IF you’re searching for answers in your life, they say you should look for the signs. In Indonesia, the signs find you. They’re colourful, often riddled with bad spelling, but always amusing. In Part Two of my Indonesian photo blog series, please look at these signs. (And feel free to share any you’ve encountered on your travels in the comments section, below).
There are the saucy signs…
The shark signs…
The rather obvious signs…
And even one for the cat lovers…
The Global Goddess funded her own travels to Indonesia
AS you read this, in various destinations around the world, 35 women are into their fifth day of a 21-day private self pleasure challenge. That’s right, 35 women from Australia, England, Chile, America and the Netherlands have signed up and paid $US89 to participate in conscious masturbation every day for three weeks. How do I know this? Because last week being a relatively quiet start to the working year, I stumbled across a Facebook page called The Self Pleasure Revolution. And, as you can imagine, I was more than a little curious about what this all meant. For me, a night of self pleasure means a bottle of cheap red in bed watching Better Homes and Gardens and marvelling at the fact anyone could possibly take Tara and her creepy craft-making seriously. (I still have not recovered from the time she found an early model computer, you know those big boxy ones, and shoved a cat in it and called it a cat box). But it turns out on today’s blog I’m talking about pussies of a different kind. And how to discover your own pleasure.
I tracked down the architect of The Self Pleasure Revolution facebook page and website, Elise Savaresse, and found a softly-spoken French (now, there’s a shock) woman, in her mid 30s, living in Perth. Elise, a life coach, has lived in Australia for 8 years, and launched the first Self Pleasure 21-day challenge in August last year.
“I’ve been exploring pleasure and self pleasure for a while and I’ve been interested in exploring how the mind works,” she says.
“A lot of studies show it takes 21 days to develop a new habit and to change neural pathways. I was driving one day and thought this concept might be something interesting to try.”
At this stage I should point out I, too, have lots of thoughts while driving – like whether there is enough chocolate and wine in the fridge waiting for me back at home – but the thought of launching a self pleasure revolution has never ever occurred to me.
Elise established her website and last August, 20 women from around the world signed up to the challenge which includes a welcome package; an opening ceremony; pleasure inspiration list; self pleasure guideline; daily emails to support and inspire; and techniques. Women are also encouraged to reclaim words such as “yoni, cunt and pussy”; and are supported by three “pleasure filled Goddesses” (including Elise) as well as a community of women who are reclaiming their bodies. Interestingly, women are also given a “live demo” to help them in their practice, which Elise says is conducted fully clothed and shows various positions and practices. For those who are a little bit more reticent to dive into the deep end, so to speak, you can download a free eBook from Elise’s site – Self Pleasuring For Women: The 7 Biggest Barriers.
On Friday, 35 women started the second 21-day challenge – which women can join at any time – and which Elise hopes will grow to 1 million followers around the world.
“A lot of women still hold a lot of shame about touching themselves. Self pleasure is very masculine. This is all about listening to your body and it is a totally different approach,” Elise says.
“In my job as a life coach I work with empowering people through self love and it is really important to work on the physical aspects of that as well.
“From my own experience, I think the French are a bit more open to talking about their sexuality. I can feel there is a heaviness in Australia.”
Elise, who has a partner, says whether women are in a relationship or not, the benefits of self pleasure are enormous including learning to understand your own body, being comfortable in your own skin, and being able to share what feels good for you. Even those without partners will benefit from the stress relief that regular self pleasure can bring through those happy hormones released upon orgasm.
“A lot of women feel that pleasuring themselves means they don’t love their partner and that their partner is supposed to be giving them pleasure,” she says.
“But it is psychological. We are always looking to understand ourselves, to be present and loved. When you pleasure yourself you are holding that space for yourself.”
I haven’t yet signed up for this 21-day challenge, but it’s certainly something to bear in mind for the future. After all, I’m up for anything that adds a bit of spice to life, and I’m pretty sure I can’t find that in a computer cat box.
