relationships Archives - Page 6 of 6 - Our Lady of Lust and GraceOur Lady of Lust and Grace

Boys

The Most Cake

March 27, 2016

My virtual fortune cookie this morning said “Savor your freedom – it is precious.”

I smiled.

Been clicking on that thing for 8 years now, this is a new one. The exact right thing at the exact right time.

Hot Neighbor has been around quite a bit lately. Bless him. Holding me together when I felt like flying apart. Imparting his ancient Scorpio alien wisdom. He is a really spectacular big spoon and he brings me pie.

He disappeared for a month or three. I asked him about it and he said he had been experiencing his own melancholia. He described it as catlike. Sleeping a lot. Hiding out, wanting to be petted, but not too much.

Sounds way more dignified than mine. I lean towards the canine side of things. Slobbering on myself and everyone around me, chewing bones down to nothing. Prone to getting excited at the littlest bit of attention and then cringing at the mess I made because I didn’t go out when I should have.

Postcard from 1952 came on as I was writing this. I have a 9 hour playlist I write to for about half as long every day and somehow it always appears in the shuffle. And I cry.

I didn’t cry today. This is huge.

A few days ago I let out a righteous bellow at the universe, calling my power back. I felt it flowing into me, like one of those paper lanterns, holding it still forever then in one little moment, the air is hot enough and it just floats.

Up, up and away went my final fuck.

I left the Land of Melancholy and was immediately transported back to that delightful space of zero gravity/zero fucks. Nothing holding me down. God how I missed this weightless/lightness.

I was grieving the loss of my Frankenmonsterlover aka the Giant. For like a month. Put myself on lockdown. Got catlike myself, “Don’t fucking touch me, leave me alone, let me cry and sleep in no discernible pattern.” Hot Neighbor was the only one allowed to pet me, and even then, one too many touches and I hissed at him.

He came back anyways.

We talked some more. I explained that my 3 years single I had been treating as an experiment. Throwing myself into everything with vigor, quite often blowing shit up then retreating making notes and exploring what went right or wrong. Then go back into the field, do more research and try something else. It’s science.

Not a bad way to be really, except when I get too heavy into the theory and forget to go out and live.

Feel free to laugh at me, I am laughing right now. But after the Giant told me he was seeing someone else I continued being monogamous. I know right?

Let me explain.

I get hurt and I immediately crawl into bed with someone safe and fixate/fix myself that way.

Also, he left an open fun thing with me for a normal relationship with her.

Except he hasn’t left…we still talk and see each other.

I somehow decided I had to let everyone go.

Wolfling was easy, the rest, not so much.
Young Un had been holding my hand for a while and he is just sex walking.
Drogo did one of his magic telepathically linked check-ins, and I missed him.
Home was maintaining safe distance, but I could feel him watching out for me.
Poet resurfaced, how do you abandon someone whose greatest fear is abandonment? I can’t really, so I let him in, but he is physically far away so that seemed safe enough, until it wasn’t.
Even Gelfling reappeared, but I didn’t take the bait…yet. I am waiting for it to get warm again.

Oh wait, I am lying, I had a date with 88. It was a really good date and I really should have fucked him.

Might still, I left that door ajar. Who am I kidding, my door is never locked to those that have the password.

Home called me out on my lunacy. He said “It amazes me how fast you are willing to give up what you are for one guy.”
I mewled a weak retort about how I do want to find everything in one person, I do. But I also don’t want to lose myself.

Giant seemed ideal, the things he wants and the life he has are compatible with mine.

But he wants a normal relationship with a normal girl.

But…he still wants me too, he never left me, I left him.

Epiphany in 3-2-1

What he really wants his cake whilst eating me too, whilst I have my own cake, and him.

Um, I’ve always been the girl with the most cake. I know exactly how good that feels.

Why would I deny him that, or me?

We still talk, he reads my words as fast as I can type them, listens to the music I gifted him to the point of wearing out the discs.

He says he doesn’t want me waiting around for him.

Neither do I.
I have unfinished business elsewhere.

He says he doesn’t want me to go.

Neither do I.
I have unfinished business with him.

He says he doesn’t want me feeling second.

I really don’t.

I realized mid-write. He wants her that way.

He wants me too, exactly as he found me. Which is exactly what I wanted. As is.

