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Still Is

May 15, 2016

“Who knows” I said, “you and me…the idea of us might have been the knife that cut him out for good. I have no way of knowing.”

I don’t. I look and wonder, hope and faith fighting it out. But I know nothing.

And the moment I did know, was bittersweet. In the way of those horrid romance novels, I had to leave to see the truth.

And now I wait, and I work. Can we just skip to the end now, the happily ever after or something like it. A sort of fairy tale. Shaking sleeping beauty, wake the fuck up.

I saw and re-posted that Bukowski quote today and broke my own heart, hard. I did that and I’m bleeding out at the thought of it.

I am so fucking sorry.

As a teenager, I fancied myself a writer, dropping bad acid and dripping bad poetry on bad trips. Reading Bukowski made me realize I am not a poet. That sometimes less is more (but I can’t shut up) there is beauty in simplicity and I wasn’t the only one who thought the world was seven layers of fucked up. He made me fall even more in love with words. I saw that words are power, the can kill or heal depending. Like knives.

Silence does that too, kills or heals depending.

Limbo is a bitch.

I said before that my heart went away a year ago and never came back. It’s true. She bounced off a satellite or three, slipped away from me in middle of the night. Traveling through time zones and space, landed softly. She’s currently locked out of the house. This is me, helping her scratch at the door.

Every time he breaks me, and he does, I put myself back a little different. I like the person I am becoming, the one that heals and forgives, gets stronger and braver. Like a mosaic, or a stained glass window. But this time I broke him and I don’t know how he heals, I never did. To the naked eye it seems like something he cannot do, or maybe just not alone.

The only thing I know is he needs time, which I have and will gladly give. The other ingredients of his forgiveness elude me. I know he values loyalty and I fucked that one up, royally. Openness and honesty I can do. I have told him a few times that I fucked up, apologized with sincerity and then make a point of not making the same mistakes twice. He forgave me once.

It doesn’t help that I find new creative ways to fuck up or that he finds new things to look for and assume.

I’m tired of this dance, my feet hurt and I am a little dizzy, please can we just go to bed already, I’d rather dance with him there.

Accepting all I’ve done and said,
I want to stand and stare again,
til there’s nothing left out…

Peter Gabriel radio edit In Your Eyes.

men

Wide Open & Held Together

May 3, 2016

I told another man I loved him yesterday…not my boyfriend… (I think I hear a gasp from the audience)…so why is he not freaking out? My boyfriend I mean.*

Because he knew. It’s how he found me, loving that other man who had a penchant for leaving me, in a crying puddle on the floor.

My (now) boyfriend showed up in my inbox unannounced, simply said “you okay there puddle?”

I was exactly broken enough to answer, “No, no I am not.” With an implied ‘help me’.

So he did.

I needed him.

He didn’t pry or force, he just let me ramble. Asked a few poignant questions.
“2 years huh? That’s a long time Sarah.” And I realized he was right.
Never once said ‘fuck that guy’.
And he didn’t let go.

As it happens when I am treated with enough patience and given enough time, I got sick of my own shit. I knew I had done all I could do with the Poet short of getting on a plane and showing up at his house, which I knew wouldn’t have gone over well.

So Jason and I started talking about other things, there was some tentative flirting sparked by a pair of kitten crotch panties. I read his writing, he read mine and we realized we had a lot of common philosophies.

He then drove 5.5 hours to see me for one. Held my hand through the bustle of an airport when I was close to flying apart and didn’t let go.

He sat across from me and encouraged me to tell stories in the brief time we were given. His eyes lit up when mine did and basically, that was it. I was smitten as fuck.

Like any of those teen romance movies from the 80’s where our heroine sees that the one she really loves has been standing in front of her the whole time disguised as a friend.

Like the Princess Bride, where she realized every time he said “as you wish”, what he was really saying was “I love you.” And I love him back.

He is my farm boy, poor and perfect.

I had a psychic tell me I would have to make a choice in the spring, between a rich man and a poor man. Huh. Just remembered that now.

The other reason he is not freaking out is that he saw the article I posted before anyone else did.

I sent it to him.

His initial reaction?

“That was beautiful”.

Me: You understand?

Jason: Do I understand as in?

Me: What I said. Why I had to say it. And that it takes nothing away from how I feel about you?

