How to Bake Like A Bitch.

Drama. That’s what it is. Drama. I’m positively sure I could sell this particular drama to Eastenders and win one of these “best storyline” awards. Especially with the ‘bitch’ style edge I can stir up with my metaphorical cake whizzer. That’s what drama is, isn’t it? It’s the ingredients placed into a tub as a whole, as they are, no need to do anything but look to see precisely what they are and they can’t lie because they are what they are. It’s the moment the ‘on’ switch starts and slowly, at first mixes everything, confusing what’s what. The longer it whizzes around the quicker it moulds, the faster it becomes it’s harder to see what the truth was in the first place. Then you mix in those artificial colourings and flavourings for disguise and the simplicity has gone. It’s all a bunch of mixed up ideas with a few artificial extras thrown in to jazz it up. That point being it’s so mixed up that when people enquire as to what’s going on you can say anything and they’ll believe you. Drama. Fucking drama.

We all make bad cakes. Granted, unless you’re Nigella Lawson but even she got picked up for a few added ingredients if you know what I mean. If we fuck up and put too much of a certain measure in, we’re going to get found out because it doesn’t taste too good, does it? It’s always easy to see where a cake baker has gone wrong with the appearance. It’s in plain sight. Hardly deniable when it’s squished like a tomato under a car tyre. This is usually the point where you blame someone else along the line who was involved or you admit defeat, apologize and start again. No one ever minded that. Honesty. It’s always so obvious when the buck is passed elsewhere so it’s just worth saving your dignity. Plus, we can taste it’s your error. It’s bitter. Just start over and make a new batch that taste fluffy and look happy. Even if you’re not.

There’s unintentional bad baking (guilty as charged) and there is tactfully bad baking. Also, as I like to call it, deceitful baking. You know, the kind where you offer to make something beautiful for a special occasion and accidentally-on-purpose add a few drops of rat poison and a large bottle of laxative to make sure know one will find out it’s you. As shit happens, you never noticed the bottle was a special offer and rather two bottles of laxative in one so you trip up. Bollocks. Now you’re clever little idea has gone to pot. Not Delia fucking Smith after all. Not that many people would have a reason for pulling such a slightly deranged stunt. Only if you disliked the person who initiated and asked for the idea or were just a sly, dishonest human being. Then again, the ingredients are all mixed so to any of the loyal gathering it must have been someones else’s fault. Like the Sausage man. It was probably his carefully and very well cooked through sausages that made everyone vomit.

I guess you can sit there for days wondering what the cake’s made of. It’s so easy to put your head down and pull the self-pitied it-wasn’t-me face. It was someone else who did it when I wasn’t looking. Pointing the finger at another for being angry at your mistake and adding in that extra flavouring to sweeten up your fans so they of course remain sympathetic to false sorrows. Congratulations on being as artificial and fake as your so called Organic fairy cakes.

Stirring the mixture and licking the spoon to make sure it’s perfect. Some people really need a sell-by date.

Copyright © 2014 The Bella Effect


Blow like a Pro

Life lessons. Growing up we are taught all the necessities to help ease us into the world. Brushing your teeth twice a day or they will rot and you will never be able to eat sweets again. Not doing something just because everyone else is. Eating with your mouth closed. As the years passed by we were handed down advice that helps us through challenging times. Remember putting a condom on a banana in sex education? Shame they didn’t teach us how to wrap our lips around it. That first time you come face to face with the eye of the tiger is nerve wrecking. It stares at you, dribbling as it eagerly awaits the soft, warm feeling of your mouth taking it in, ticking your tonsils, your tongue rolling over it’s hardness. Fairly sure I never had a life lesson in learning how to give mind-blowing head. It’s not a subject you can be taught is it? No one can show you because that would just be weird. Your parents are hardly going to give you a step-by-step guide of deep throating and if you watch porn then you will wonder if your gag reflexes will even hold out. Different cocks have different ways of responding to your style. You can’t know how he likes it. You can practice for years and still find you technique changing with each new erection that stares you in the face. Even the many of us with experience still wonder what the fuck we’re doing. I am not the queen of head bopping but there are a few tips from a sex enthusiast:

  • Rule number one is to go in with enthusiasm. If he knows you are relishing having his penis in your mouth that’s already a huge turn on for him.
  • Tease him. Make it known where you intend to end up, rub your body against his as you kiss him. Run your hands all over him. Get the juices flowing.
  • Hands still count. As you take him in your mouth lightly rub his shaft up and down with the rhythm. It’s a sensation to add. N.B refrain from turning this into a quick wank he wont thank you for it.
  • Balls! He loves his balls. Get stuck in down there. Kiss the inside of his thighs and run your tongue over him, lightly, with a bit more pressure, just listen and feel how he reacts. Put them in your mouth and lightly suck and lick. Winning move.
  • Set the pace. You will know when to become faster and more passionate with him. No need to rush in with the deep, fast action.
  • Talk. Tell him you love having his cock in your mouth as you lightly drag your nails down his body. Man ego boosted.
  • A man has a spot between his balls and bum that, when pressed or rubbed whilst he melts in your mouth will add to his pleasure. Give it a go next time you’re down there.
  • This isn’t for everyone but for those that are not squeamish he has a shitarus. This is what I call a male clitoris as it’s up his butt. Give it a rub with a finger (it’s an inch or so up) just remember to keep your finger out of your mouth afterwards.
  • It’s all yours. Own it. Run your tongue all over his cock. Get down and dirty.
  • Slide your knickers aside and slowly sit on his cock, really slowly. Just once. This will drive him mad. (Only if you are at the sex stage of course) then take him back in your mouth. Moan and Groan too. The vibrations and sound will let him know you are getting off on it.
  • Be spontaneous. Do it when he least expects it or hide away in a public area. It’s the thrill of the risk.
  • Spit, swallow or throw-up is at your discretion. If he gives you a mouthful it’s manners to swallow.
  • If you have limited time just get on your knees and go for gold.

Unfortunately this is not a bible for the perfect blow job. However, It works. Trust me. 

Have any tips yourself? Do share!

Copyright © 2014 The Bella Effect


Battle of the Bitches

Why do we always think what we think? Oh, I mean with our appearances this time around, not about men and how their cocks gravitate towards our innocent little vaginas. Men can stay backstage as I bring the real issue forward. Girls. We hate each other don’t we. We also secretly admire each other. It’s like the saying with men “You can’t live with them and you can’t live without them.” We need our girlfriends support, it steadies us after one too many bottles of wine. We share secrets that we will take to the grave etc. The only downside to having female friends is no matter what they look like, you will always envy something. Some more drastically than others may I add, some of us are filled with secret jealousy whilst others quietly wish we had this or had that about us. Generally speaking it’s a battle of the bitches out there. You’d be lying if you said you said otherwise, wouldn’t you?

We wake up and see the same face, same body and same everything every morning. After however many years of gracing the earth with your presence it’s going to be a fact that you will tire of the same reflection at times. If you never tire of your attributes then I salute you because you must be one very confident and content individual. You will pick out odd spots, curse your nose and look down at your lady bits and think ‘I bet I’m the only one with a fanny full of ingrown hairs.’ It’s life, we see ourselves in a bizarre vision as we view others in an even more bizarre fashion. We’re never quite sure where we fit in on the scale of “attractive” in the room that’s full of other human beings that were born with two lumps on their chests and a strange flappy baby maker. Some of these curvy creatures seem to have longer hair, some seem to have more shapely legs, many more are blessed with a rack that would make TGI Fridays mouth water and a few are pint sized next to the six foot Claudia Schiffer in the room.

We read (even I have written about being “you”) and it is true that no one can do a better job of being, well, you. Point is sometimes we stick our middle finger up at those posts as we see our idea of perfect strut past and hate her a little bit. No, a lot. Hate her a lot. Her boobs are bigger than mine, how perfect are those eyelashes, I wish I had cellulite free toned legs, why won’t my hair grow that long, I want a designer vagina and crust-free feet. Such a tiring process but we cannot stop ourselves. The self doubt creeping in as you search the room looking to see who is slightly less attractive, making you feel slightly better about yourself. Who are the men looking at? Obviously it’s going to be that girl. The one who looks so good she could be made into a bar of galaxy chocolate special edition. The bitterness rises and you start the downward spiral of feeling consciously less sure about yourself as when you stepped out of the house. It happens. We all do it. Some of us openly admit we feel insecure around this figure of perfection whilst others will jab and poke comments such as “I bet she looks like a dog without make-up” or “ She loves herself anyway.” The outbursts that highlight how they wish they were in fact that girl who loves herself.

