and I am thrilled to see how big our community has grown in the short span that we have throwing flirtacious shindigs.

All that said, we have an amazing evening planned for all of you wondrous beautiful beings and you should most definitely come enjoy a Sex On the Beach with us. January 26th, 10pm.

crush on the beach

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JennaMarbles: Slut Edition

Dear Jenna,

My name is Caitlin Roberts, and I am a slut.

By your definition, I suppose I am a retired slut, but I still hold on dearly to the title.

There have been many enlightening responses to your latest video regarding your confusion about the choices sluts make. Laci Green and Haley G Hoover have put together very informative monologues (if you haven’t watched them, I recommend you do, they both still love you).

Alas, as I am letting it be known to the entire internet world through this blog, I am a slut. A very happy and contented slut. So it feels only appropriate that a slut respond to your curiosities.

I started my slut-hood at a young age, some would say. Which came with its own set of problems, much similar to the ones you mentioned in your videos. I had low self-esteem as a teenager in regards to my physical appearance and would often make imbalanced choices that seemed, at the time, like they may boost this problem (a problem that every single girl goes through unless you’ve come out of the womb as a mutant sexpot mix of Aphrodite and Marilyn Monroe).

Now, ideally, no young woman should gain her self confidence by having sex with various partners. But, unfortunately, there are no great systems available to those same young women informing them that they are indeed attractive and beautiful. Nor are there many that will just sit them down and tell them how friggin’ smart or intelligent they are.

And maybe it was not the best way to absorb this information, but after a week in Cuba at 18, my confidence meter was pretty arrogant.

And, although I did consume alcohol on that trip, I was sober every time I made the decision to sleep with someone. Actually, I was completing a crossword at 9pm while drinking coffee at a piano bar during one of those decision-making times. (Yeah… I was odd for an 18-year-old on a parentless trip to a hot island.)

For a few years after this revelation of my own personal awesomeness, I continued to have frequent casual sex. Either with people I was dating, or people I had met just for the night. I was very content and happy with my sexual lifestyle. I was introduced to non-monogamy very early and the concept appealed to me tenfold. Why? I wanted to have sex. I didn’t want to force myself to fall in love with someone I only maybe liked a little bit. But I definitely could have sex with that person, respect them, make them coffee in the morning and high five them on their way out the door for an epic evening of epicness.

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In my personal opinion, acknowledging a physical desire and making (responsible) choices to care for and cherish those desires built more integrity in my character than feigning love with someone who didn’t bother me too much.

Now, I am all too aware that this is not the lifestyle choice of everybody (my mother reminds me daily). And now that I am wrapped within the warm and fuzzy bounds of a monogamous relationship with someone I am head over heels in love with, it is a very long ways away that my mind could even contemplate enjoying a sexual encounter with someone other than my husband.

But yet, I still do not give up my slut title. Why, you might ask?

Because I am a firm believer that if I am making sexual choices that are informed (meaning I understand and recognize what the potential consequences may be) and I am happy and content with those choices, and this what being a slut is, than yes. I am STILL a slut.

I just wanted to let you know that I thought I was in the wrong. That although I was happy with my decisions, every time I woke up the next morning I was slapped in the face by what society was telling me: that I was unworthy because I was letting so many people close to my body, that because I wasn’t in love my sexuality was dirty, that giving into my desires was irregular and that I should have had more self-control.

But this was because nobody told me otherwise. I had nothing else to bank off except my mothers beliefs, the media, and what the school system was teaching me. I had to go looking for information. I very recently had a 16-year-old girl tell me that after reading my article about virginity, it was the first time in 2 years that she did not feel guilt or shame about losing her v-card.

My point here is that unless you had gone looking for information about slut-shaming or rape culture, you likely had no idea about the intricately woven story that is ‘promiscuous’ female sexuality. And although not ideal for someone speaking to so many young women, I can truly understand how you would have not been informed.

I guess we could say that my Christmas wish to you, dear Jenna, is that you, hopefully, may have gained an insight after this onslaught of people making you videos and writing you internet letters, and may be able to inform all the other girls out there who also don’t know this information exists, and perhaps relieve them of any fear or shame of their sexual choices and take the blame off of those that are victims of sexual assault.

I would be a very happy camper if this could come true.

Sincerely yours,

Caitlin the Slut.

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Nekkid Beings

“Nudity is natural but not until a person accepts and loves who they are.” – Jolene Blalock

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Body Pride at Come As You Are!!!

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We are expanding! Thanks to the awesome folks at Come As You Are, Body Pride will have its first workshop at the super amazing sexy time store on DECEMBER 30th at 6pm.

This particular workshop will be a ‘Girls Only’ evening. A note on ‘Girls Only’ (which I like because it reminds me of little boys in cartoons who hang the ‘Boys Only’ sign on the treehouse… except we get to hang it outside the room that we are all dancing around naked in): The Body Pride events are not exclusive. All of the people involved with Body Pride and I’d Tap That go above and beyond to ascertain we make you feel warm and fuzzy, even if it’s just a little bit. “Girls Only” includes everyone who identifies as a woman.