Jason: Yes baby I understand that….You’re making peace.

Me: I believe that you are the kind of man who can extrapolate that if I can love the wrong person this much…then I can love you even more.

Jason: Peace with what was….what could’ve been….who and where you are now. I know exactly how that feels.

Me: It should be enough to know I tried. But…Ima writer.

So is Jason. We feel things, see them touch, them taste, them and then write about it.

It’s how I noticed him in the first place. How we first began to explore and show each other how we felt. And how we continue to do so. I paraphrased an article he wrote about me as the opener for this one.

https://thelithiumchronicles.org/2016/04/28/make-it-count-jason-king/ *

We joked yesterday about misplaced jealousy over our past.

“Do you really think I got this amazing by reading about sex and love in books while cloistered in a nunnery?”

I didn’t. I have fucked and loved a lot.

Nor did he. I know he loved his last one and she almost destroyed him, and baby I know exactly how that feels.

Rumi said, you must keep breaking your heart until it opens.

I am open.

Jason showed me how good it feels to be wide open and held together at the same time.

“Baby you have a good heart….and you love….it’s part of you being you…..but….I know you love me….and you know I love you….it’s that simple.”

Me: it really is. I swear to god we just leveled up, or I leveled up and caught up to you…and you know Ima blog about this too right?

Jason: Haha I would expect nothing less from my girl….I love our level ups

Me: Did I catch up or did you come with me? Either way I feel brave and happy and good

Jason: Honestly….I don’t think it matters….we are here….holding hands. And feeling brave and happy and good…..is what matters….

It is.

the poet

Open Letter to The Poet

May 2, 2016

I had plans to write just this one line.

~~I stayed, I tried and~~ I fucking love you…god knows I do.

The end.

But, there is always a ‘but’.
When she sent me over to your page to read ‘pretty damned sure this is about you Sarah’ and I found myself blocked, for the first time in 2 years, I knew beyond doubt and question that you loved me.
Not because of what you wrote, because you blocked me.

And honey, that is really fucking fucked up.

“If you love me, then love me.” Stephen King

Why is this hard?

What you wrote was glorious, and all of the things most women dream of hearing.

I am not most women. Nothing compared to hearing you whisper “you fucker” in my ear, that I gave you an ‘emotional boner’ or sighing when I said something that pleased you. That was the real you talking to the real me, that was us. That laugh when you’d call me a clever girl, like diamonds, but more precious.

I asked you out for coffee, 2 years ago tomorrow.

I remember the dancing dots, my hopes soaring that you might actually say yes.

You spent 20 minutes hunting through my profile pictures and found exactly what you were looking for, a reason to say no, a nipple.

You decided in that moment I was exactly like all the rest, an attention whore/exhibitionist who would do anything for social media likes.

You told me to fuck off.

You never asked me why I put it up. For the record, it was a show of solidarity for a female friend who had been put in Facebook jail over a nipple. Nothing more.

There was nothing to forgive. You were protecting yourself, I saw it. I understand. I feel protective over you too, viciously so, even in absentia I would allow no one to speak badly of you.
Even now, I still defend you. I always will. It’s my way.

The exact same amount of time you spent looking for reasons this would never work and making assumptions about me, I spent learning you. Gleaning why you are the way you are and trying to figure out ways to prove I loved you with the parameters given.
And lordy-fucking-lord there were a lot of parameters. I could barely move an inch without hitting a wall.

I think I realized, the third or fourth time you came back, that if you stayed, life as I knew it would be over. And I didn’t mind. I called you my life’s work and I meant it.

“…my love for you is so overpowering I’m afraid I will disappear.” Paul Simon

I wasn’t afraid.

I knew that once I laid eyes on you the rest of the world would fall away. And once you saw into mine you would trust me. My face would forever reflect that fact that I belonged to you alone. My body and mouth would back that up in their respective languages. I am yours, nothing more.

And I wasn’t afraid.

I started out being afraid of you. In awe. I chuckle to myself when I think back to my first idea of what and how you were. Some of it astute and the rest so far off.

I imagined you in a small apartment above a bodega. A desk overflowing with poetry and balled up pieces of paper, a few whiskey bottles and full ashtrays. A small iron balcony on which you would sit, smoke and drink your morning coffee or afternoon whiskey and just observe.
Pounding at the keyboard, trying to diffuse some love back into the world, one drop of your heart’s blood at a time.