He might actually be the Frankenmonsterlover I thought he was, with sprinkles, icing and a cherry on top.

when i was married

Princess Bride vs. Sisterwife

March 24, 2016

Mawage is what bwings us togever today. Mawage, that bwessed awangement, that dweam wivin a dweam.

Mine was a nightmare.

Once upon a time I thought I loved my husband. I really did believe that. And there might have been times that I did.

It wasn’t his fault. I was painfully unaware of who I was as a person. I hated myself most of the time, felt unworthy of even being alive, much less loved. So I didn’t know how to love, I thought it was all claws and teeth. Hanging on for dear life. Jealousy, pirates, murder, revenge.

Wait, that was Princess Bride, wasn’t like that. Not at all. That was true love.

Someone brought up sisterwives last night.

I do not think that word means what you think it means.

Yes, I had a sisterwife. Inconceivable right?

Like I said, I thought I loved my husband.

That wasn’t love, it was a war of wills and egos. His, hers and mine.

Some part of me felt like I had to do penance for the years I spent as someone else’s mistress. In retrospect, even karma is not that creative of a bitch and the things I put myself through made baby Jesus cry on my behalf.

To the pain.

I was never like her. I cared about the man I was sleeping with, I was never vicious or malicious. We made each other happy and he came back to me eventually. Then I left him for this mess.

We’ll never survive.
Nonsense. You’re only saying that because no one ever has.

I survived, barely. Hubby was cheating on me with a rodent of unusual size. I regularly fell into lightning sand, drowned, left to fight my way out on my own. I really should regret that decision to move into the Fireswamp, trying to build a summer home there and the ensuing 7 year chaos. But I can’t. I was born of that hellfire, heated, hammered steel, I am unbreakable.

At the time I thought I had what I wanted, mostly. Hubby had some semblance of a hobby farm.
I loved the farming, sometimes. Most times it was a struggle. A battle of dirt and wills, massive effort versus minimal reward and struggling to keep the myriad of animals hubby brought home and dropped in my lap from dying.

I wanted two baby goats, (as you wish) I ended up with 2 dozen, way too much. I wanted one horse to ride we ended up rehoming 6 and I rode two of them twice. We had 6 dogs, 3 liked ripping the pigs and sheep apart. I had geese and ducks and chickens that were constantly getting killed by this or that because the fences were shit.

He brought home critters to keep me locked in while he cheated. I kept their suffering to a minimum, mine was immense.
But in between I got a whole bunch of good pictures to slap up on Facebook. My little virtual internet existence looked pretty fucking amazing. It wasn’t. I edited out the bloodstains, death, dirt and the tears. The nights he would disappear and I knew he was out with her, she was in charge of posting those photos. The epic fights wherein I would drive away, further and further each time until I landed in the city and stayed. He put an ad in the paper and sabotaged the new relationship I had landed in to get me to come home.

I went back and things were good for a few months. My old paranoia crept back. It was inevitable him sneaking off to see her again. So I made a proposition, move her in. Lightening my work load, easing his financial burden and just eating the pink elephant in the room once and for all.

We could just kill each other as god intended, sportsmanlike.

It was the best/worst idea I have ever had.

I truly believed that after him cheating on me with her for 6+ years there must be some redeeming qualities about her. Nope. She was a burden and a drain. A true parasite, with borderline personality disorder and a love of opiates. She was high most of the time and the sneakiness continued, I just had front row seats and got stuck making her lunches for work.

He told me if I let her move in he would give me a baby. I died that day.

I’m not a witch I’m your wife. But after what you just said I’m not even sure I want to be that anymore.

I am a witch. I should have gotten in my truck and driven to a land far, far away, but I didn’t.

I was mostly dead.

We tried the threesome thing once. I was so grossed out by how she looked, tasted, smelled and behaved…I walked out in the middle of it. What is that thing? Haven’t touched a woman since and I cannot begin to imagine a scenario where I would again.

It was the best idea I ever had because it finally pried me out of there. We slipped back together in hotel rooms for 4 months until I gave him an ultimatum. The last ultimatum I ever gave anyone. He countered with one of his own, said I needed therapy, and boy did I ever.

Seriously, how did he think that was going to go?

I learned a lot about myself in the process. I am tenacious as fuck. Loyal to the point of insanity. I survived something that would have killed a lot of people, and there were moments where I wanted to die.

