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men

Exes not Oh’s

June 28, 2016

I am friends with a substantial portion of my exes. Not all mind you, I am not going for sainthood here.

Seriously. Why is this a bad thing?

I am 50/50 with decent break ups.

I am 80/20 with salvaged friendships.

I go to their weddings and kid’s birthdays. Talk them off ledges, I have men from my past who care about me that I can ask for advice when the men in my present do things that make me feel uncared for. We celebrate each other’s victories and mourn losses together. This is what friends do.
I was with them for a reason, and I left them for a reason, those reasons still stand, there is no threat here.

Some of them have even met each other and been kind, and with a little gentle joking aside, kind to me as well. The bar has been set.

Just as I can glean a little of my future with you by how you speak of and treat your mama, you can tell a lot about how I will behave towards you by how I speak of and treat my exes. I am patient, kind, forgiving, honest, friendly and generous…
No not with that, that is yours, I gave it to you, now come play with it. Ahhhh, better.

I even managed to stay friends with the biggest and the baddest of the exes, until he read all of this and realized I was not the girl he tried to make me into.
And Not the rapist, he’s a fucking rapist.

No, the one who cheated, and on whom I cheated, a lot. We spent 6 years torturing each other, two years apart, and I realized I am a better person for knowing him. A lot of my life skills came from living, with him on that farm. I realized also, in retrospect most of the things I learned were because I had to, I was left alone to fix things and hold everything together on my own. I was angry for a while, now I am grateful.

But I digress.

There are some girls who line their exes up like Barbies in a dollhouse to be taken out played with on a whim and thrown back when she gets bored. I am not that girl.

You know what other girl I am not? Any of Your exes. Especially that one who did a number on you, now stop punishing me for what she did and just let me be me. I am good, I know this, and so do you. Or you wouldn’t be here.

The red flags in me honor the red flags in you. But I need you to set aside your crimson rage against your exes and see that the flag I fly is actually white. I come bearing peace and compromise. I have learned a lot from my past and if I forget, I have reminders, cliff notes or I can just call them and ask them.

If I wanted to be with any of the ones from before, I would be. My life, my choices.

Let’s put it this way. I was raped, by an ex that I had dumped. One ex. One man did this. I know hundreds of men. Only one of them hurt me that way. Ergo…Barbie was wrong yet again, math is not hard. What kind of life would I have if I judged all men on the actions of one? See what I am getting at here?

Imagine walking into McDonald’s, you order an iced coffee, the cashier says that will be $87.53.

You say “what the ever loving fuck?”

She says “that is for the soccer team that was here before you, see? They are over in the corner, just finishing up.”

This is the same logic. I don’t want to pay for those who came before me. All I have in common with her is you, and fun lady parts. Mine are better, because they are yours now.

Some people still think the word ‘divorce’ is a dirty word. Like jamming two people into a lifetime commitment has anymore likelihood of working out than winning the lottery.

Sure, people win the lottery all the time. I played the same free ticket for almost a year.

There should be no shame attached to two grown-ups looking at each other one morning and saying, ‘this is not working’. Those are the brave ones. I actually ended a 5 year relationship by using the words “I have not cheated on you yet, but I am about to. We have to break up now.” He punched me in the face until his brother pulled him off me, still felt better than cheating would have.

So many couples split and then turn on each other, on a dime, over a dime. Rammstein nailed it “du hast or du hasst.” YOU HAVE ME (or) YOU HATE ME.

I am ever evolving, I am not the girl I was 5, 10, 20 years ago. The fundamentals and foundations of who I was remain. I am still silly, nerdy and nurturing. But as I build myself up and get more comfortable in my skin I find the men that come around are better suited to this version of me. Challenging conversations, appreciation for how I am and the sex is exponentially better.

I was asked today where I see myself in 5 years.

I hope things change. I’ve had a taste of bravery and I’m hungry for more. I want to be living somewhere that the air doesn’t hurt my face for 2/3 of the year. I’d like to fall in love with someone who challenges me to do more, be better and work hard but I know I’m not ready yet. I want to keep living and writing and get paid for it.

People can come and go as they please, teach me what they can and I’ll keep refining my idea of what love is and who I am.

If I no longer have you I won’t hate you, that isn’t who I am.

Boys

Fucking Scorpios, the Saga Continues

June 26, 2016

I believe this and live it with my whole heart.

This can be compatible with my longer term mantra which reads ‘if you build it he will come.’ Field of Dreams. I am building something but I don’t need to be cloistered in a nunnery, or my office to get there.

I posted this the other day.

My sunshine caught me in a moment of bliss. An old friend messaged and said I looked stunning and happy.

I said “I was at the beach, fresh out of the water, flirting with a 27 year old Scorpio. In other words, utterly in my element.”

I have a penchant for finding Scorpios. Or maybe they find me.

Whether it be on a balcony overlooking Bourbon Street nestled in a boy’s lap whispering secrets, coveting what I saw every day aka Hot Neighbor, Young Un the First seeing just pictures of each other and declaring we wanted that one, once upon a Sunday, that friend of mine with a purdy mouth or this new Thai Fighter I found.

They’ve all read the Handbook I wrote and declared that I knew what I was talking about.

The new one said so and I replied, “Everyone needs a hobby.”

He proceeded to fuck me in that perfect/intense way Scorpios are prone to do.

