February 2020

We are NOT part of the victimized groups because WHITE PEOPLE ARE THE ONES DOING THE FUCKING VICTIMIZING.

Calling the cops because a family with a different skin color had the ‘audacity’ to have a barbecue.

It gets so much worse.

Sit down and check your privilege.

I am super white for the record. My background is English, Scottish, Irish and Polish.

Only way I could be whiter is if you threw some Nordic in there, little Swedish maybe. But alas. My ancestors were assholes. The English weren’t happy on their tiny grey island and went about wiping out everything and everyone and taking whatever the fuck they wanted. And a few hundred years after they came over to North America, wiped out the indigenous population, stole other people from other countries and brought them here as slaves so they didn’t have to do any physical labour themselves, that mentality is still prevalent. What the actual fuck.

We have science and the internet.

White supremacy or white supremacism is the racist belief that white people are superior to people of other races and therefore should be dominant over them. White supremacy has roots in the now-discredited doctrine of scientific racism and often relies on pseudoscientific arguments. Like most similar movements such as neo-Nazism, white supremacists typically oppose members of other races as well as Jews.

The term is also used to describe a political ideology that perpetuates and maintains the social, political, historical, or institutional domination by white people (as evidenced by historical and contemporary sociopolitical structures such as the Atlantic slave trade, Jim Crow laws in the United States, the set of “White Australia” policies from the 1890s until the mid-1970s, and apartheid in South Africa).^[1][2] Different forms of white supremacism put forth different conceptions of who is considered white, and different groups of white supremacists identify various racial and cultural groups as their primary enemy.^[3]

In academic usage, particularly in usage which draws on critical race theory or intersectionality, the term “white supremacy” can also refer to a political or socioeconomic system, in which white people enjoy a structural advantage (privilege) over other ethnic groups, on both a collective and individual level.

We fought wars over this shit and the good guys won.

How is this still a popular mindset?

I will quote Louis CK who is both white and also fucking sucks super bad.

“I love being white. Seriously, I really do. If you’re not white, your missing out. ‘Cuz this shit is thoroughly good. Let me clear this up by the way: I’m not saying white people are better. I’m saying that BEING white is clearly better. Who could even argue? If it was an option I would re-up every year! ‘Oh yeah, I’ll take white again. Absolutely.’ Here’s how great it is to be white: if I would have a time machine I could go to any time and it would be awesome when I get there. That is exclusively a white privilege! Black people can’t fuck with time machines.”
― Louis C.K.

This is not the quote I was looking for. And I hate quoting him at all after what he did to those women. But he is a prime example as to how our culture is geared towards mediocre white dudes. I bought into his shit for years, listening to what he was saying out loud in public, which was good, until he did the opposite in private.

The one I wanted is where we’d show up in a new country  and make everything into straight lines and right angles. Where we aren’t happy enough with how things are when landing in a foreign place, we murder, rape and imprison the indigenous population and start making everything more ‘white’.
I think he said white people must be aliens.

Kinda fucking feels like that doesn’t it?

Like the almost the entire world is built around the comfort and advancement of rich white men.

Because it fucking is.

Probably why we’re taught to hate the middle east so much. Can’t go over there with your limited melanin and strut around like the cock of the walk, now can you? Must hurt their fragile egos.

I’m on a 30-day Facebook ban. It’s a big one.

And the timing is terrible.

I had a back and forth going on a Bindi Irwin meme

This one

This is pure chaotic good. It is wholesome. “carry on with your activities, be safe, we love you.”

I told Wolf about it, he said, “What? That’s Australia’s princess.”

I caught flack for this. And I got my back up bad about it.

DO NOT SHIT ON THE BINDI IRWIN MEME.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I said ‘you cannot be racist against white people the world is literally built around our comfort. Pointing out something factual, we do dumb shit like where we wear venomous spiders as brooches is not racist.’

The meme is funny because it’s true.

Smh white people ARE stupid.

Florida man. Case and point.

There is a video floating around of a little white girl riding on the back of a big ass alligator.

We are so unafraid of dying in ways other people live in fear of every day that we look for ways to do it ourselves.

We jump out of perfectly good planes. Climb mountains for literally no good reason, and most recently…a white dude got so offended by a meme he put me in Facebook jail for 30 days the same week as my book launch.

You want to know what white privilege looks like?

I have been pulled over 5 times in 10 years of driving. I have never even gotten a ticket. Not for speeding, not for expired plates, not for not having proper insurance documents. NONE OF IT.

It looks like a 300+ comment thread on a video wherein a black man ripped a confederate flag off the back of a tractor trailer and 250+ people complained about it. I think that video got reported as well, hence the swift ban on the second.

Neither one of those things were “Hate speech”.

Hate is a neo nazi ramming his vehicle into a peaceful protest and killing a woman.

The confederate flag is blatantly racist. Just like Roy Moore riding on the back of a horse to the polls.
Segregation was alive and well until 1964, 56 years ago.

10 years before I was born.

And we still have a really long way to go.

I was in northern rural Georgia visiting 9 years ago, needed cigarettes bad and we just had to drive by 3 perfectly good gas stations because they were for ‘blacks’.

What the actual fuck?

It has only gotten worse under 45.

Now it’s okay to be openly racist again.

There is no such thing as reverse racism and I will tell you why.

As a woman, I get the slightest taste of it.

Walking down the street and being afraid, not because of the color of my skin, but because of what is between my legs. I, and every other woman on the planet has to follow certain rules to avoid harassment, and we still get harassed. Amie Harwick did everything right, restraining order, reported her ex’s behavior to the police and he killed her anyways.

Just like I have seen the video footage of 100 black men and women ‘complying’ and dying anyways because cops in the states seem to hunt black people for sport, and it is an abomination.

Support is necessary.

But ACTUAL support. As in asking what we can do to help. listening to the answesr given, then doing that very thing.

Just like #notallmen is maddening, so is ‘I don’t see color’.

It’s a cop out.

Everyone exists in their own reality.

My reality is that I am a white woman who sees massive amounts of prejudice and injustice every day, and while I see it and acknowledge it, and in here I am trying to do something about it, I still get to get up from my laptop, put some pants on and walk out into the world and be white and enjoy the inherent safety that comes along with my skin color.