Every time I bought a book or a piece of your work I thought I was helping you in some small way. Funny in retrospect, but it is the thought that counts.

Poor and lost and lovely to me. And I loved you, as is, or as I imagined. I still do.

When I realized how wrong I was, I just chuckled to myself and gleaned an even further understanding as to why those walls of yours are so damned high.

I wish I could remember the exact moment that I realized you were human. Flesh, blood and marrow. Fallible and fumbling, just like me. It was a good moment. I fell harder for you and became braver than I have ever been.

When you told me about your life I absorbed every word, every tone in your voice that said ‘this is what made me’. I learned you, even when you left, I kept studying our conversations. I wanted to be better at loving you. You were worth it.

You taught me I wasn’t worth it, to you.

Your safety is more important than the risk it was to just love me and see where it goes.

I understand, your safety is important to me too.

That is why 5 people know your name…and no one knows the secrets you told me in the dark.

I wouldn’t trade a minute of you.

Since last July I have had plane ticket money tucked away in a drawer, waiting for you to call me to you. But you never did.

You opened up a whole new world of possibilities as to how honest I can be with those around me about who and what I am, the things I want and the things I have done. You made me admit things out loud that I had hidden even from myself. You unlocked the cage society made for me and set me free. And I know you loved me for it.

So I will always love you. I had to flip the switch from active to passive. And now back again, there is nothing unlovable about you to me.

I am writing this to you, in blood red, dripping graffiti on one of the walls you threw up to block me with. And that is the best I can do, in the parameters given.

men

The Big Blue Thingee

April 29, 2016

I put out distress calls, god knows I do.

I spent a long time alone in my head believing myself to be strange and unworthy.

Spent that exact amount of time toning myself down and trying to figure out what everyone wanted me to be. Like wearing costumes that didn’t fit. They pinched, itched and hurt.

I think I am naked now.

I found my people and came home to them. We are naked often, stripped bare, just being us.

And sometimes, the me that I am, is a sad girl, a scared girl, I don’t understand the actions of others. Especially those who seek to hurt, maim and manipulate me and mine.

Still, I go out and I try to live my life. I bump into people with sharp edges, I try to love them anyway and I bleed.

If it’s bad enough, I cry out and always, without fail, someone from my village comes running with bandages.

Only makes sense that my heart and ear is also fine-tuned to hear others crying out in the wilderness.

A girl said upon the Facebook “I don’t think I should be allowed out in public today.”

Sounds exactly like me 6 weeks ago.

My first instinct? Go get her and take her home. Make a sushi roll outta her and take it from there.

Instead I messaged and said “I’m around if you need an ear and a coffee.”

You see, we’ve only met twice in person. Once at a photoshoot covered in fake blood and once at the launch party for the calendar that said photoshoot was for. https://www.facebook.com/deadglamourgirlz/?fref=ts

She was drunky and I got her car where it needed to be.

She is cute when she is drunky, and next level sex kitten when she is in front of a camera.

Good times. Not enough to form a lasting bond, but enough that I was intrigued by her.
And then there was the distress call I couldn’t ignore.

We agreed on tacos the next Tuesday.

I told her she is a juxtaposition to me. A chameleon, and I find her fascinating and wonderful. Because at her core she is sweet, kind, smart and a total dork. Kinda like me. Except she has the switch inside of her that turns her brave ALL the way up in a way I have not learned yet.

That day her switch was turned off. Or maybe it wasn’t. It took guts to sit across from a relative stranger and show the absolute shit hand of cards she has been dealt lately. Her bottom lip quivered and I saw tears that never made it out of her eyes, but they were there, hovering, waiting.

The things we talked about are no one’s business. This is my blog and my space. If I could out my friends and their shenanigans, I would have a million followers just for the Cara Show alone.
But one thing she said, I had an immediate counter for. I had real life proof that what she wanted wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

I was a bit late for lunch, for 2 reasons.

A real estate agent and the big blue thingee.

I got stuck waiting for my apartment to be shown, they were late.

Aaaand…Jason and I were trying to make our relationship Facebook official and we couldn’t get the big blue thingee to work. This one.

