Shame is a Prison

Prisons are built with stones of Law,

Brothels with bricks of Religion.

The pride of the peacock is the glory of God.

The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.

The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God.

The nakedness of woman is the work of God.

Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.

The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity too great for the eye of man.

William Blake, The Marriage of HEAVEN and HELL

These are some of the most beautiful words ever written.

I think the worst word in the English language is ‘ew’.

I didn’t realize how much it scared me until I met a man who asked to hear all of my depravity.
I braced for the inevitable ‘ew’. But he loved me even more when I told him every fucking thing.

Shame is a prison. He is the key.

I have always been an overtly sexual creature. I just am.

I tried to hide it, had it beat out of me, had it explored tentatively, had it ignored until it almost atrophied.

None of those things served me.

All of the sex stories I told him from my youth started with ‘it was ungodly hot’.

Because it was.

I grew up in a cottage town. To keep any semblance of privacy I could only find satisfaction with summer boys. I didn’t drive, I had to wait until they came to me and they did. On sand covered blankets, in alleys and cedar groves, fire escapes and front lawns.

I had anonymity this way, the freedom to ask for what I wanted without repercussions. If they said ‘ew’ I wandered off. No great loss.

I lost that somewhere. When I finally moved away and found myself in relationships.

No, that’s not right.

In my 20’s I was brave.

I had 2 relationships wherein I could ask for what I wanted and receive it, mostly. For the simple reason they wanted things from me that were outside the norm and I played along. Why wouldn’t I?

Then came a series of unfortunate events, my marriage being one of them.

Who marries a succubus and then doesn’t fuck her? And what kind of nymph stays in a relationship where she gets laid once a month on a good month?

I do have a friend in this jail right now, and I know why she is there and I know her pain. We edit each other’s erotica and find comfort in each other’s existence. I know a few women like me now, not exactly like me but similar shades of what I am. My sisters.

I left my marriage and should’ve endeth my purgatory. But I tripped into more sexual limbo with another.

I left him too. But somewhere I stopped trusting myself and my new lovers to accommodate when I said more, more, more.

I had an awakening last summer.

A few things happened.

It amazes me how alive and well the porn industry is, and yet when faced with the reality of those airbrushed actors and contrived storylines everyone flinches labels it ‘dirty’ and ‘wrong’.
No what is dirty and wrong is you are buying it and then judging others for doing what you really want to be doing.

I was sitting at my old dining room table in my girl’s new house. Catching up with friends. Talking about sex and how people peek in bedrooms and judge what they see. WHY YOU FUCKING LOOKING?
A man told a story of a girl he knew who was just trying to get under a prude’s skin. She said her one regret before getting married is that she hadn’t scratched ‘gang bang’ off her bucket list. The prude in question kinda blustered a ‘well, I don’t think that is very ladylike’, she replied (without skipping a beat) ‘well then you can’t come to my gang bang.’ I howled.

She instantly became my power animal.

Then the Ashely Madison hack interview wherein a cougar became my other power animal. When she said she had an account for the sole purpose of wanting to get fucked by two 20 somethings at once somewhere between spin class and picking up the kids at hockey practice.

Lined up with the man who wanted to hear my stories and asked for more, more, more.

Epiphany, it is alright to be me.

He added ‘mine, mine, mine’.

This isn’t about jealousy, it is about choice and belonging.

When combined with

This becomes my truth.

I want to hunt. I want to come home. And I want and be loved.

I want to be dirty and depraved, examined and explored, pulled apart and then held together by the same arms that held the door open for me and let me out.

I know it is a lot to ask. But nothing is as satisfying as being absolutely what I am and to be chosen over and over for it.

Ex hubby told me in a threatening tone that all I was going to end up with was nothing but memories and stories of lovers past.

“Do you promise?”

Those memories are among my favorite things. I covet them, I write them down, I dream of them at night and wake up happy and craving more. Why would I do something so amazing if I didn’t want to remember it? Touch, taste and smell, visceral firing of synapses bringing me right back there.

And what if I could find someone who loved my stories so much he left me wild to make more? Bring them home and share with him. Show and tell. Someone who lets me journey to the edge of madness just to be waiting for me to come back to him. Who pushes me to push my own boundaries and wants to know every detail of where I have been.

There are things I have yet to try out of fear of the all terrible ‘ew’. But I will, it’s my body to do with as I please.
The idea that another human being could not just accept me afterwards but rejoice in it is bliss. The stuff of dreams.

Everything you can imagine is real. Picasso

If I exist so must my opposite and my equal.

If I end up with nothing but stories, so be it.

I’ll write them down in graphic detail and sell them to the people who call me names.
They can watch me from afar while they hide in prisons of their own making.

I have my key.