I can sympathize to a degree, but I will never fully understand it and I know this.

I don’t have to live it to realize it’s wrong.

I don’t know why but the cook at the new strip club I have been working at singled me out to taste test new wing sauce.

It was dead as fuck and I was stationary for about an hour. Reading glasses on, looking up in mild irritation every time the door opened and it was just a staff member coming in from a cigarette break and letting all the cold air in.

He walked over with a basket as though he was giving me an offering of appeasement.

I was so bored in fact that, as I ate the wings, I launched into a detailed description of each sauce. He only wanted to know which one was better. The smoky one from Michigan if anyone is wondering.

I also got a text from my girl Mandy yesterday afternoon, “you writing?”

I was trying to.

Had a short burst of muse inspired productivity yesterday morning and then struggled for a few hours.

Once upon a time, in another life really, a woman said to me, “It will be a really good day when I can refer to you as Sarah the writer instead of Sarah the waitress.”

This.

Yes.

Please.

I don’t want to blame the planets here, but I do find it kinda funny that I am attempting to sell 2000 copies of a novella I just wrote during Mercury Retrograde. I can’t really blame Papa Mercury for my writer’s block.

Mandy messaged and we went to a café where I got a bit more done and had a really horrible sandwich. We also talked about a bit of copywriting I had done for her years ago for a school project. A blurb about a fake book called “The Drunken Mermaid”. I found it as I was cleaning out my documents last week, and not for the first time thought to myself, “this would make a really good actual book.” I had originally thought the document had something to do with my 2 years of severe alcoholism at a bar called Sirens that really only ended a short while ago. But apparently it was just an omen of things that hadn’t transpired yet. We were brainstorming for a bit then Cara messaged and said she wanted to leave for work early and off I went.

We pulled off the highway and she told me she really just wanted me to come to work so I could drive her car home. She also wants me to make money, I know she loves me. But I’m struggling.

The whole sandwich/wing combo was not sitting well in my belly. But we will get to that in a minute.

I re read the first installment of the smol book Witch & Wolf, this morning. Fuck, its GOOD.

Who was that girl that wrote so well and where the fuck is she now?

22 days of distractions and writer’s block.

But I wrote that in email format in the jeep on the way to and from Disney, in lines for rides, at boarding gates in various airports and in the crappy Airbnb in Texas.

Maybe that is it. Maybe I am better when I am not stuck in one place.

Or maybe it’s this place, or that place.

I really hate my job.

I wrote Wolf last night and this morning. Told him I walked out mid shift.

He hates it too. My favorite thing that he calls me is ‘his’. He is stoic and protective. I cannot imagine what he must go through when he knows I am at work. Except I can, because I am having the same reaction.

Bless him though, he understands it is necessary.

I have been dancing for 21 years now, on and off. I can always gauge how much I care about someone by how willing I am to quit.

Wolf came back to see me October 21^st last year, I quit my job preemptively on the 19^th. We weren’t together yet, hadn’t slept together or worked out the minutiae of our relationship yet and I still couldn’t stand stripping for one more minute. Negative 48 hours actually.

But, due to some bad planning and overspending, I am stuck stripping again for a bit. I can’t exactly walk into a straight job and leave again in 7 weeks for a month away now can I?  Can I? Please?

My natural state of being is monogamous and although I reserve my rights to be a bad ass financially independent bitch in stilettos, and I do not cross moral boundaries, I get why it is hard for guys to date dancers. I dated one guy ONE TIME who was legitimately proud of my dancing career, more than a few who understood, and a shitty handful that took advantage.

Truth is, I don’t like stripping when I am with someone. Especially not since I have been with Wolf.

He’s my Dom.

My innate sense of belonging to Wolf has made it harder and harder to go to work. I’m physically repulsed by the basic mechanics of my job and it hit me hard last night with a grand mal epiphany. 

I was stone sober last night at Cara’s request.

Hid in the back on a couch because the bar was empty for the first 3 hours.

Walked back onto the floor around 10 and it was busy.

Tons of girls and customers. 

I looked around the room and felt the overwhelming need to leave. Not a panic attack, I have had those. Just no flight and all flight. But calm, with vomiting.

‘I don’t belong here’ in a loop in my head. My head was splitting open and I was overcome with nausea.

I took my lock and my boots and I left unceremoniously.

Cara is mad at me now.

I don’t know what I’m going to do but I’m glad I left.

I do know what I’m going to do now.

I am going to publish this smol book and I am going to keep banging my head against the keyboard until the other smol books come out.

Think Penny Dreadfuls, short, reasonably priced installments of a larger whole.
Following the story of 2 twin flames that keep finding each other in this life and those that came before. Every time some mystical magical element both drawing them in and keeping them from getting it exactly right enough to fulfill their karma. With a lot, A LOT of graphic sex. Werewolves and Witches and bondage, oh my.

It’s REALLY good idea. I hopefully have the talent to pull it off.

So, without further ado, or much ado, or a reasonable amount of ado…

A smol teaser for the smol book.

She came back to reality briefly as he lifted her arms up over her head and gently laid her back down on the bed, assuming their previous positioning. She watched his face change in front of her eyes, her favorite moment, this magnificent transformation from man to monster. She smiled up at him, welcoming the transition. Her Wolf, her beast. She would take everything he gave her and beg for more. Her body quivered in anticipation and she was soon rewarded.

She felt him spread her legs and she forced herself apart even wider until her lower half resembled a wishbone, trembling at the breaking point. He lifted his body up, briefly away from her and swooped down in one fluid motion, she felt his wide, wet tongue part her pussy lips and add to her impossible wetness. Her synapses firing rapidly as sparks lit up under her skin following the trail his tongue made. That was nothing compared to the moment he entered her.

The fireworks started slowly building in her belly. The stop motion sensation returning from her dream, but this time it was bliss. She fought to keep her eyes open in the overwhelm so she could look at him. She was quickly losing control of everything, including her voice, crying out every time he thrust into her. She couldn’t help it. Her thoughts became unintelligible noises and sensations. He had given her this exquisite gift of feeling safe enough to completely let go and she gladly surrendered to this, and him.