It’s an on going epidemic with the ever progressing pressure of wanting to be the next FHM sexiest piece of ass and having teenage boys wank over you in ‘Nuts’ magazine because we all want to be sexy and lusted after. We all want to be beautiful wisps of elegance. Even more so we want to be the girl that people look at and want to be us. Let me enlighten you.

You are that human being with lady lumps and a strange flappy baby maker. So is the girl you compare yourself against. There won’t be one day you head off out to work or to but a tub of Ben and Jerrys without seeing someone else whose DNA is different from your own because that’s the way the seeds work. She woke up and saw the same face, body and bits that she see’s everyday and probably peeks over the shoulders of commuters looking at page 3 and thinks she needs to look more like the poor dear who has clearly been shoved in a bath of ice water beforehand.

For those that clearly admire every inch of themselves right down to their baps and flaps making you feel like the “own brand” version of the womanly sex, smile sweetly and pretend it bothers you not. If that fails stick a sanitary towel (clean) on her back and watch everyone laugh behind her back for a change.

My advice is just be one of the nice girls. Give compliments, accept compliments and realise that every other girl is thinking what you’re thinking.

Copyright © 2014 The Bella Effect


Workouts and Wine

I accidentally clicked ‘Cancel’ on my direct debit to my monthly keep fit group. I accidentally clicked cancel after accidentally running away mid-session to make daisy chains because I just couldn’t bear running the circuit one more time. It’s hard you know, this keep fit and be skinny and toned and really perfect regime. Honestly. Running around poles in a field, leaping like a frog, crawling like a crab and running on all fours like a grizzly bear had to come to an end at some point. A year and a half later was my point. Which takes me to today. I ended up being one of those that loved telling people I work out real hard and go 68 times a week because I am so dedicated when in reality I started to dread putting on my waterproofs and doing press ups in the mud. Granted I lasted a year but I get bored, you know, I need to change things up once in a while. So this is what I have been filling in my time with to become a super hot piece of ass…

Let’s begin with my exercise habits over the past two weeks. I was contracted on an event up in the East Midlands and was away from home in a rather posh hotel room for two weeks. Straight away I stocked myself up with an unlimited supply of wine and made good use of the buffet breakfast by eating everything I physically could and sneaking a few pastries into a napkin for elevenses. A girl has to do it. When a girl has to do it there is always a few repercussions. Mine being the case of a significant amount of vino calories and free cake all day. I hadn’t been on a good exercise blast for a few weeks and one of the girls is a professional track runner. In short she’s really fucking fast. I used to run really well when I was younger, fastest in my school year and smashed the 100m sprint. What made me think fourteen years later after poisoning my body with cigarettes, alcohol and the odd class C drug that I could just pick up where I left off. I need someone with a more sensible mind than me to answer that. Unfortunately for me I wasn’t that sensible mind so I thought it would be cracking to go along and show the other athletes how talented I was on the track. Turned out my talents were best suited to laying on a beach with a cocktail checking out the topless men and their six-packs. We’re talking amazingly fast sprinters and middle distance runners here. Their jogs were faster than my sprints. The focus and dedication was way more than I could concentrate on (especially at the moment the muscly guys ran past, sweat dripping from their lick-able chests) and I ended up huffing and panting like a bulldog humping something it shouldn’t be. On the outside I was calm and composed. On the inside I felt like a bit of a wet fanny. Lesson learnt. Don’t play with the big dogs.

After being ever so slightly scarred at the track running and making sure my direct debit for my fitness group was definitely cancelled I decided to get thin the natural way. Admittedly I am only 3 days into this two week detox but I’ll enlighten you anyhow. It’s all about the herbs. The natural detoxification process of mixing together strange plants, seeds and unlikeable stingers like nettle leaves and letting them rinse your insides out and you poop out all toxins, leaving them screaming in the toilet bowl as they are flushed away forever. That’s the more glorified picture. I am not a herbal tea fan full stop and these teabags are quite honestly like drinking a mojito minus the alcohol. It’s like licking a garden hedge. So far though so good, I have had my bum on the toilet seat three times already and I feel like my inside passages have made way for a skinnier, healthier, wine free version of myself. I still have eleven more days to go of drinking this whilst holding my nose and having a glass of water nearby (very much like swallowing males ejaculate) but I have high hopes that I can lose the wobble, sit on my fat bum all day reading novels and try on clothes a size smaller knowing that soon I will fit in them without having to surrender those 68 hours a week of intense workouts. *wink wink*