One of the reasons the girl sitting across from me eating tacos was sad is because she had been with someone for several months and he wouldn’t claim her on social media.

I know right now that some of you are inclined to believe that it’s not a big deal. And if that is your opinion, more power to you. I am not here to judge. I have said before my relationship status was on mute for 5 years.

The only other long distance relationship I had with a semi public figure/writer…it was important to him to be anonymous, so I kept his name like a secret in my mouth. Even though I could bury him, I wouldn’t, I didn’t and I won’t. It’s important that he is safe, even after everything.

It’s no different than some people like holding hands in public, some don’t. Young Un hated it and I knew it. He knew I loved it so sometimes he would, for me. And that was enough, more than enough actually.

It was important to her. So it is valid. She is valid. She is worthy of any gesture that adds comfort to her. Her partner, if he is to be called that, should have acknowledged this BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT A PARTNERSHIP IS. It’s not a failing on her part, it is something simple that she wanted and was within his power to give to her. But he chose not to and thereby didn’t chose her.

Now she is free to find someone who loves the way she loves.

I understand completely. I don’t want to be a secret either, nor does Jason.

In my relationship with him, it is important to US. Doesn’t matter what his/my/our reasons are. I want to be with a hand holder. I want to be held and claimed and celebrated. And it isn’t some bullshit girly fairy tale shit that doesn’t exist. It does. I am proud of my man and proud to be his, and the world knows it.

We are both writers, we both spill our guts. And I have a feeling that we will show the world what is possible when it comes to love via the vast ocean of the internet.

When we are out in public there is no doubt that I belong to him. My body language screams it.

We finally figured out the riddle of the big blue thingee.

Jason has claimed me, over and over. Written pieces and articles about me, in which he calls me Sarah. And my name spoken by him in his sweet southern drawl is about the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.

https://thelithiumchronicles.org/2016/04/28/make-it-count-jason-king/

lost boys

Looking Back and Fucking Thumbs

April 28, 2016

“…that’s a biiiiiiiig fuckin’ thumb you just sent me.”

That was the first time I heard his voice. InstaSploosh.

I am a sucker for a southern drawl, I won’t lie.

American accents sound like home and happiness. Some more than others. “Just shut up and let me say this” sounds bad regardless of the voice. I think even Morgan Freeman telling me to shut up would get my back up.

And that badly placed thumb on Facebook messenger. I hate it, seems dismissive. And yet I hit it by accident on the regular.

Meh.

Just gonna roll with it. And “big fucking thumb” has become part of our language with each other. I do so love it when he says ‘fuck’.

We talk, oh lord we talk for hours upon hours. I feel like I am in high school again, phone cord stretched to the limit out the back door so I can smoke and listen.

High school sweetheart went to juevie when we were god, like 17 maybe. I spent every night on the phone accepting collect calls and every day for the next month working to pay off the phone bill. He came home and dated someone that wasn’t me for the record. Why does my life get stuck on repeat? That was 25 years ago and I am still doing the same thing? And why do I have to have these moments mid-write?

And now that heaven is on fire, in the worst technicolor, oh and I’ve been chasing angels all my life. Amber Run, Heaven

There it is.

So now what us gonna do?

“This war won’t stand long, God won’t let it.”[1]

I am still fighting. I’m tired now.

“I am tellin’ all y’all it’s a sabotage.” [2]

Mercury is in retrograde, all phone lines to God are currently down, please try again later.

Day one. Shit is already slipping sideways.

My laptop decided to do an update shutdown and I lost 5 pieces I was working on. Microsoft Word had the audacity to dangle a carrot called “would you like to restore your previous documents” to which I replied YES. And no, not a thing. Just blank spaces where before there were words and feelings and thoughts and links.

“This is me breathing.” [3]

Jason had to tell me that yesterday. Breathe baby.

Somehow he knew. I was sitting in front of my laptop, mouth agape, tears rolling down my face.

I have a private album upon the Facebook called “holding area”. It’s where I put the things. Snippets, screenshots, inspirational shit. I was pulling screenshots off my phone looking for a conversation with Leah for an article. We fought, I was expecting a heartpunch. What I wasn’t expecting was uploading these tiny wee thumbnails that were not conversations with Leah.

Here come the Giant. Waltzing out of the past.

I wasn’t ready.