 Hopefully, by the end of this month, I will be able to come back into this post and paste a link to where you can buy the rest of this. Just waiting on cover art and an Amazon link.

Pray for me my lovelies, and pretty please buy Witch & Wolf.

I really don’t want to be a stripper anymore.

I saw Giant yesterday.

Of course I did. It’s retrograde, we waltz down old paths and get random messages from exes.

Y’all know I use the term ‘ex’ very loosely. We used to fuck and now we don’t. We remain very good friends.

We are both back in the same town after time away.

Had to catch each other up on our adventures.

I sat in a circa 1970’s folding chair in an unfinished kitchen eating Doritos listening to good tunes.

I didn’t really know what to expect. I have toured 3 houses of his in 4 years, all in varying states of renovation. The last one didn’t have a shower yet. The first one was glorious.

I knew he had bought a new fixer-upper. He flips houses among other things.

Says it will be ready for occupancy in 2 weeks. I am inclined to believe him even with every door off the frame and no stove in sight.

I have seen what he does with wood and walls.

His plan is to stay for a while. 2 years of being transient and living in project houses. He wants to be home.

Oh honey, I feel that in my soul.

He might have been the closest I ever got to feeling home with another human.

I think so, yes. This is the truth.

But he was a vacation property that I got to visit, I never owned it. I could read the stories on the walls of the others that had occupied the place when I wasn’t around. I never had to knock. I knew where the glasses were and not to touch the really good scotch. Always felt familiar, safe but he was never mine.

4 years and a few days since he barbecued a steak for me on the coldest night of the year. I reminded him of this. Said I was glad we could still love each other.

He said it would have been strange if I never came back.

Of course I come back. He is a touchstone and 90% good memories. We can even giggle about having norovirus simultaneously. Messy few days.

He said some self-deprecating things as well, which I countered with, “my blog tribe asks about you. They want you to be well, and so do I.”

I showed him pictures of Wolf and I (not those pictures). Gave him a virtual tour of my new attic nest. Tales of Florida tans and oceans and skipping the Hulk. My dorm room Airbnb and adventures in Texas. Went through the stories of the last 100 days with practiced ease. The escape from fuckboy island and the unplanned return. The Overlook in upstate New York, going to New Jersey for Greek food, belly laughing in a CVS. So much good scotch. Finishing with the blackout at Sirens. He has seen me drunk and I am pretty sure he found it adorable.

Told him I was finally being loved the way I loved. Jokingly apologized, “it’s like a lot a lot, kinda overwhelming, sorry about that.”

He is happy for me.

He told me about his girls, plural. I am so pleased for him. He prefaced a story by telling me “I was just saying ‘yes’ to things you know?”

Yes, this.

He is contemplating buying a business misses being Charon and escorting the dead. He’s mostly content where he is. He gave me a quick tour of the new house and outlined what I can only imagine will be a beautiful, inviting, open concept basement suite he is going to start working on when upstairs is finished. He is building himself a home again and seems happy about it.

We are both going to yoga. Both being better to our bodies. Both relatively content. It was a good reunion.

I asked him what would make him happy.

A finished upstairs apartment. Another, more permanent, personal project to work on, more certainty about the future.

“Less limbo, I’ll feel better when this is done.” Gesturing around a half-finished main floor. Really just needs some paint and trim, and a good clean.

I knew exactly how he felt. My mind immediately flashing to the unfinished word documents and scribbled notes for the series I am writing.

Both in a holding pattern. Both so very close to being home. We just have to keep working towards it and we are both kinda tired. It’s hard knowing what you want and being so close, but not quite there. Especially when we were both lost and wandering for the last few years.

He dropped me off in time to go to yoga on his way to bang his yoga instructor. He has decided she is older than me, but I think we are the same age. I hope I didn’t break him.

Yoga kicked my ass yesterday. My left side is all sorts of messed up from years dancing.

I didn’t go to work; I didn’t want to. Ate good food, had good conversation and stretched and meditated in a warm room surrounded by strangers.

Fell into a beautiful deep sleep last night and dreamed of Wolf.

I have been anxiously awaiting the return of my dirty muse.

I woke up early this morning to the pungent smell of cigarette smoke and Dave talking on the phone.

He has been gone 10 days, picked him up yesterday morning.

The sun was streaming through the door and I smiled.

A paragraph of porn presented itself and I managed to get it typed out before wandering downstairs for coffee.

I hadn’t realized how used to solitude I had gotten. I spent the 10 days nesting upstairs. I didn’t want to be living out of bins, bags and boxes anymore. But the distraction of that had taken my attention away from writing. Forcing myself to work nights, trying to fill my coffers and failing, then sleeping the days away. Just getting up enough to let the demon dog out and make sure she ate.

I am so happy to be writing again. I realized if I can sell 2000 copies of Wolf & Witch I can stop stripping and just focus on the series. Kinda like finishing the upstairs apartment so I can work on building a home.

Talked to my publishing helper lady today. She had some good ideas for cover art. I now have 2100 words of the second installment down. Better than the 345 I have been sitting one for the better part of 2 weeks. And I would imagine Giant is home today, painting this or trimming that.

We are not where we want to be yet, but we are getting there.

When the bones are good, the rest don’t matter

Hozier & Marin Morris

https://www.sciencealert.com/where-female-ejaculation-comes-from-and-what-it-s-made-of?fbclid=IwAR1dyA4JjBphbbrsh64tN02ymmYI4ogTrsikoF7kFvR34g1RTR9sffLJ7AM

Ima call bullshit.

Actually Ima call Papayas.

I write BDSM porn and I gloss over the bits where I cum so hard that I start laughing and have to use the safe word because I am half ejaculating, half wetting the bed. It doesn’t translate well to a novel. Here its fine. Slightly embarrassing, but it’s life, these things happen. That is why trust is paramount.

I wrote this yesterday, and last night I posted this before I went to bed.

Figured it would either get ignored or explode in comments.

Small explosion.

Let’s be clear.

Pee is pee, ejaculate is ejaculate.

Doctors were curing ‘female hysteria’ with hysterectomies less than 60 years ago.

Medical science doesn’t put a lot of time or effort into our vaginas, so we have to.

Dick don’t work? Here are 500 different pills covered by insurance to fix that.