I am a strong believer in acknowledging someone as a fellow human being. Gender, sexuality, hair color, race, religion, age – all come as interesting points of conversation. Really, I just want to throw some love at you. Deal with it.

However, the next workshop will be ‘Co-Ed’. Or… Co-Ederybody… Lawl… Meaning: EVERYONE is welcome. Date TBA, but I will keep you posted.

Contact me (ck@tobeaslut.com) or your host for the evening, Julia Lewis (julia.anne.lewis@gmail.com) to query about signing up for a slot!

Much love my sexy chickens.

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JustIn Credible

Very rarely will I write a post about a singular person… In fact, unless it is relevant to a point I am making, I avoid mentioning the men I have interacted with. But something a little bizarre happened last night.

I was sitting around a table with 3 girls from Toronto (we were in Newfoundland, somehow we all managed to find each other through Toronto-vibes) and we are talking about bad dates. I mention one in which I had to fake an emergency phone call from his bathroom because he was just so insanely self-important and boring. A friend tells her story of a first date taking her home to a Middle Eastern family celebration with the title of his ‘girlfriend’… And then I remember, Justin.

I used to work at a 24-hour diner downtown. I used to work night shifts at this diner. One Friday night, I got off work at around 5 AM. At this time in the day, having worked a double-shift, you want nothing more than to go home and sleep. That is all. Still in my work garb, doused in ketchup, toast crumbs and shame, I am waiting for the night bus at Yonge and College. The sun is rising and I am falling asleep while standing, when there walks up to me this guy:

justin credible

Yes, I find myself face-to-face with something that seems to have escaped a Japanese cartoon. He is bouncing towards me with a MacDonalds milkshake in hand, and at that precise moment in which someone has the opportunity to no longer have a place your life, JustIn Credible turns and says to me:

“What would you do if some cute guy came up to you and told you you were pretty?”

I stare at him, not only recognizing that everything about him has walked out of the first half of “The Game; The Secret Society of Pick-Up Artists” (a book that actually has decent pointers for socially uncomfortable men, and then becomes increasingly sexist in the second half…) and dumbfounded by the fact that anyone could be hitting on anyone at 5 in the morning… Except in love stories, which is the only reason I reply to him:

“I dunno… High-five him, I guess.”

Of course, Justing raises his hand waiting for me to high-five him. He continues to ramble on about dinosaurs – I don’t really recall because it was 5 in the morning and I wanted to face plant into a pillow but my bus wasn’t coming. The next thing I know Justin, just as any romantic anime character would, holds out his hand to me and says “Want to go for an adventure?”

Now, whether I take his hand or not is irrelevant to this post, but I will at least tell you what was going through my mind. Two things:

1. This guy is going to take me somewhere so we can get it on.
2. There is a 2% chance that I am currently partaking in someone’s spontaneous life decision to connect with a stranger/live out a dramatic romance. And I could hold on to the idea that JustIn Credible wants to break into a building, run the stairs to the top and watch the sunrise while we hold hands…

I will leave you at a cliffhanger.

This all wouldn’t be particularly odd if I hadn’t told my close friend about it a few days afterwards. And upon mention of ‘very good looking Asian anime guy’, she asked me what his name was. Turns out, only two months ago, the same guy had asked for her phone number at a subway station.

Of course, her and I have a good chuckle and think that we both must be super good-looking for the same guy to pick us BOTH up.

And then, about a year later as I sit in a restaurant in St. John’s, Newfoundland, talking to 3 Toronto-based females, TWO out of the THREE had also been picked up by the same guy with extremely random and seemingly creative pick-up lines (right from Neil Strauss’s ‘The Game’).

This is a shout-out to JustIn Credible (his Facebook name, of course. Given to me by one of the most recently discovered hit-on lady’s). Not because you seem to come onto everyone with a vagina, but because you have made yourself ‘Barney Stinson’ Lengendary. I honestly have to give kudos to a guy who has made himself known to so many females that we can connect over wine in another province with stories of your attempts to get into our pants. If you read this, JustIn – contact me, I would like to interview you.

If you are a female who has been hit on by a lean, muscular, tattooed Asian guy named Justin, email me with your story. I would seriously like to know just how many women I know have been swooned by this fellow.

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Tell An 11-Year-Old They’re Beautiful

In my oh-so dramatically turbulent teenaged years, I had a mild obsession with the word ‘beautiful’.

Or rather, I should clarify, I had a mild obsession with maybe one day, if I was lucky, someone would refer to me as being ‘beautiful’.

‘beauty is’ on my chest at 17

I’ve recently been delving into all corners of my mind trying to pull out all of the things that I have forgotten to remember. (As a creative writing exercise, of course.)

There is one girl, let’s call her Suzie, she must be about 10 or 11. She and her mother/aunt/older sister were regulars at Fran’s (a 50′s style 24 hour diner I used to work at). This girl was overweight. By the standards that doctors give for healthy and average weight frames for girls her height and age, she was in the red zone. Every time she came into the diner, she and her chaperone would have just finished swimming at the ‘Y’. I know this because she told me this, right before she ordered the usual burger and fries along side the king size chocolate milkshake’s that are one of the trademarks at Fran’s (they also acted as the bane of my existence for the year and a half I worked there).