For the next two weeks I shall gulp down the laxative enducing nettles in a pot and make sure I get my recommended dosage of man loving a minimum of three times a day. Fits and spurts, fads, all these are me when it comes to diets and exercise. I love something and give my all to it for a certain time and then I get bored. I need something new to get the blood flowing and to stop me being that person that tells everyone on social media and friends that I workout all the time when I am in actual fact sat on Twitter. It just makes me sound good and I feel less guilty about that fondant fancy I secretly devoured after lunch. My answer to this is I think we should all be assigned a personal trainer, hair and make-up artist complete with a full body airbrush and tit lift every morning before we leave the house. How life would be that little less stressful not worrying about being that hot piece of ass…

Copyright © 2014 The Bella Effect


The Number Two Taboo

When you gotta go you gotta go. The taboo surrounding the number two. We don’t talk about it. We don’t want anyone to know we can create smells so bad it makes a pile of dog shit smell like a bottle of Marc Jacobs signature scent. Women are pretty, elegant and we smell nice. To even think about admitting we are harboring last nights food in our lower intestines and refusing to let it go because the only option is to poop in your boyfriends mothers shiny toilet is unbearable. The heat lifts to our cheeks at the very thought of leaving a skid mark in a toilet to be viewed by another who knows that was you releasing last nights wine and Shepherds pie. As a female this is an embarrassing act of nature. The sound, the smell, the mess everything about the number two taboo is mortifying. Unfortunately there is nothing we can do to stop the crappy critters, is there? No.

For me personally I just cannot bring myself to excrete my wastage in any ‘public’ area. ‘Public’ in this sense meaning anywhere but my own toilet. For years I have flushed bright red if anyone even joked that I was going for a doo doo, let alone actually committing the crime. If I ever went away with work and had to share a hotel room, stayed at a friends house or took twenty laxatives in a nightclub I still refrained. I would hold it in until my stomach bloated so much I looked 6 months pregnant and I would be crippled with the pain of toxins and trapped wind playing Twister in my rectal passage. My bum would grace only the toilet seat of my beloved apartment. That was all there was to it. No poopies in public. Then I got a boyfriend who has his own apartment. Shit.

Ok, so this isn’t a public place as such, my boyfriends. When he would visit me I would schedule my toilet time around his arrival making sure I went before he arrived and all evidence had been bleached away and the room Febreezed. If I ever needed to go with him in the apartment, I would send him to the shop telling him I have to go but he can’t stay because he might hear my plops. This went down like a sack of shit (excuse the pun) as he had no idea what my hangup was. Now I was staying with him I could hardly send him out of his own place, could I? So I decided to play a few cards on this one. Firstly I started off by “having a shower” – by this I meant running the shower, putting some toilet paper down the loo to provide a sploosh-proof and silent landing meaning no giveaway noises. I would then tensely do my business whilst trying not to let a stray fart give me away, flush the toilet, get in the shower and by then the hot steam had killed the smell and all evidence is long gone (He always heard me flush and knew what I was doing anyway he confessed eventually.) I gradually became braver and if I now need to go I will ask him to put on music. Loudly. That’s the best I can do. He still rolls his eyes but I can’t empty my bowels whilst he listens and then fall into bed naked it just isn’t a turn on is it.

After some time I braved the public poo, twice. Each time the toilets were empty and it was a race against the time I may not have had until a stranger walked in mid push. Luckily no one did walk in, which was lucky because it was a stinker. That was literally a crap-my-pants in public or use the toilets as that is what they were made for after all. I didn’t fancy being pointed and laughed at for shitting myself in the middle of London in all honestly.

How many times have you tactfully positioned yourself in bed with a man desperately squeezing your bum cheeks and wincing at the pain of holding in a toxic waste package? The many times of getting to the office and almost instantly realising you should have off-loaded that tractor full of manure before you left the house? Hosting a house warming and didn’t drop the kids off at the pool before you let the first guest in? My guess would be more than once. To be quite honest it has to be one of the most uncomfortable experiences tensing in your turds knowing the relief it would bring just letting them go. Thing is we can’t because we’re too hung up on the shame and embarrassment of the number two taboo. I’m not sure there’s a more uncomfortable and awkward situation than squatting over a toilet slowly trying to push, knowing there are people very nearby, people who might start to smell the potent gases, becoming more aware of the loud noise it will make in the deathly silent lavatory, deciding it was a bad idea and trying to stop it but becoming conscious of the fact there’s no going back now. Hoping no body has the faintest idea what’s going on in your cubicle. Although once it’s out you do feel ten stone lighter.