Pussy broke? No one cares.

I became sexually active around 15 years old. My partner was 22. It’s fine, put your pearls down. It was a very loving, consensual relationship and he did not take my virginity. But I wrote about all of this here.

https://www.ourladyoflustandgrace.com/hot-for-teacher.html

I lost my virginity rather drunk a year later, in a sleeping bag on the lawn behind the shittiest motel in town, to a boy who lied about his name and pretty much everything else.

I regret neither of these things. Except forgetting everything the first one taught me about being worth something better than drunken fumbling in a sleeping bag.

I saw my virginity as a childish sweater with unicorns on it that I’d outgrown, and I just wanted rid of the thing.

It was not magical. It was sweaty and damp and awkward but, I did have my first vaginal orgasm. Felt like fireworks in my belly radiating out. It was amazing for a minute, then back to sweaty messy yuck. But whatever.

The real travesty here was that it was my first orgasm and my last for the next 5 years.

I still had sex, I still enjoyed it. But something was always missing. There was a very definite feeling of frustration after.

I got pregnant with my son at 20. Moved to a big city, met a woman and started dating her. Not my first girlfriend, but my last.

Probably the 3^rd or 4^th time we were fucking, I squirted.

Of course, I thought I had wet the bed, and of course I was embarrassed, but I chalked it up to being 5 months pregnant. My body was doing all kinds of weird shit.

I apologized and offered to change the sheets.

“Why are you sorry?” She said

“You squirted.”

I what now?

She held her fingers to my nose and I smelled papayas, not piss. It was slippery and clear and abundant.

Which led to a long discussion about this new and exciting thing my body was capable of doing. And then she fucked me 10 more times and we really had to wash the sheets.

It felt goooood. Like the previous 5 years of sexual frustration was leaving my body in a fruit-flavored tidal wave.

Different kind of orgasm than the fireworks, but powerful and amazing regardless.

We broke up eventually and I didn’t squirt again for 10 years. I didn’t know how to do it on my own and my partners couldn’t figure it out either.

I had some good sex in there too, and some bad.

I have several kinds of orgasms now. From just warm and lovely, to opioid tingling, to black out, fireworks, tidal waves in varying combinations and intensity. Vaginas are awesome.

I learned how to maneuver my hips an inch to the left or up or down or wherever to get myself off. I became an active participant in my own pleasure. But I was always chasing those 2 sensations. The fireworks and the release.

It’s funny now, 30 years or 25 years, or 15 years later to look back and see what I considered good sex.

The majority of it wasn’t great.

But we don’t know until we know, you know?

I remember fucking a stripper one night and she was making all kinds of exorcism noises and after she sat bolt upright and said “what the fuck was that? It felt like fireworks.” I said, “that was an orgasm”. She said she had never had one before, I was 24, she was 27. See what I mean?

There were a couple of baby strippers talking about all the good dick they are getting. I didn’t say it out loud, but I know it isn’t great. I also wanted to serve them up to Wolf on a silver platter so he could show them what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and so I could watch, but that is another story for another day.

I left my ex husband for a while in the middle there. Call it a midlife crisis, whatever. Found myself a much younger personal trainer Scorpio who was really good in bed. Fireworks and tidal waves.

I was doing dishes one morning in a sundress, he came up behind me and fingered me so vigorously I half squirted, and half peed all over the kitchen floor.

It is paramount to pee before and after sex for the record.

I have read the articles wherein they state ejaculate is urine.

It isn’t.

And I will tell you how I know. The opening paragraph of this article for one. I could feel the difference and had to say ‘donuts’.

And …

I read the review of this sex toy online, a lot of us did. We shared it around the internet like the map to the grail. I bought it a week later.

https://www.reddit.com/r/TrollXChromosomes/comments/c7ecp2/whelp_i_guess_i_know_where_my_next_paycheck_is/

Please read this if you haven’t, it’s hilarious and true.

I am a seasoned sex toy veteran; I give myself tantric orgasms all the time.
I travel the cosmos, leave my body, it’s spectacular.
Hum and thrum for hours afterwards.
I didn’t realize, before I met Wolf, that I was attaining some semblance of sub space.
Now I have a partner that does this to me and it is beyond bliss.
But I am getting off topic.

I once jerked off 9 times a day for about 5 days straight and thought I broke my clit and had to message my nurse friend to figure out how to fix myself. The cure was to lay off my love button for a week and then not jerk off 9 times a day for several days in a row.
The agreement on the 3^rd floor of the girl’s house in Newfoundland was, we left our doors open always for air flow, so if one of us shut our door, we were jerking off, don’t listen and don’t knock ferfucksakes.
I peak at about 5 now, usually 3 and not every day. And I switch it up between different toys. My little pocket rocket died recently, and I seriously had a funeral and I really want to buy a new one, but I bought a too big butt plug instead.

Veteran I said.

Back to the pink holy grail of sex toys.

https://www.amazon.ca/Vibrators-Waterproof-Rechargeable-stimulator-Vibration/dp/B07GZHJ3NL

No big deal, I can handle this thing.

Oh no I cannot.

The first time I used it, I didn’t have the placement right. I came, but it was underwhelming for the hype.

I washed it off, put it back in the box and left it alone for a week.

Decided to try it again.

Ohmyfuckinggod.

Everything that happened to the lady in the review happened to me.

Leg cramps, blackout, seeing God, and ya, I squirted. Like soaked my mattress.

And, because this was new, I worried that I had wet the bed. It didn’t feel the same as the vigoroius digital penetration that usually makes me squirt. So, I checked…papayas. Okay good. Now, prolific amounts of laundry and a quick trip to Marshalls for a waterproof mattress cover.

Round 2.

The clitoral stimulation on this is just puffs of air, who knew?

The part inside isn’t that oddly shaped or big for that matter, but the combination of the puffing and the pulsing is godlike and intense.

It was the only toy I took with me to Florida and I regretted that. I was really fucking horny, talking to Wolf constantly but my vagina got bored with the pink thing halfway through, and since the town I stay in is 90% retirees, the closest sex store is 45 minutes away and really not that great.

So, since I have been home, I have barely used it.

Gotta switch things up.