It took me three years on my own turning my entire life over in my head, learning fighting and fencing anything anyone would teach me and spilling my guts out here to figure out what love is. I filled my drama quota for the next three lifetimes.

As I sit here now, in my clean, tiny house, writing away, I am warm and happy. The only souls I have to look after are mine, my son’s, a tiny dog and two kittens. The gardening I do consists of watering my houseplants and orchids once a week. My bed is my own and I can chose who comes and goes. This is infinitely better.

I almost fell back into the pit of despair, but I’m out now.

Not sure how to proceed, maybe if I had months to plan or a holocaust cloak.

Someone is trying to kidnap what I have rightfully stolen.
And I am trying not to rush a miracle (you get rotten miracles.)

*All italics are from the Princess Bride by S. Morgenstern.

men

Super Slut

April 21, 2015

I have never been one to lie back and think of England.

North American views on sex and sexuality are so skewed it fucking HURTS. We are this continent founded by people who were too puritanical to stay in England for fuck sakes. 200+ years later…same shit.

I used to carry so much shame about my body, my sex and stripping. The minute I admitted out loud that I love all these things a weight was lifted and everything got better. Atlas shrugged, stood up straight and walked off into the sunset with zero fucks given.

I love sex. I truly do, sex is better than eating, sleeping and almost as good as one of those ridiculously sticky hot summer nights mid heat wave, when the lake is body temperature and you swim naked completely lost in the quiet, wet, warm oblivion.

It will go without saying, part way through this article that I do not speak for all sluts. I am a once in a lifetime kind of harlot.

I could be the reigning Queen of all of Slutdom for all I know.

I lost my virginity on a lawn, in a sleeping, bag with a virtual stranger. I was drunk.

I was 15/16.

Originally she was on lock-down for High School Sweetheart. Sometime in the 10/11^th grade, before I had ever really kissed a boy proper, I got the reputation as a Super Slut. We will just thank Regan & Esther and their Puck-Bunny-Pussy-Posse for that moniker. The story goes, one of their mens said my name mid coitus, and I became Pussy-Posse public enemy number one. Don’t let the irony of that slip past you, a girl getting fucked gets called the name of a virgin, and…ya.
God let that be the truth. I don’t want to imagine a world where girls just make shit up about other girls and ruin their lives for no reason.
(=sarcasm.)

I couldn’t tell you the exact moment I stopped fighting against my rep and started rolling with it. I just know, the opportunity presented itself to rid myself of my troublesome virginity with someone from far, far away and I took it. Cherry discarded like a once favorite red sweater that didn’t fit anymore, and, in retrospect was silly and childish.

If memory serves (and it always does) the sex was good. Like really good. I had an orgasm or three. Kinda unheard of, but it happened.

Spent the next few years trying to get that feeling back. Rather unfair to let me know what an orgasm is then have it denied until I finally slept with High School Sweetheart (mind you, he could put his finger on my elbow and I would climax).

Biker Body Pillow has expressed a dislike for the following; Silver Linings Playbook quotes, and the over use of quotes mid article, says it interrupts the flow. Sorry Daddy-O, here goes. “Maybe Tiffany thinks that if she offers you something of value (sex) you will value her.” I am paraphrasing. This idea has been coming up a lot lately.

I did that thing. Often. I wanted to be valued, so I used sex as a commodity.

I was born backwards and have been living that way ever since. Cart before the horse, trailer before the truck is fixed, sex before the relationship…I didn’t know any other way to be valued.

I spent so long being treated as though being in my presence, or hanging out with me was some kind of price that needed to be paid by men, killing time between fucking me. Like my company was a burden. Fuck that shit. I know better now. I was with the wrong people.

The right guys? The ones who wanted to hang out, get to know me, spend time and effort on me?
I dumped them. I didn’t get it.

There was a weird subtext that I was not prepared to speak out loud or acknowledge.

Somehow, I was conditioned to believe that if a guy sexually aroused in my presence, because of something I did or said, it was my responsibility to take care of him. I have NO idea where that mindset came from, honestly, that can of worms is not open for discussion, lead lined casket, bury that shit and leave it there. But it explains my sexual exploits for most of high school and beyond, of which…there are many.