Sucker punch.

And this wasn’t the worst one. Not even close.

I have a self-defence mechanism, sharpened and honed over the last 3 years of dating ghosts.

More often I cut myself on the damned thing and baby do I bleed.

I decide I made them up in my head and he wasn’t that great, he didn’t really say those things and I am just a silly girl and look, everything is fine now.

And then time passes and I go looking for something else, innocently enough and I open their assigned oubliette.

And lo, he did say those things, and so much more.

I have got to learn how to label things better.

I also need to learn to stop looking back over my shoulder lest I trip, or worse. What if God sees and I become Job. Nothing grows on salted ground. I need to grow.

I said to Jason that I thought he deserved better, that I wasn’t coming into this clean. And he just stayed. Made a hundred excuses as to why this WILL work.

He doesn’t punish me for my past or even ask me to hide it. He works through it with me and looks for the why.

He doesn’t tell me to shut up. Quite the opposite actually.

He simply says “okay baby”. Let it out baby, give it some air and let’s work through this.

We did. We are. We will.

“Maybe what you think is you being a hurricane just feels like a light sprinkle to me.” He said.

I think so maybe, yesh baby.

This.

[1] Cold Mountain, Ruby Thewes

[2] Beastie Boys, Sabotage

[3] Grosse Pointe Blank, Martin Blank

Uncategorized

Okay Baby

April 28, 2016

Oh you did a buttload of drugs and you feel shitty and you need me to come get you so you can sleep in my bed and cry on my couch?
Okay baby. Love you be there in 20. What’s the address again?

Oh, you want to ride a mechanical bull with no panties on?
Okay baby. I will hold your purse, and film it.

I want to go swimming, can we get a hotel with an indoor pool?
Okay baby. (What no foot stomp required? Thanks baby.)
(See also, can we go shopping at Target for shit I don’t need so I can be supportive and then can you fuck me in a blanket fort…okay baby. Yesh)

Oh, you think its okay to bring your drug dealer to brunch and spend 3 days text screaming at me because I didn’t just say ‘okay baby?’
Okay baby, we done. That one wasn’t okay.

Which is weird considering…lately everything okay baby.

It’s my new mantra, whatever life hits me with, its just okay baby.

Once upon a time my dad was a shutdown coordinator for a huge company.
He would tally the man hours and outside hires to get everything running on budget within the time given. He worked with another man to whom he would show his well calculated specs to.
This man would look them over and religiously say at first “Okay Jonny”. Then it would all slide downhill. “Okay Jonny, I thinks so…I think so maybe. Um no. No Jonny. Just no.”

In my household it became part of our vernacular. Those inside jokes, movie quotes and song lyrics that become a private language between those you love and spend time with. The original back and forth got shortened. And any time the answer to anything was ‘no’, it became, “I think so maybe no.”

I have since changed my outlook on life the universe and everything due to a random trip to New Orleans with Miss No Rules.
There are no rules.

If I love you, I just love you. As is.

You wanna do a thing? Okay baby.

You hurt me? Shrug, okay baby.

Plans for hotel rendezvous? Okay baby.

It works for everything, like tabasco, perspective, duct tape and WD-40. And should be applied liberally.
This is some next level, ‘just roll with it’ shit. And I love it.

What happened is while I was waiting for life to happen, it was already happening. I panned out whilst watching the movie that is my life and saw that with little or no direction, everything was great. We lay in the road and get up if a car comes. Dance to no music or all of it. Life isn’t scripted, and I love the people playing star roles with me right now. Exactly the way they are, messy, funny, honest, belly laughs and sometimes out of control.
We have all survived everything up until this point. Those nights laying in bed with my heart ripped out, I wanted to die, thought I might. But at some point I got back up and back on with the business of living.
And as scary as the new stuff was, it was also really amazing. And it continues to be so, exponentially better.

I always loved this poem…so much that i wanted to be it, somewhere I lost my way.

Found it again and found the one who makes me feel like he is yesh, and I may…

Planned a vacation with Jason, we must have reorganized things, added and subtracted 1000 times, if once. Now he has to work 3/8 days. No breakdown, no subtext, no foot stomps. We can snuggle and watch movies when you get home and I’ll make dinner. Okay baby.