I am coming off a really fucking bad period, about a week ago. I thought the world was ending and I could not stop crying. There was a black out drunk butt plug incident and I was not feeling sexy at all.

A few days ago, my libido came back from wherever she was vacationing and banged on the door really loud wanting to be let back in.

Out comes the pink toy and some weird hentai.

First orgasm in a while. Not bad.

Kinda want to go for round 2.

More weird hentai, and a slight struggle to get the placement right and shaZAM.

Now a couple things happened. My alarm went off on my phone and it pinged that Wolf had messaged, so I kinda stopped partway through ejaculating. Still a good orgasm. Everything was fine.

Messaged Wolf back.

Got cleaned up. Threw the dampish towels in the washer. Jumped in the jeep and headed out to run errands before the stores closed.

Found myself in the bedding aisle at Walmart looking for a duvet cover. Found one I liked but the queen size were on the tippy top shelf so I reach waaaaaaaay up, tip forward, hit my clit on a lower shelf and finish ejaculating right then and there. Like a lot. Like I am so glad my winter coat is long because I had to zip that fucker up because, yes, it looked like I peed my pants.

And, for a minute I thought I did.

My pelvic floor is strong, I do my Kegels. But Wolf is ultra super mega huge with the most delicious curve and he has been indulging me in a lot of squirting and a lot of really amazing rough sex and toy play as of late.

So, it’s possible there was some damage.

Get home, check.

Papayas.

So, that’s the story about how I came in Walmart.

And how I know ejaculate is ejaculate.

There’s Pornhub instructional videos.

In the immortal words of Douglas Adams

“A towel, [The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy] says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have.”

Several towels.

for more graphic content, like this, please subscribe to my Patreon account.

2-4 ultra personal articles per month for less than a stop at Starbucks

https://www.patreon.com/sarahthegoodwitch

I worked last night. Valentine’s day.

It’s just a day.

I love love, y’all know I do.

I sent Wolf extra pics and weird/personal Valentine’s messages I found on the internet.

He sent me beautiful messages and made sure I could treat myself to Starbucks. It truly is the little things. He said he needed me to tell him what I wanted so he could be better at getting me gifts. I smiled. He gave me a picture of him riding my favorite rollercoaster, that means more to me than anything. I can hear his internal dialog. “She loves this, I want to try it.” Doesn’t get better than that.

When I was in Florida, I bought him a fossilized shell.

We think of each other often, not just when the calendar says so.

Long distance isn’t easy, but he is so very worth it.

Work was not.

Dude walks into the bar and remarks on my tattoos.

He’s a chef, we shoot the shit. Then about 45 seconds after he tells me he doesn’t like his girlfriend’s back tattoo; he asks me out.

2 tings.

You literally just told me you have a girlfriend. He said “she lives in Vancouver, so it doesn’t count.”

Um, ya, it does. Mine is far away but I conduct myself like he is no further than the next room, always.

Second?

A strip club is not a girlfriend store.

I really think civilian women hate strippers, not because of what we actually do, but because how some dudes act around us. Knock it off.

Jerry Springer coined the philosophy I live by.

“Always behave like your significant other is in the next room.”

That man has seen some shit. Me too Jerry, me too.

My girl was drunk last night, and I had to drive her car home. She wanted to text her toxic ex.
I said, ‘you know how this ends… no sleep, bad sex and a full day of fighting and you won’t make it to work tomorrow.’ She called him anyways, he didn’t answer. Tiny miracles.

Found out yesterday that Final Boss unfriended me on Facebook.

In the immortal words of Stephen King

No great loss.

This cements the fact that the money I loaned him was indeed stupid tax. I am paid up on that, in full.

I think it was a bit of kismet that she got wasted and I had to stay sober. I can see very clearly some other timeline wherein I was the one drunk dialing the ex and she was tryna talk me out of it. It is all ego at this point. I hate being used and lied to.

But I’ve already said what I had to say. I know why he happened. And kudos to me, the 4.5 months he was in jail, I conducted myself like he was in the other room. Even when my twin flame walked into the bar. I cannot begin to tell you how hard that was. Herculean kinda barely covers it.

But… I made a promise and I kept my word.

He is stuck in perdition on crutches with his gnarly overcooked chicken wing of a nagging girlfriend.
Cellie’s curse worked. Now I have Sophia telling me “He ain’t worth it.”

He ain’t.

It’s not like he is the only one who owes me money. Another girl I supported while she was pregnant and when her baby was little unfriended me over 6000 dollars. I won a court case from my old work and they owed me 5 grand that never got paid back. Moonface bolted over 3 bills. Baby Hooker over 500. I feel like I am paying these people to leave my life and I am not sad about it.

The way I am looking at it now, if I can sell 10 000 books, that money comes back threefold and in very satisfying way. I want that.

It’s just money. It’s just stuff. I can always make more.

I am sitting in my cute little room that I put together with a shit ton of hard work, my most precious things, a lot of creativity and about $300.

I have the love and support of the aforementioned twin flame.

I also have writer’s block and I am finally ready to admit, it has a lot to do with work.

I can hear the universe yelling at me, saying very loudly, do what makes you happy and the money will come. But I keep getting in the car and going to work. My muse visits in the mornings and I am sleeping until noon. I can’t sleep because I am not drinking, so there is no morning for me. Sleep in, rinse, repeat.

I did have delicious dreams about my Wolf though.

As sexual as we are, and we really are; I love how magical he makes the mundane. In my dream we were in a small house sorting through boxes deciding what to keep and what we didn’t need. Cleaning and talking about the future. Smiling, laughing, taking little breaks to touch each other. A rote task made into something lovely just because we were together.

I remember him driving me to New Jersey for Greek food in the rain and the subsequent hunt for a pharmacy and tampons in the dark. Holding hands and belly laughing in a CVS, and that is all I want.

I am a firm believer in a few philosophies.

Happiness is more important than things.

Money is a tool to use, not a god to pray to. Contentment is in the little things anyways. And money can’t buy moments, plane tickets, yes. But it’s up to us to look for joy and savor every minute of it so the universe sees fit to give us more.

I’ll see it when I believe it. And I do, even more so now writing these words.

Also, the universe’s timing is perfect even if doesn’t suit your ego, or technically my vagina right now.
I want my man right now I said.

