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She pitched me my own story angle: Getting drawn nude as an act of introspective meditation. Getting drawn nude, as self-care? Like many queer people, I tend to hate my body a fact I am not proud of. With the muscle-less build of a prepubescent seventh-grader, I fear being naked outside of shower time. Opting into this activity was, to put it lightly, deeply out of character.

Do you like my nude body

Do you like my nude body

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My rounded belly was the worst flaw of all. My hair was brunette and my skin olive. I thought appearing beautiful on the outside was extremely important. There was an absence of fear. Anal 32, Nudf. Chloe Lamour 10 videos. Heads swirled towards me, eyes popped and eyebrows arched, yet instead of losing my nerve, I abandoned my easel and headed to the podium at the room's nucleus.

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Meghan Trainor is my hero for yanking her video when her waist had been photoshopped.

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Sending nudes used to be such a taboo thing to do—no one talked about it but everyone did it. Set your own boundaries. Want to send him a photo in your bra only?

Partially nude photos can actually be way sexier than baring it all anyway. Try a sexy pose in your underwear only or a really cute bathing suit. Be prepared for other people seeing your goodies. You have a damn good body, so be prepared that your recipient is going to want to show off that photo.

Keep that pretty face out of it. On that note, make sure to keep your face out of it. Check your lighting and angle. If you ARE going to send those nudes, I want you to send your best self! Take photos from above or straight on. Never take a photo from below looking up—everyone has a double chin at this angle. Try for natural light instead of harsh fluorescent light. Get collateral. The first is to just make him jump through hoops.

The second is because I want something on him should he want to hold my nude over my head. Never feel like you have to send someone nudes. No one should ever feel stuck or feel guilty for not sending nudes. Too many times, I think we go along with things because we feel as if we have to for guys to like us. It should all come naturally. You immediately connect with an awesome coach on text or over the phone in minutes. Just click here ….

She writes for several local and international publications with an emphasis on vegan and conscious travel and life. In her spare time, she can be found volunteering with animals or stuffing her face with all the vegan food.

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If You're Going To Send Him Nudes, Make Sure To Follow These 9 Rules

Meghan Trainor is my hero for yanking her video when her waist had been photoshopped. The "All About That Bass" singer told Good Morning America it was ironic, considering her whole song is about loving your body, whatever size. I spent years fantasy photoshopping myself.

I wanted to be tall and slim like Giselle, but my ankles were too thick. I was knock-kneed and short. My hair was brunette and my skin olive. I tried to wish away the dark fuzz on my forearms. I feared my face was ugly, spending hours studying blond classmates with cute turned up noses and wondering why I was so cursed.

My rounded belly was the worst flaw of all. Mirrors were tricky since my stomach could look blubbery depending on the angle. It didn't help when others said I was thin or cute. I felt like the Michelin Man.

When I landed at Bard College, I was far away from my parents and felt drunk with freedom. Yet, loneliness plagued me while I studied the confident girls who wore bare midriff tops and tossed their heads back in flirty laughs. When their ringlets of hair bounced, the boys drooled. Loneliness plagued me while I studied the confident girls who wore bare midriff tops and tossed their heads back in flirty laughs.

Confiding my insecurities to a dorm-mate, she said, "If you act self-assured, you'll be treated like you are. The model didn't show. Heads swirled towards me, eyes popped and eyebrows arched, yet instead of losing my nerve, I abandoned my easel and headed to the podium at the room's nucleus. There was an absence of fear. Instead I was now excited about the room of 20 artists who'd render my body.

It seemed like I'd taken a dare to go on a brave adventure. The teacher told the class to take a five-minute break. When the room cleared he said, "Are you sure you're okay with this?

I smiled and nodded and he said, "I'll give you a minute to get comfortable. In the silence of the empty room, I pulled my black, crew-necked T-shirt over my head. Next I unhooked my bra. The pumping beat in my chest felt like conga drums until I unsnapped my pants. Suddenly I was overcome by an intrusive memory. My mind drifted back to elementary school when I was nine and on a gymnastics team.

It's called a weekly weigh-in. Coach motioned to what looked like a nurse's scale. We all worshipped Coach and did what he said. When it was my turn to step on the scale, I had nothing on my mind but pleasing him.

I climbed atop the wiggly scale platform. He checked my height, and wrote on his clipboard with a pencil while I studied his face. Next he moved the sliding metal piece and I awaited approval. Instead, Coach frowned. He muttered, "Hmmm," like my dad did when displeased. I stood frozen, stunned, unable to move. Then he called out, "Next. Now, in my college art class, I shook the shameful memory from my head and continued to pull off my jeans. Thinking of their flat stomachs, I folded my pants and tossed my shorn undies to the pile of discarded clothes while I worried about my belly.

It wasn't flat like Keira Knightley's or Gwen Stefani's. Fighting to banish androgynous figures from my mind, I replaced those thoughts with images of voluptuous sirens like Meghan Trainor. My favorite meditation phrase came to mind: breathe in good, breathe out bad. I arranged myself on the model's platform amidst paisley shawls and striped scarves and thought of Matisse's painted women, then I chose a reclining position I could hold for the first minute pose.

It was an odd sensation sitting there naked while students studied me. Pupils scanned parts of me, then looked to their canvases.

It helped to imagine each artist filled with doubts—yearning, trying, but knowing they'd never be Michelangelo. After stretching my arms and unfolding my legs, I pulled one of the long paisley shawls around me like a cape then made my way around the circle to view each illustration. The first was a detailed pencil sketch of my feet as they extended gracefully past the edge of the platform.

One curled downward off the corner ledge. I'd never realized I had such lovely toes. The next was an intricate ink drawing that detailed the way my neck curved into my shoulder and down the side of my arm.

In another, the artist had rendered my breasts symmetrically with champagne nipples nestled against pastel-peach areolas. My belly was gorgeously rounded like a figure in a Rubens' painting and my forearm rested next to it along my thigh.

I saw why my mom had always told me I was lucky to have my paternal grandmother's ample chest. The experience made me look at myself in a new way. Suddenly I saw my body as that of a healthy, complex, multi-faceted woman. I saw beauty in my lines, curves and shadows. I let go of the yammering critical voices in my head. Instead of picking myself apart, I finally saw how beautifully other eyes saw me.

I realized that the only person who thought I was inadequate was me. Type keyword s to search. Today's Top Stories. Getty Images. Courtesy of Dorri Olds. Advertisement - Continue Reading Below. Exactly How Jessica Lost Pounds.

Do you like my nude body

Do you like my nude body

Do you like my nude body