My friends are all at different points in their lives, most of them younger than me, some of them making right messes out of things BUT THOSE ARE THEIR MESSES TO MAKE. In retrospect all my messes had lessons buried in the shit. Why deny them the same thing just because I actually know better. If it gets dangerous I will pull them out, and they will come with me because they know that I am the Queen of Okaybabyland and if I have to say, no baby, there is a reason for it.

They say things like ‘I love him.’ and I just say “okay baby”. I am not the expert on love, I have a really good idea what it feels like to be accepted and wanted as is. Like a solid friendship, with lust on top. Closer than I have ever been. Feels like love to me. For them? I just know how I love them and hope they find something similar. Someone who just lets them be themselves and says ‘okay, that’s my baby.’

men

Smitten as Fuck (airports and kudzu)

April 24, 2016

When you live 9 hours away from the one you are smitten as fuck with, date-night takes on a whole new meaning.

Netflix+sweats, yesh. But my show stayed on pause for 5 hours while we talked about the universe, life, exes, work, our children, parents and grandparents. Feelings growing like kudzu, about a foot a day, wrapping us us in happy green and changing the landscape. Then we belly laughed for about an hour and made plans.

And it came to me then, that every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time. (Death Cab for Cutie)

It is.

And with every new relationship we must battle the demons of what came before and the cold, cruel, pessimistic leader of their army, Sargent-at -Arms “What If”, his never-ending arsenal, bombs and bullets labeled ‘pain’ and ‘hurt’.

What if it doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t like me anymore? What if he likes me and then stops?

I don’t have to pray to any God’s for that. They have given me the gift of ‘try one more time’. I am optimism walking around in human form. Now is blessed the rest remembered. 90% of the time I only remember the good anyways, so there is that then.

I don’t feel like I have a choice. It’s either that or be a nun or a lesbian considering how I’ve been treated by men.
And men on the internet? Fugedaboudit.
And (gasp) another poet sailing into my inbox? Nope nope nope.
2 years of Chinese water torture under my belt there. The slow drip left me fucking Thirsty.

But I opened the door and invited him in. Didn’t think of any possible outcome beyond friends. He knows everything because I told him.

“2 years?” He said.

“Yesh.” I replied.

“Well that makes no sense.”

I opened my mouth to argue but nothing came out. I allowed myself to briefly imagine how much loving and living could have transpired between the Poet and I in 2 years, and suddenly I was kinda angry.
Who does that?

It’s easy to find all the ways something won’t work out, especially when nothing ever has.

I have the Giant as recent (I think he is still living) proof. Perfection and compatibility and magic mean nothing when you dangle a nice safe waitress in front of a boy. I mean nothing. It hurts.

Men are sweet as fuck to me and then they run.

This one is sweet as fuck and he may yet run.

But why would I deny myself the possibility contained in his eyes, the ones that crinkle at the corners when he looks at me, smile going all the way up and lighting tiny fires there. Why run from that voice? The one that sounds like a young Elvis…low, southern twang, wrapped in velvet and says wonderful things. Why deny the pull between us?
Why turn my back on the body that drove half a day to see me for an hour, the one that radiates heat and looks and feels like home.

Yes, him.

Once upon a time in New Orleans I gave a stripper a lap-dance on around midnight and so began the day of opposites. I stopped adulting. T’was I who suggested getting massages less than an hour before check out from the hotel. T’was I who took a cemetery tour with no way of telling time, just so I could say hello to Marie Laveau and the other ghosts that wander St. Louis. T’was I who said yes to shrimp and grits, knowing we had to be on a plane within the hour.

And it was I who stood under a pillar at O’Hare, tucked in between terminals, wearing a red dress as not to be missed. Eyes darting from the door to the road and back again, like a tennis match, simultaneously waiting on my PIC and him with 2% battery and not a care in the world. I just knew it would all work out.

I wasn’t wrong.

I saw him before he saw me, and I just knew.

“I’m here”, I called out. Head down, studying his phone. “Jason.”
He looked up and smiled, kept coming towards me.

My walk became a run, I totally forgot about watching the door. I forgot about everything beyond closing the gap between us. He opened his arms and I fell into them like I belonged there. Airport chaos forgotten when I asked him to hold my hand and not let go.