Make as much as you can out of this life, I think there are others, but they are not guaranteed. Here and now is.

This morning I woke up with enough money to book the Airbnb I want, it has a pool, and its in the most perfect location. Then as I was contemplating it, my phone binged. I forgot to pay my bill last month and this month is due now. If I book the Airbnb, I go back to zero.

Maybe that is what I need. Pressure and a dangling carrot.

Force my own hand.

Diamonds don’t just appear, and I am kinda tired of being coal.

I have been running from place to place and plane to plane for about 90 days now.

Florida was my longest duration in one place, I think. But that was 2 x 2 days driving, 2 hotel rooms, 2 different condos and 2 days at Disney in the middle. So, I am not sure if it counts.

Time is fucky here.

Dave was on a phone call outside my bedroom door this morning and woke me up, I heard him before I opened my eyes, so at least I knew where I was. I was mad about it earlier, but now I am glad. I would have lost the entire day. Not that I am doing much with it.

I have to ask 3 times what day it is, almost every day.

I have phantom alarms still going off at odd intervals in my phone. 12:15 just said Wolf.
If it’s Thursday, and I think it is, 2 weeks ago he was heading over right around then.
I left to see him a month and a day ago. That does not make sense at all.

But January was 84 years long so…

I should be doing laundry and finishing up what I can do in my room, for now, without spending any money. There’s furniture to shuffle and things to put away. But I don’t want to.

I should be writing porn.

And I can’t.

I spent a good chunk of yesterday feeling catatonic and/or crying.

It’s lingering. At least the crippling nausea is gone. Replaced with several small devils with pitchforks trying to stab their way out of my womb. Great, I’m not pregnant.

There’s a snowstorm here so work isn’t happening. Too far to drive on a slippery dark highway to sit in an empty, cold club.

I need a day.

It’s been 28 days since my last breakdown.

Actually no. We have to reset that to zero.

I got diagnosed with PMDD 9 years ago right around now.

You would think I would remember I have it and duck and cover accordingly but noooooo.

I gotta go and be a fucking mess every time the moon does a thing.

(I am not blaming the moon; I love the moon)

In my defense, it is never guaranteed that I will become hysterical. But a good way to push the odds out of my favor and make it happen is to drink or take Plan B. Done both of those things in the last lunar month. Whoops.

Now, for clarification I met Wolf 234 days ago, for reals, I just counted.

We spent 3 days together.

We started dancing around the idea of a relationship 170 days ago. Of that 170 days we have spoken at least once a day except for 10 of those and been physically together for 19.

It doesn’t sound great on paper, but the quality of the time spent is unparalleled and phenomenal.

We were joking about 100 000 emails but honestly, between texts, hours spent on Skype, emails and phone calls, I think we are getting close to that number.

Of course, I wish we were closer. Long distance isn’t ideal, but something about getting picked up and spun around in various airports, whisked off to cute little hotel rooms and eating sushi in different cities has a certain charm to it.

What is not charming is my fucking uterus going full nuclear meltdown when we are together.

I said earlier today that I need to dig into why I get like this and fucking heal already. And I do. But some of it is this.

https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/308332.php#symptoms

The original diagnosis questionnaire I filled out I had 16/17 symptoms. My anorexia trumped the binge eating. Yay?

For a PMDD diagnosis to be made, a patient must experience at least five symptoms, including at least one of the following:

• feelings of sadness or hopelessness
• feelings of anxiety or tension
• mood changes or increased sensitivity
• feelings of anger or irritability

Other symptoms of PMDD can include:

• apathy to routine activities, which may be associated with social withdrawal
• difficulty concentrating
• fatigue
• changes in appetite
• sleeping problems, whether excessive sleeping (hypersomnia) or insomnia
• feeling overwhelmed or having a sense of a lack of control

I have all ten of the ‘at least one’.

I used to call it feeling Chicken Little. The sky was fucking falling god dammit.

That makes it sound cute. It is not cute. Its me having to hang up the phone with Good Karen yesterday because everything coming out of my mouth was a horrible self deprecating truth and she was trying to talk me down but I couldn’t even feel optimistic or worthy enough of any kind of kindness to listen. So, I cried and stared at the wall until Brian go home.

So, what do I do about it?

Anti depressants aren’t really geared for this and leave me feeling numb or worse on the other 27 days of the month where I don’t feel like a sore, bloated, ugly, unlovable abomination. I take my vitamins when I remember to, so often but not always, especially not lately with the constant moving around. Yoga and UV light help a lot. Probably why it didn’t hit me in Florida.

Writing this is helping a bit.

I posted this article to Facebook
https://moon-child.net/rethinking-mental-illness-are-we-drugging-our-prophets-and-healers/?fbclid=IwAR38iFuL9HNbyXb7RtD_J86TC_WC2k1H9hJeUiZzLjDXRZbmBX0CAQQ190s

And a woman replied describing my symptoms/diagnosis exactly and I felt a little less alone.

I think, like literally everything in my life, it’s a little from column A and a lot from column B.

The thing that changed this time around is this.

I wasn’t met with scorn from my partner.
That small act in and of itself triggered me to start figuring this out.

I am beating myself up extra bad this time because of the aforementioned not getting a lot of time together and I would prefer absolutely none of those hours are spent crying over anything other than an overwhelming series of orgasms.

What went wrong, okay, I see 75% of that now, next step, how do I stop it. Instead of allowing the usual amnesia that happens after I become a completely different person for 2 days. Like all of my sins and crazy get washed away with the red tide. Setting monthly reminders on my phone so I know what’s coming is a start.

I believe I have unresolved trauma that surfaces in very ugly ways when I am drunk and especially corresponding cyclically with PMDD. Not drinking is on the list of how to lessen the symptoms of PMDD by the way. I still need a fucking exorcism for whatever else is going on with me and I am my own priest.

The devil you know and can prepare for is better than the one who meets you unaware.

Author’s note: 2 minutes after I hit publish, my period showed up. The sky is not falling anymore.

stay tuned for the continuing saga … 28 days later

I just found out that Wolf peeks at my Facebook page. The one that corresponds to this website.