We all need a good clear out. Whether we talk about it or not. If anyone tells you any differently they are lying or seriously need to see a doctor. Let it out, if you need to bum blast then have a bum blast. Who gives a shit anyway?


Copyright © 2014 The Bella Effect


The ‘No Makeup Selfie’ Trend

Since it’s been the talk of Social media for the past week or so I would like to bring up the subject of the “No makeup Selfies” and leave my opinion somewhere on the internet to make a point to the negative and pessimistic downers of this cause. (Strongly opinionated here dear readers.) I myself admittedly am against the classic “Selfie” trend. Mainly because I am fed up of seeing the face of the same girl on my news feed 50 times a day sporting a new lipstick and push-up bra each and every time. The shout out for approval and constant reassurance of being physically attractive is my main bug bear. I say that because you need to dig deeper than the comments of horny men and fake friends on Facebook telling you how sexual you look. Anyway, last week showed the start of all these made-up “Selfie” lovers uncovering and baring the blemishes, removing the mascara and standing up for a cause. A cause that will help save millions of lives. That’s the life of someone you love who may not be so lucky one day. Even you.

As a population of females subjected to airbrushing, ideals of perfection and competition against other women to be as beautiful as we can be, the “No makeup Selfie” has proved that if we raise awareness through a cause in which we all stand by, great things can happen. It also proves we aren’t all as shallow as so many of us judge each other to be. That girl you bitch about that wears too much makeup actually revealed her naked face for a greater cause and to prove she is supporting every other female and upping the confidence for the rest of us to take part. The more cosmetic free faces we see popping up the more we feel we won’t be judged because as they say, we are all in this together. £3,000,000 has been raised for the research into cancer so what can possibly be so bad about that?

The campaign is about exposing yourself and your vulnerability. Makeup for 90% of us is a confidence layer. Take that away and we shrink back into our shells drastically. Granted many photos are taken in flattering light, they are still bare faced and showing support to raise money for cancer charities. The added information of a ‘Text to’ number adds the importance of donating and not just taking pictures to raise awareness, but really be a part of that change. I have read countless articles about how it is pointless and what has not wearing make up got to do with anything. Retweets on Twitter for example. Taking part is a far better way because we recognise what that face represents. To me personally I would rather be inundated with naked selfies than a mountain of tweets asking what the hell no make up has to do with helping cure cancer. The power of social media. I would just like to add that anyone who spent the time to post about the pointlessness of the campaign needs to look in with a little more perspective. You see these faces and relate it to the cause. That’s powerful. A message shared by thousands who have never met grouping together to give other women the confidence to bare all and stand up for something much more important than that new Dior lipstick that cost more than your weeks wages.

When it came to doing my own I admit, yes I did angle the camera, yes I did feel sick because not even some of my closest friends have seen my freckles and non existent eyelashes. As my best friend wrote on her own donation being brave isn’t taking off your face, being brave is fighting cancer. She’s right. That stuff we paint our faces with has come off and I know for many that is not easy. Men especially don’t understand but it is so difficult to show who we really are when we try so hard everyday to cover that up and hope we look better than just who we are bare faced. We may angle the camera, we may not all stand in front of a window in natural light but we have all made the step to stand up, be our natural, beautiful selves and make a difference to the many sufferers of a heart breaking illness.

Whether or not you are for or against the ‘No makeup Selfie’ there is no denying the impact it has had for these cancer charities and to bring attention to the fact we are still looking for a cure. If you would rather post a picture of anything besides a selfie, or even just a statement to say you donated then that’s ok too. Just quit throwing your negative, discouraging and unhelpful opinions around to those who are just trying to make a difference. I appreciate we all have an opinion, I myself am full to the brim with mine but just because you think it’s another way for attention, to aim for the ‘You’re so naturally stunning’ comments doesn’t stand up this time around. As for the pressures of feeling you need to donate that is entirely up to the individual. You may have other charities you support. It doesn’t make you a terrible person.

So I would like to say I feel strangely and really rather proud of all the no makeup selfies that grace my Facebook and Twitter feeds. The genuine glowing faces of every single one of you reading this who have taken part and wiped off that layer of confidence to show what a fantastic person you are. For all of you who have or are going through the stage of a loved one fighting and staying strong. There is no questioning how valuable your face has become. Keep this going, keep donating and keep helping us to prevent losing the ones we love.



Copyright © 2014 The Bella Effect