He still hasn’t let go.

https://www.facebook.com/KingsPoetry1/photos/pb.1723932144510357.-2207520000.1461513578./1763620803874824/?type=3&theater

regular lust, Uncategorized

Go Fuck Yourself

February 11, 2016

I threw out my sex toys when I moved. They had gone unused for quite some time before that.
Like a really long time. I am not sure if they were even good anymore, do they expire like canned goods?

Had a moment of paranoia about the box exploding when the garbage men picked up the trash that week. It’s raining plastic men parts. Ha.

Had more than one moment of paranoia when I finally replaced them after years of letting the old ones collect dust. I went to the same store two days in a row and the girl behind the counter actually said…”wow, you’re back fast.” I blushed so hard my ears went hot. I mumbled something, tried to formulate an excuse for why I was back. Luckily she made me want out of her sightline which put me in the very back of the store. Found the good stuff.

Made me shy. Me…Sarah, sex shy???…haven’t been that in years.

I love sex, everybody knows. It’s not a secret.

I have no idea why I am twitchy about shopping for toys. I have no idea why the shop girl thought that was an appropriate thing to say.
To make things even worse, a group of girls came in behind me as said shop girl was testing the rather sizable rubbery goodness I had picked out to make sure it worked. I really wanted to crawl into a hole and hide. Or snatch the thing out of her hands like Gollum with the ring. But I stood, waited and paid. Brought a backpack the second time so I wasn’t seen with the discreet black bag.

I was mildly traumatized. Until I got home and tried it. Bliss.

Two things.

Why do I have some strange shame about sex toys but not the copious amounts of actual sex I have?

And second, why the ever-loving fuck did I ever stop using them in the first place? They are amazing.

Second one is easier to answer.

Stolen joy.

I eat Kraft Dinner once a year or so. I get a hankering for it, hot dogs as well, Cheez Whiz too on soft white Wonder bread, aaaaaaand now I am hungry. I know these things are terrible for me, but I indulge regardless.

This is shaping up to be my worst comparison ever. Dildos and junkfood.

Imagine telling the man you are dating/living with that you like Mac ‘n’ Cheese now and again. Suddenly every time dinner rolls around, guess what you get…elbow macaroni with dayglow orange sauce. So I didn’t let him cook anymore, he wasn’t very good at it anyways.

I got sick of it after a while.

I got sick of him too. Constant complaining about everything ever. He just had general physical and mental weakness. That, and he couldn’t change a fucking tire. Not a turn-on.

Somehow my brain equated using toys to him.
Vagina had a Pavlovian response with an equal yet opposite dryness.

“When you are only wet because of the rain”. Tori Amos

It’s time to move along now. Go on, git.

I was talking to Young Un today. He likes a girl but the sexy spark isn’t there. He accidentally sparked this article (and a quick quickie with myself). I realized as I was comforting him saying ‘we just can’t fuck outside of our people baby boy, it feels weird.” We can’t. It does feel like alien probing. Since having this realization I don’t seem to attract ‘the others’ thank fuck. Just boys who seem to have access to an instruction manual on what I like. Either that or I am easy to read.

She doesn’t go down either. If there was ‘Head Olympics’, he would win, hands down, triple gold forever. Hurts my feelings he isn’t getting any back. She isn’t the one honey. Take it from me, I know.

Weird, I just realized I went off on a tangent to avoid talking about why I feel shame buying a vibrator (or three) alone.

Ahhh, there it is. Alone, in this case Stephen King is correct, it is the most horrible word in the English language.

I feel like I am being judged as less of a woman because I am giving off the impression no one is fucking me but me.

Damned if I do damned if I don’t. I fuck too much and I am a turbo-slut. I only fuck the turbodildo3000 and I’m a pathetic spinster.

By publishing this article, I technically win.
And suddenly I am out of eggs…the sex store is right next door to the bodega…

I have my eye on a rabbit.

www.passionprops.com

men

Triggered

December 25, 2014

Kings are being driven from their kingdoms with allegations of rape and videotapes of wife beatings.

Everyone is running willy-nilly with torches and pitchforks, convicting both victims and offenders in the kangaroo court that is the internet.

I am one in 4.

One in 4 women who have experienced sexual assault and one in 4 that have experienced domestic violence, more than once by different hands. I really should be in my blanket fort built from PTSD colouring until this shit storm passes, every other word is a trigger warning.