MMMMmmmkay…Few thoughts…first one being

Fuck

Deadpan, like Witcher says it.

Second? “That is way too much crazy for me to tuck back in.”

Said he thinks about me all the time and likes to look for messages from his True North. That’s what he calls me, Stella Polaris, Princess Panda Eyes, and most deliciously, simply mine.
I loved being loved like this.
He has spent actual man hours trying to learn about me in every way he can.
Which is amazing to me.

But but but back up… Instagram, cool, the good pics go there, and now messages for him. This blog, a bit of a minefield, but he is incredibly intelligent, he knows what he doesn’t want to read and doesn’t read it
But that there? …that is a scary place.

I started that thing over 6 years ago. It is Skynet, it is self-aware and I have no control over it anymore.
I started it because I lived in a cabin in the woods by myself and I was posting way too many memes on my normal Facebook.

It eventually became a place to post blog posts, support my friends and fellow writers, I met real life friends there too. Liza took me into her house. Sara and I have been to Casadega together. Good Karen scoped out my Airbnb in Texas to make sure I was close to what I needed.
I have Owen and Jean-Yves, Doyle and Dave. Legions of amazing warrior women.
They fight the good fight.
My real-life friends are there too.
I have also been recognized in public. It kept me company and scared the shit out of me and has become increasingly more violent since 45 took office. Incels, and homophobes and nazis, oh my.

And just like this blog, I left it to rot while I lived on the island of perdition and fuck boys.

I’m back bitches.

The new lil book will be available next week on Amazon and I am not sad about my 1.7 million post reach right now.

I wrote the Kobe Bryant article last week and just so happened Wolf was home sick from work.
He was being playful, but I had 3 days of internet battles about when a good time to talk about these things is, apparently never, the answer is never. I told him what I was doing and said I couldn’t stop him from reading it, but all things considered, if he wanted a peaceful day, maybe don’t open the article.

The first (and last) time the subject of my rape came up he almost snapped a chair in half 2.5 time zones away.

I hit publish.

I immediately wrote another article that he could read because I wanted to talk about both things equally, because they are both about consent. He read that one too and knew exactly what I was doing.
Told you he’s smart.

I didn’t know what to expect. I can write the fucking Iliad and 5 people read it, but I post something that says fuck or porn and 400 people go peek.

I don’t write poignant or political articles very often.  Last week I did.

As of now, 3000 people have read it, including Wolf.

The journalist who originally re tweeted the Daily Beast article and was suspended is now reinstated and currently residing in a hotel due to death and rape threats…for reposting something she didn’t write in the first place. The Washington Post has done nothing to protect her even though she informed them right away and deleted the tweets when asked. Nor have they apologized.

She is also a sexual assault survivor. Which I eluded to being a statistically high probability in the article.

So um, ya.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

Free speech as long as you agree with my speech?

Sorry, that is not how this works.

I read a study wherein the chemical response to someone being told they are wrong about something they believe in triggers an actual fight or flight response.

That’s fucking astute.

Except for the flight part. No one leaves quietly anymore. Just fight fight fight.

The thing I believe is the thing to be believed.

Nuh uh

Greta Thunberg ring a bell? 10 000 men attacking a 14-year-old girl because she wants billion-dollar companies to stop killing the planet?
And those are just the ones I noticed.
If you aren’t a billionaire you don’t have a dog in this fight.
Sit down and stop threatening a little girl.

White women voting for Roy Moore, a predator who wasn’t allowed to go to certain malls because he harassed teenage girls. But they didn’t like it when I called them out on it.

The Cheeto flavored POTUS? I don’t have the time or the energy to list his faults, lies, issues, charges. I will say, if you googled ‘untreated syphilis’ yesterday a picture of him came up. And that’s all I have to say about that.

What about the other? This new thing. Kobe Bryant.

Well, last I checked it was about a 50-50 split on “How dare you” and “Thank you”.

I dare.

I said yesterday that I can understand murder, I can. It can be justified in some cases.

Rape? Never. Literally no reason other than violence against women fueled by power tripping male entitlement and the fucking patriarchy.

If one rape victim feels like she might be heard because his death was met with the reminder of the vile things he did in life? Good.

If one kid sees his idol getting dragged through the mud for this and rethinks what he is about to do to the drunk girl at the frat party. Amen.

The status quo is you say something while the guy is alive, you might ruin his life.

If you say something after, it’s disrespectful.

What about the women?

The last time I got assaulted was on a Tinder date, my best friend and I were fighting. I couldn’t drive home because I was afraid he would follow me and I was afraid to go back in the house because she was mad at me and I didn’t have any fight left in me. The minute I finally stepped through the door and I told her what happened our fight was forgotten, and she put the kettle on and held me until I could calm down.

That is how it should be, and it isn’t.

 I have women on my page saying, ‘well I was raped, and I didn’t do what she did.’

First of all, I am so sorry you had to go through that, secondly…what?

When #metoo gained traction, it broke my heart. I’ve held literally ALL of my friends. And they have held me. And we’ve talked through what we did wrong and how to stop it in the future.  After bad dates, or strip club assaults, or even just when something triggers their PTSD from something that happened before we met. Like this for example.

What shocked me and made me feel like I had to start saying something is when a little girl I used to babysit, now 14 years old reposted #metoo. And another friend’s daughter and another and another and so on. And then my mother. I cannot begin to explain the crushing weight on my chest when I scrolled through the minefield Facebook was at the time and saw those 6 characters on my mother’s timeline.

I stopped shutting up about this.

Wolf read the article. Said he was proud of me and asked me if I would consider using my following and traction to set up a war fund to go after those who post online rape and death threats for women and children who don’t have the means to do it themselves.

I am considering it. I don’t know where to start, but I will try.

A year after I started my page, I got graphic pictures of decapitated women and rape threats from a dude in a trailer park 800 miles away. I’m grown. I have a very resourceful internet family that had his IP address tracked in under 5 minutes. I still checked all the locks on the doors for weeks after and every time one of the dogs barked in the night, I reached for the baseball bat beside my bed.

What about the others?

My girl at Nephilim Rising had a similar experience a few days ago because she dared mock 45’s spiritual advisor calling for the abortion and miscarriage of all satanic children. From the same governing body that brought you Space Force.