Saying no, not an option until recently. And I am at the tipping point between 40 and 41 as I write this, just realizing it is NOT okay to think the following… “might as well”, or “it’d be easier if I just blew him”, or “I should probably just do this and avoid a fight”. These are not sexy thoughts. The sex itself was alright (mostly) but the reasoning…gross.

I have taught my son “even if she stops partway through and says NO, you stop. The end.”
Why do I value all women except myself this way?

How many times have I had sex just to shut someone up or get some sleep, or for a place for me to sleep, or out of some weird guilt/fucked up mentality of mine that I had to Do Something. 50-50 sadly.

I am not trying to excuse my behaviour, I don’t have to answer to anyone. I am a slut because I love sex. Just my reasoning for a lot of it is blurry and bordering on rapey/shitty.

This all came to light 3 weeks ago. BBP and I were asleepin’. I was the little spoon. 4am rearrangement of bodies and what to my wondering lower back should appear…morning wood. My first thought, “whoa, Nice”. Second thought, “this is going to ruin everything”.
So, I said no, gently, but still no. I braced myself for the morning wherein he would be angry and leave me. I slept for shit for the next few hours.

We woke up and he… smiled at me?

Had he forgotten how selfish and horrible I had been 4 hours earlier? Was it a dream?

I kicked the hornet’s nest and asked him.

Which led to the discussion wherein I said out loud (but in my mousiest meekest confessional voice) ‘honey, I think I have a problem. I thought you were going to hate me this morning’ I proceeded to explain my obligatory feelings regarding his rather impressive erection.

This look of righteous and genuine concern crossed his face, he then gathered my crumpled, scared self up in his arms, kissed my forehead. Looked me in the eyes and said that I am valuable.

And I believe him with my whole slutty little heart.

Boys

The Guest Room

December 31, 2014

~my bed~

A very long time ago a boy taught me the true meaning of intimacy.
It is not simply sleeping with someone, but beside them. Holding each other like twins in the womb.
Outside is chaos but in here we float, safe as houses.

Just like any blissful feeling, human nature dictates we chase it, covet it, lock it down, and abuse it until it loses all meaning and the original feeling.

For years I forced that concept with other partners, never realizing that sleeping next to THAT boy was a warm and lovely manifestation of how we felt. but not the next one, he snored a lot. The one after that made me feel claustrophobic. And the one after that fit all my curves just right and let me be the big spoon so that was okay until it wasn’t. Another would caress my cheek until I woke up at 4 am and we could talk about dreams so I liked being there, but the next one was the filling in a burrito he made of all the sheets…different boys, different joys.

Dr. Suessisms aside, rocket science this is not. So why am I the only one saying anything?

I read an +Elephant Journal article,”why we sleep together” and just the title filled me with a great sense of relief, thank God, it’s not just me, and him and that other lady who thinks I am onto something. phew.

Turns out said article was advocating bed sharing. ugh. Like we need an article telling us that it’s okay to do what everybody does.
I say nay nay.
Time to open a dialog.

The following statement is true.
I love the way he looks, tastes, feels, sounds and smells.
The following statement is also true.
The sheer magnitude of his morning cuteness is enough to make me ovulate.
The following statement is also true.
After our first night together I offered up the guest room should he sleep over again.
He continues to sleep over, and he does sleep in the guest room.

(insert shock and awe)

but but but
But what?
But you said you loved all this stuff about him and he is adorable in the morning.

Those things are the truth…and so is this…

After sleeping with enough Scorpios to write a handbook* I have stumbled on the notion that their night time is precious.
Sleeping next to them is a privilege, not a right. in the past I have earned that privilege SIMPLY BY ACKNOWLEDGING IT, accepting it, not taking it personally and behaving in a reverent manner when it does happen.
I have expanded this theory to include errrrbody (even though this one is a Scorpio too, I have a problem, I need a support group.)

The following statement is false.
I care about him, adore him, respect him, want him LESS because I do not want/need to trap/sleep with him in my bed at night, after we fuck.

Out of all of the men I have slept beside, I have rarely enjoyed the experience, but when I have it’s been blissful (see; tickling my cheek and whispering dreams). my ‘twin in the womb’ was over 20 years ago, and sorry, it’s kinda hard to top. Why sully it by trying?