Elise will be spreading the love around Australia with workshops in Byron Bay, Sydney and Melbourne in February and March. To find out more about the workshops, 21-day challenge or the concept overall, go to http://www.theselfpleasurerevolution.com
(All photos in this blog courtesy of Elise’s facebook page The Self Pleasure Revolution)
I ARRIVED late, in the midst of a ferocious tropical storm. I was the only person on the bus which was carrying me deeper into the jungle. My friendly Malaysian driver dropped me off in the dark, the torrential rain soaking me to the skin, with the warning: “watch out for snakes, as they are always watching you.” Great, I thought, he could have said “men” instead of “snakes” but it was not to be on this particular evening.
I took my first tentative steps towards the dim light somewhere in the distance…and promptly broke my sandals. Now I was drenched, barefoot, and in the midst of a potential snake pit in a tropical thunderstorm in the dark and rather alone.
Sliding on the slippery path, I eventually made my way to the light which turned out to be a cafe where I grabbed a beer, and sat out the storm. Upon leaving, I saw what looked like a lovely little green tree snake. “Don’t move,” one of the Malaysian cafe owners called out. “It’s a deadly viper, and it can kill you in seconds.”
I was reminded today of my trip to Kuching last November when I found the first evidence of Spring on my back deck. A snake skin. Now, I have a bit of an Indiana Jones relationship with snakes. They scare me, and always have. It goes right back to when we were kids in country Queensland and come summer, our backyard was full of poisonous king browns. My parents, being tough-love 1970s types, offered us little comfort: “If you see a snake, you freeze like a statute and you call out ‘mum’ and then you keep watching it so we know where it’s gone.” And then dad, who is a bit of a Steve Irwin, would march up to the deadly serpent, grab it, bag it and dump it on the farm to eat the rats. Lizards, on the other hand, I love. They’ve got legs.
So, it came as quite a shock one night a few years back when I was having a barbecue on my beloved back deck to feel all the hackles on my neck rise, in that really creepy fashion jsut before something bad’s about to happen. I turned around and there she was, slithering down the railings. I decided it was time to conquer my fear and named my snake Anastascia, deciding she was my sex goddess, meaning whenever she made an appearance, things would improve in my bedroom, so to speak. And, miraculously they did.
I won’t go into details but suffice to say, we both had a wonderful summer. For the record, I’m not alone in my thinking. Just this week, a Townsville couple went to the media with their story about two pythons copulating in their ceiling. According to Ron Degenhart: “You and your missus could be going hammer and tongs in the bedroom, while the snakes are going at it upstairs as well.”
Yes, things were going great guns for me, until the night Anastascia died. It was a scorching February night and I was laying in bed, clad only in undies and a singlet, drinking wine (yes, I know how to party). I heard what I thought were two possums fighting right outside my bedroom window. And then “boom!”, my neighbour Dave – a bit of a bogan – burst through my front gates and leapt down in front on my bedroom windows, grabbing a massive python which was in the process of eating his cat. I stood there, a little tipsy if I have to admit it, in my undies and singlet, glass of wine still firmly in hand, watching in slow-motion as Dave wrestled the cat from the snake’s mouth. It was Anastascia having dinner. Dave screamed “it bit me, it bit me”, the cat went flying into the night, and Dave stood before me, snake dangling from his hands. For the record the cat, not the snake, had bitten Dave.
The only words I could mutter were “you’re not leaving that snake here” and thus, Anastascia met an untimely death. (Which, for the record, is a great shame as Anastascia was the Indigenous species in this scenario, not the cat, but circumstances had already spiralled beyond my control).
Around the same time, my summer of sex abruptly stopped. So, it was with pure delight that I found my new snake skin this week. I’ve called her Sylvia. I haven’t see her yet, and Dave and his cat have since moved on. But I’m certainly looking forward to a long, hot, summer.