But I post something about abortion and rape being the same basic control over women’s bodies and I have to wade through 350 comments about how disgusting I am.

I am not disgusting. Body autonomy is a basic human right.

We need some new rules.

Your ex-girlfriend’s friend who used to be friends with a girl who knew her is not a reliable source of information. Not back in high school and definitely not now.

We are literally plagued with bots on social media. Check your sources, I know its hard, you gotta click the little *i* on the article and make sure they aren’t posting other articles about mutant robot spiders taking over Australia (I actually read this) before you share it.

That one guy on Youtube reposting his own disguised voice over a video from Anonymous doesn’t know what is happening in China just because 40 000 other people fell for it and watched it.
I was one of 40 000 until I saw the number of followers and got some sense.

Don’t say anything to anyone on the internet you wouldn’t say out loud, sitting across from me over a cup of coffee or in front of your mother.

Women are not things. We don’t exist for male pleasure or power trips or as incubators.

Until science starts putting something in the water to raise intelligence and lower rage, if a girl says a man hurt her, the statistics say he did. If a man says a woman assaulted him, believe him too.

Women, be better to the good men, stop making excuses for the bad ones and start being kinder to other women. Everyone has their own past and struggle you know nothing about.

Myself included.

I would love to go back to posting things about love. I am in it and it is glorious. But, in case you hadn’t noticed, shit is on fire, yo.

I am suddenly reminded that this country, both of them, murica and canadia were founded by people who were too puritanical for puritanical England.

Our forefathers fucked their good wives through holes in bedsheets and slapped scarlet letters and scorn on anyone who dared break this really weird tradition.

Tablecloths were invented right around the same time in England, as table legs resembled women’s appendages and were too suggestive. And people still left because that wasn’t quite uptight enough for them.

Apparently, we have no come that far…like at all.

So, I posted what I thought was a really good idea on my Facebook page.

Watermark your nudes with the dude’s name so you know who leaked them if they do get leaked.

Fucking brilliant.

Right?

Wrong.

Cue the army of Karens clutching their pearls.

dOn’T SeNd NoooooOOOOOdDS.
Don’t you have any self-respect?
Think of the children.

Okay back up.

Simmer down.

Listen Linda.

I would never tell anyone they must send nudes.
How ridiculous would I sound?
I’m not even saying it’s a great idea.
Just, if you do, here’s a thing you can do to make it safer.
It’s a personal choice.

Why you telling me what to do with my body?

I would also never photograph anyone without their consent.
Nor share personal photographs without asking.
In fact I will react violently to being filmed or photographed in public or at work without my consent.
Women are not things, we are not free porn. Pornhub is free porn.

And I do not like unsolicited dick pics, no one does.

But body autonomy 101, it’s mine. I like it. I like being naked. I have a tiny computer with a camera in it in my hand. If I am feeling sexy and I happen to be nude, I’m taking a pic. And I am sending it to whomever I please.

In the time called ‘before’ I had a cache of good ones. I sent them to more than one suitor. I am totally fine with this. They were too. I sent them nudes, do not look a gift nude in the mouth? That just sounds weird.

Wolf expressed a desire to have certain things that were just for him. My ass for one, some bra and pantie sets I bought specifically just for him and any picture I send. It’s part of our custom agreement and I abide. I’m His and I love him.

There is one pic of me that I took with the blue starry filter on Snapchat, just my face, it’s his favorite. I offered to put it on Instagram so he could find it whenever he wanted. He said no, it belongs to him.
So, no one will ever see that picture except him and I. Simple respectful act.

I have never sent him anything out of the cache either. But I am getting off topic.

Nudity empowers some. Modesty empowers others.

I would never dream of telling anyone else what to do with their body and I am getting sick and tired of Susan telling me what to do with mine.

Stop slut shaming.

Period. Full stop.

Some people like to fuck and be naked, get over it.

No one is coming into your house with bondage gear forcing you out of your vanilla sex every other Tuesday after book club and a glass of white wine routine. You do you boo.

You might have to have an uncomfortable conversation with your kids because, they now walk around with tiny computers and cameras in the pockets and there is pressure to send nooooods. I am not down with that at all. Consent consent consent. Coercion is not consent.

In fact, “send n00ds” is where I lose interest with dudes. It’s a turn off. So are, and I cannot emphasis this enough, unsolicited dick pics.

Also, I am not always feeling sexy or like finding the right lighting and contorting my body just so with my phone high and to the right, you can pull a muscle getting a good one. Although I did have amazing success getting some great butt shots with a pile of books on the coffee table and the timer.

Here is where this gets dangerous. Beyond a leg cramp.

At best it’s a debate on the internet, an irritating tiresome debate, but okay.

At worst, it’s the Salem witch trials. Women being put to death because of the ignorance of power-hungry men and the jealousy of other women. Stop, those are your sisters.
Women have got to stop shaming other women.
I have nothing against book clubs, white wine and vanilla sex.
I prefer strip clubs, whiskey and rough stuff with my dom, buuuuttttt….to each their own. If it isn’t happening to your body in your bedroom, it’s not your business.

It gets really extra ultra dangerous is when Quebec police let a violent sex offender out on a day pass and gave him a green light to see a prostitute and he killed her. Her life was not worth less because of her profession. But to them she was somehow worth the risk.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/montreal/eustachio-gallese-1.5439020

There is a correlation here. Slut shaming is real. It is deeply rooted in our unfortunate male dominated, puritanical, bible thumping heritage.

It can be something as little as an offside comment like ‘how many dudes are you sending pics too, lol’ to something as extreme as death.

I am going to close this out with 2 of the intelligent, poignant comments left on this thread.

Aside from a shithead breaking someone’s trust, can we just talk about the fact it’s JUST nudity. Big deal. Everyone has a body under clothing we are all naked. We need to stop shaming and being ashamed. It’s just nudity for goodness sake. People don’t get as bent out of shape about violence, as they do about nakedness, and that’s seriously fucked up.

I don’t get it, y’all know these puritanical, archaic ideas were created to keep us smaller, weaker, more subservient, easier to control and mistreat… Don’t buy into that shit, it’s not cute and really just makes you look dumb as hell.

Preach.