I have spent the better part of 18 years in relationships and due to finances, living arrangements, convenience (that in retrospect was not convenient at all) always shared a bed. Back when we slept on furs in caves, the conservation of body heat and safety in numbers made sense, but I am not a huge follower of anthropological precedents and I have a guest room with a lovely bed in it. Again, not rocket science. I also made the bed uncomplicated, in the manner of men, and removed the throw pillows. Boys don’t really like throw pillows. they tolerate them.

The following statement is true.
My dogs sleep in my bed.
(insert more shock and awe).

One keeps my belly warm, the other my feet. I don’t worry one bit about waking them up to take back the covers. they know sleeping with me is a privilege not a right.

The new hotness said, when I offered him the guest room citing the (literal) dog fight for sheets and space as one of many reasons for it…”the dogs were here first” (see why I love how he sounds…he says shit like this)

The door to his room is shut to keep out the dogs and noise, not me. You see dearhearts, I have opposable thumbs and have been successfully operating doors for years now. If I have a bad dream, get cold or sucky for whatever reason, I am welcome on the other side of the door and the bed. Because I ASKED him and he has concrete proof of my respect for him and his space. So he knows if I am climbing into bed it’s because I need to, or it’s morning and I brought him coffee.

(come back for * “fucking scorpios, a handbook for the criminally insane” on 01.01.14)

Uncategorized

The Crazy Quilt

December 28, 2014

I am piecing together what I want from love, into a quilt.
Been saving the prettiest scraps I have found in humanity for years, hoping to make something beautiful and warm.

This is how I love. It’s simple.

I want to contribute to the ease and joy of your existence.

By allowing, acknowledging and appreciating this and me, you contribute to mine.

Your happiness is my happiness.

I spoke to my Guru yesterday. He fixes me when I break. I got stuck in my dark place. Okay, got stubborn and camped there. He saw, brought a flashlight and walked me out of the woods. We spoke of dreams and nice things. I lit back up.

I have to drop this false mantra of mine…”I wasn’t expecting this”.

BULLSHIT, I have been waiting for it…Always.

I’m falling for someone. I am so scared. I’ve been fucked over, proper fucked. Like the rabbits in ‘Snatch’. Like Bridget Fonda in ‘Singles’ I used to have a flowery list of traits for my ideal partner. Hers shrank to ‘someone who says bless you when you sneeze’, mine now just reads ‘Ferris wheel’.
Okay, not exactly.

This new one fucks like my kind of monster. Listens, proves it. He does not believe in one single thing I believe in, but he believes me. He is completely mutable and thereby holds my interest. He is beautiful and ginormous.

Guru: …you’re already scared

Me: Terrified Daddy-oh. I cannot justify changing that good core I have. I am a good fucking woman, quite literally. I have learned my lessons. I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want to be me and be loved. Pedestals for both of us that let us see eye to eye.

Guru: no argument from me, darlin’… breathe and know you’re loved.

Me: I want love And the ever loving shit fucked out of me on a regular basis, by the same person. Who looks at me and says ‘me too’, or ‘explain that to me so I understand’ or ‘baby, try this instead’. And also takes me on a Ferris wheel.

Later…

Me: Hey great and powerful Oz…Can I have your permission to let go and feel what needs to be felt for this one, and can I have a shiny floaty bubble of Glinda Goodwitchyness to keep me from fucking it up?

Guru (aka Oz): I got a great big goblet of hope that you don’t fuck it up… and you’re gonna feel what you’re gonna feel…just ignore the man behind the curtain… ’cause he’s of no use to the outcome whatsoever.

Me: Just on my knees looking for divine intervention, or a big sign that says Eat at Joe’s.

Twenty seconds later, the sign came.

I AM really fucking amazing. I forgot for a minute. Okay, 3 days’ worth of minutes.

I kept getting the same message from unrelated sources, the last one hit home.

They all read keep being you & DON’T EVER BE SORRY.

They’re right.
My heart, my love and wants are well-honed, reasonable and make a lovely blanket.

men

Chivalry

December 23, 2014

I’m dating a new man. I use the word dating loosely, an umbrella-term for any activity wherein two people who might want to fuck go out and figure out if they do indeed want to fuck. Also, the subsequent forays for nourishment or fresh air because you have to get out of bed and stop fucking at some point.

Third date, yes, let’s make with the fucking.