But I am not, I am here, I am okay.

I am a submissive. It’s not a cross to bear, it’s wonderful and I love it.

I was beaten and raped. Not a cross to bear either, more like a tightrope to walk, lean too far and splat.

I know why I’m submissive, I was WAY before the rape for the record. The rape had nothing to do with play of any kind, or even sex. But we’ll get there, in probably about 850 words.

I have tried many a thing and I revel in the power exchange and dynamic that exists between opposite sexes. Sex isn’t just sex to me, it is the only time I am fully content…wait. It’s the only time when it is a possibility that I might become completely content. A few other things bring me to this state as well, but let’s stay with the sex.

I love being a woman, and when I am fucking/getting fucked, I want to feel like a woman. Kinda a weird thing to say, but I walk around on guard all day every day, I want to feel safe at home, in bed, with him. Maybe it’s leftover puritanical ideals or 1950’s mindset on what a woman ought to be. Fuck it, I don’t need to dissect everything I like, there is joy in mystery. I like my sex rough and raw. I get off on feeling small, used and cared for…those 3 things can co-exist. They truly can.

I have this nagging sewing circle voice in my head saying ‘this isn’t politically correct you know…” STAAAAP, my blog, my vagina my rules, stop reading if you’re upset, or troll. I’ll be over here getting laid. My way.

I heard a woman say, when asked these two questions “when do you feel the most vulnerable and when do you feel the most beautiful” her answer for both was, “when I am naked in front of a man”. Her words are my truth. To be truthful, I enjoy feeling a little scared.

So, how do I find balance considering I’m a rape victim.
First and foremost, I’m not a victim, rape or otherwise, ever.
Second, I know it had nothing to do with sex at all, nor was he a partner in which I had ever engaged in any kind of sub/dom play. He wasn’t my partner at the time. He simply wanted to terrorize and hurt me and he did. One person did this To me out of anger, I don’t blame others, or myself.

It was 14 years ago. It happened, I lived. It’s okay. And it rarely comes up, except lately.

I have been single for almost a year. I do so very much love fucking. So what is a girl to do? Um, date and fuck.

I have adopted a full disclosure policy. If they can survive the first barrage of bullets, they get to stay.

Bonus round, I say very plainly, I was raped. And watch their faces. 2 outta 2 have had this storm cloud of pain cross their eyes while they digest these 3 words. This is the only acceptable reaction, I hate having to say it, but I love me more.

To be plain I have had 3 partners in a year (gasp). The first one didn’t get the speech, because he was the first and I had no idea what I was doing and also…he showed me so much respect, patience and earned trust during the courting process. Yes, he courted me, twice even, I simply just felt safe.

The new one climbed on me the other day, at his house, in his bed, pinned my arms down and said, ‘you’re trapped’. Time stopped whilst the following happened, in my head.

The Royal We assembled at light speed and assessed. I should been in hysterics, fighting and clawing my way out right? That’s how it goes. But on this day, it didn’t happen that way. Instead there was this

First thought “is this a test?”

“Um. Maybe”

“We told him right?”

“Yes”

Deep breath

“Are we actually scared right now?”

Hesitant “no”

“Was this fear ever necessary outside of the circumstances that created it?

Definite “No”.

Is every other time this has been triggered a shitty Pavlovian response?

“Yes”, except that one time. That boy really was an asshole.

“Does it serve us in any way?”

“Maybe”

“Does it serve us right now?”

“Nope”

“We good?”

“Yep”

“Okay good, as you were.”

All of this occurred in the time it took my heart to beat twice and I was back in the moment, naked and vulnerable under this 6’ 3” Giant of an amazing man and I simply went back to enjoying him.

As I write this I realize, like fucking lightning strike, I have not dated anyone over 5’ 10” since I was raped. I was raped by a big dude. 14 years ago. But, but, I have always liked big dudes, I am 5’8” and like I said I like feeling small. Apparently we weren’t ready, I just stared longingly at the heels in my closet and waited…without realizing I was waiting.

This is the moment where I win. That situation has no power over me anymore, I don’t live there. I haven’t lived there in a really long time.

So, what can we learn from this?

Have I found an ideal partner, well ya, this confirmed what I already knew.

This is about me being better, and by better I mean finally healed.

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