Suzie, at least once every meal she ate at the diner, would stare up at me from the table and tell me how pretty she thought I was.

Not once did I ever tell Suzie how beautiful she was.

Perhaps I was struck by the honesty that tends to spill forth from children’s lips. Perhaps, amidst so many other people, bathing in the florescent lights and pop rock, I did not think that I would be able to be sincere enough that she would believe me. Perhaps I was thinking about how differently my life would have gone had some complete stranger that I thought was ‘pretty’ told me that she thought I was beautiful when I was 11.

To recap what being 11 is like: I had just begun to discover the correlation with how greasy my hair was or how tight-fitting my clothes were to my social worth in popularity. Even with secretly starting to shave my legs, wearing training bras, and wearing 5-inch hooker shoes and a skimpy little dress to my grade 6 graduation, I was by no means ‘cool’. I liked every single boy, but was convinced, due to my low level in the social food chain, that not a single boy was looking at me.

No one told me I was beautiful until I was 15.

To be fair, in my own mind, I hadn’t reached any sort of impeccable beauty standard. I was not lithe and athletic. I was not the sort of voluptuous that stopped cars or caught the eyes of men. Had I recognized that I had a waist and what the wonders of a proper bra could do, I would have had a very different high-school experience. But alas.

The first person to use the word ‘beautiful’ in reference to me (that wasn’t a doting relative) was a 17-year-old boy who was unknowingly hitting a homerun with this word that oh-so nonchalantly escaped his lips.

I idolized him. Over the month that I had known him at camp I had continued to feed my brain whatever little detail I could about the delightfulness of his movie-star self: his unwashed, dark curls that bounced just below his eyebrows, the aviator sunglasses that didn’t quite sit right on his nose, but made him seem contradictingly law-enforcing and law-breaking all at once, the puss-filled pimples that were begging to be popped and loved – oh the character an uneven complexion aroused from my brain, the misunderstood loner who was just hit by a bad bunch of teen-genes.

We even had a few moments of utter ecstatical adoration for each other: catching each others eyes across the room. Slightly grazing shoulders. Being paired up in some form of tag game. Had known how to masturbate at this age, I would’ve been going at it everyday in the shower with the thoughts of him that were, by the minute, dissolving whatever else I had absorbed in my short time on Earth.

The real story came about when I officially returned to camp as a counselor instead of a ‘counselor in training’ (apparently, as long as you are paying to be there, you are still, technically, a camper, despite the title change – it was also at this point that I discovered how nun-tight they are about preventing camper-counselor relationships. I quickly realized how many of my male counselors avoided me in the years at my camp due to my exorbitantly obvious crushes on them…).

The day I returned, there was an instant click of a switch and some rather painfully obvious forms of universal signs presented themselves in front of us: on the ride to camp I was squished into the seat beside him. With our legs touching, he hands me the fortune he broke free of his recently consumed Chinese desert: You will find happiness beside you. If the truck had not been full of my other people I likely would’ve jumped him then and there – had I known how to kiss.

Because no one told me I was beautiful, I did as any normal teenager who hasn’t yet read a plethora of novels would do: I based my looks off magazine, TV and my peers. How this worked for my brain and self-confidence was that every time I looked up into a mirror I saw the hugeness of my forehead, the lankiness of my hair, the braces, the thin lips, the belly that cascaded in the lumps and bumps of a rolling hillside, the lack of booty and the uncompromising, thick, dark pubic hair. Not to mention two boulders attached to my chest that would roll out of any contraption you could buy at LaSenza.

To be quite frank, when this teenage camp-crush whispered “Morning, beautiful” into my ear right after we had done the Morning Freshie (a tortuous experiment enforced by the camp leader whose genius mind figured stampeding into a freezing cold Northern lake at 7 AM would be a great way to not only wake kids up, but keep their hygiene level at a decent level of stink), I didn’t believe him. In my normal state of being, I knew I was nothing shiny to gaze upon, but at the break of dawn, in a tight, unflattering bathing suit, after I had doused my body in sub-arctic lake water… Go fuck yourself.

But nonetheless, a shiver of endorphins and dopamine ran up and down my spine that sent myself the message that I was living out the dream in that moment. The rest of my life would likely go to shit at that point, because the boy I had a gynormous crush on was telling me I was beautiful – and this would be the climax of my lifes story.

beauty. in a nutshell.

But this was not the case. As you can tell by the picture above, I would grow to be an insanely beautiful lady, with the class and grace of a child raised in the company of royalty and strict nannies.

I’m not saying that no good evolved of my childhood ugly ducklingness. Instead of just assuming boys would be interested in me, I ordered books like ‘The Art of Seduction” off the internets and studied about non-monogamy. Which was a hoot in its own way. But, if someone had told me, if someone in their 20′s with a funky haircut, a neat tattoo, someone who wore Doc Martens and black eyeliner, or some babely chick had looked at me and told me without flinching, “You are so beautiful” … the heartbreaking, self-hatred I had formed for my body at the age 11, may have diminished some.

When you were 11, and a complete stranger of a young woman told you they thought you were beautiful, how would it have effected you?

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