I drive 2 hours into god’s good nowhere…scary. Don’t know him That well, no one can hear me scream, he’s capitol H huge (noms), could easily overpower me etc… welcome to being a woman and dating.

Louis CK does a bit about how brave women are for going out with men because statistically speaking the leading cause of harm to women is men.
Truth. Himself included.

We both knew why I was there, mostly because I said it. I am not subtle. In search of ‘morning after’ coffee, we stop at the grocery store, a man (not mine) subtly yet aggressively gets in my space. Every woman I know has an automated response…big girl panties up, defensive posture, 2 seconds later, we’re on guard. This time something wonderful happened. My date looked at me, looked at other dude and proceeded to put his shoulders back, and move ever so slightly to block me.

His body spoke in a calm, clear tone “I am right here”. I tucked myself into the safe space he made for me, and was overwhelmed with relief. I am the reigning Queen of ‘I Got This’, but do I always have to “Got This”?

We went back to his house and I fucked him, a lot, in a rather wanton manner because I felt safe. Anyone picking up what I am putting down? Trust=sex, and lots of it.

Outside of strip clubs, I cannot name one workplace where I was not harassed or abused in some way. The one I am citing now, the abuse was criminal. I worked with my ex at the time, he left me to the wolves, preferring to ‘console’ me privately and keep me leaning on him. I finally stood my ground, I was fired. He quit in what appeared to be a show of solidarity, but really, quitting jobs was a hobby of his, so the lustre flaked off that quickly. We didn’t fuck for 8 months prior to splitting. Now you picking up what I am putting down? No trust, not interested.

“Well I didn’t know what to do”, seems to be the theme of this latest great Canadian sex scandal.

Do what my new guy did.

The metamorphosis that old school chivalry must finally make.
Stand BESIDE me, not over me.

How do I express the relief in the arrival and actualization of something I had no idea was even possible but that I yearned for? In gratitude I channel my 50’s housewife and make him sweet potato pie and suck his cock like I’ve got the poison and he’s the remedy.

Uncategorized

Morning Wood

December 22, 2014

Gotcha.

Early yesterday, I was literally stacking wood.

My father’s voice ringing in my ears, “work smart not hard dummy”.

Not once in the history of Ever did my dad ever call me dummy, my psyche added this.

Before I realized how much thought he put into everything before he started doing it, I thought he knew everything, he does. He set the bar for logic, and as I wandered out into the world, I saw how high above most it truly is.

He did say “If it starts to fall, don’t try to stop it, you can’t.” it is easier to restack wood than reattach toes. I extrapolated, ‘try to figure out why it fell and don’t do THAT again’. Huh, good life lesson. Shit falls apart, retreat to safe distance, let it fly, put it back together, better this time. Learn but don’t dwell. You have wood to stack.

Send in the metaphors.

Just like relationships, if it doesn’t stack well in the wheelbarrow, dump it and start over, it’s just gonna give you trouble and break your toes.

The bottom row is important, it’s what you are building on and what is going to keep you warm during that snowstorm in April. Choose wisely and put some effort into it. You need the right combination of stability and space. Let it breathe.

Focus Grasshopper.

1. 1. If you put a log on the stack and it rolls, it’s just going home, let it.

2. 2. The wood will stack itself if you just zone out and let it. Stop overthinking, keep moving.

3. 3. You will find odd pieces, this is the nature of trees, its alright.*

Often you will find a compatible odd chunk that when added to the first is just the perfect thing.

*Unless the weird one seems to need a third to keep it in place, then burn the fucker, now.

So I am looking down at a bush cord of wood, briefly contemplating, but I jump right in. Shortly after I realize need a crib stack on either side, forgot to pull good wood for that, and I should have a support on the back half, didn’t do that either. Dummy.

I started seeing a new guy. I likes him. I said to a friend yesterday I truly thought he was just some big dumb guy I could climb around on for a month. Ya, no. I like him. He’s amazing, funny, sweet and smart.

Anyone still with me? I did the same thing with the new man, jumped in all excited, didn’t think ahead. Shoulda waited and dated instead of jumping into bed on the 3^rd date, but it was a really good date, and the base of the woodpile is solid, I’m doing what I can with what I have where I am, just kinda after the fact, so far it’s working.

Oh, don’t forget the kindling. It’s one thing to have nice chunks of hard wood, but the little things are what start the fire.

Newer Posts