But it’s deeper than that.

Messages with another friend this morning…

Him: So what’s your Scorpio doing?

Me: Being cute as fuck.
I am currently writing a thing about how I have a certain level of expectations based on age and sun sign. And although I am not punishing the new ones for the behavior of the old I do find myself pleasantly surprised when a new one ups the bar.

Him: Those are always fun moments. Being surprised in a good way.

Me: Yes. This.
He messages me more frequently and is more attentive than I expected.

Him: Hmmmm so maybe rethink the Handbook?

Me: We had a moment where I was trying to leave and respect his work/sleep schedule and he said ‘one more story’, 5 more minutes.

Him: I keep waiting for the rug to be jerked or the ice water to fall on me. That IS fucking cute

Me: I know right? He asked me to come over the very next night and I actually had to send him a message saying I didn’t know him well enough to read if that was sarcasm or not.
I get that I wasn’t expected. I kinda showed up outta nowhere.
He has work and goals and man-bonding shit to do. This is where past lessons are useful. I understand.
It could have gone the other way and he could have said ‘this wasn’t in the plan for me’, still could. So I understand your rug analogy.

(The Him I’m speaking to has a Scorpio of his own, I may be chairing that support group I have joked about joining)

Me: If I know anything about Scorpios, and I do…just take it as it comes. They don’t lie. It’s beneath them. They need space sometimes and will say so. We just have to respect it. Let them know it’s really okay.

Him: She loves that I can see her. I notice things and it drives her mad, but she loves it too.

Me: Yuss. They do so very much love that. (Everyone does)
The ones I’ve known seem to function on a different plane of awareness. Like alien visitors from another planet. They don’t understand even the whitest of lies or sugar-coating shit. They observe and see a lot of bad in the world. It weighs them down. So if someone can come along and accept them as-is, rejoice in their idiosyncrasies, show them kindness, understanding and enthusiasm it makes them open up and show these beautiful souls hidden under armor.

Him: That’s basically it, yes.

Me: Everyone loves being noticed, and it is a huge bonus when the noticing is of the quiet things left unsaid.

Oh honey. I could teach a course, you know this. And as of late, if a pretty boy moth comes towards my flame it’s almost a guarantee that when the birthday conversation arises October 21st to November 21st will be the answer. To which I reply, of course you are. Come here boy.
Thai Fighter and I were talking after dinner, when he said November 17th, I felt my eyes flashed high beams and his flashed right back.

Him: Jesus, if the universe decides this one is a no, I’m not sure I could handle another Scorpio

Me: He read the article and said it was spot on…
Oh honey. Good luck with that, they are harder to quit than heroin.

Those of us who do not lie make them feel better. This world really is shit and we are little islands of safety, comfort and joy.

Him: You know that is her biggest thing. No lies

Me: As much as they are wonderful jewels of sexy awesomeness, they need us too. It’s a good secret club to be part of.

Him: I like this club.

Me: I find they bring out my most calm and confident self. Insta-Zen. No bullshit, no games. It’s nice. I need a rest too, and to be fed and I am totally writing an article as we are speaking. Ha 🙂

Truth be told I have never fancied being some queen on a throne with every whim satisfied or riches placed at my feet.
I like my books, movies and men with plot twists.
I enjoy the work, figuring things out, reading the subtle subtexts. I love being challenged and tested. I get off on figuring things out and adapting. I enjoy being understanding and kind. I relish sitting back and watching what people do on their own. I have no desire to influence anyone’s behavior. My satisfaction lies elsewhere. My life is full of organic, ecstatic movie moments because I let things happen.

You flipped the script and shot the plot (Sedona, Houndmouth)

And that is just fine by me.

Boys

Rainbows and Unicorns

June 24, 2016

I think it pisses god off if you walk by the color purple and don’t notice.
Alice Walker, The Color Purple.

I was recently accused of believing in magic.

I do.

I also notice the color purple.

To me this is one and the same.

All you have to do is see a field full of cosmos and realize that is magic.

But not the way he said it. Which came out sounding something like by the left hand of the crow something, something… I was giggling as quietly as possible as to not interrupt the rant. There were poignant points in there, just not that one, not exactly.
Thou shalt not suffer a witch to explain herself. Okay baby. So mote it be.

The morning glories on my porch are a miracle. I watch them grow, inches a day twining in and around the bamboo arches I gave them to climb. Murmurations of starlings, the way the ocean moves, a hovering hummingbird, deer on the road at dusk and orgasms that leave me shaking. All the small wonders of the world.

Those things are magic.

I believe in god as a concept. There is something bigger than us and I believe it can be tapped into from time to time.

I suppose that is a kind of magic.

Words are literal magic, what I write, speak and believe, I become.

I write about finding pretty surfers on the beach. Life is imitating art, or art is becoming life. Not sure.

With all this in mind I said, at some point last week, I think it was Monday, ‘give me what I want or something better.’

I want a summer fling. I miss getting laid regularly, having something to look forward to, a reason to unplug, dress up and get out of the house. Talking, touching, exploring … sigh.
Yes
please
soon.

I had someone in mind and a back-up plan. Both infamous for bolting.
But the devil you know, you know?
I know my place with them.
I didn’t say it was a good plan and as such, I left myself that open ending. Something better.

It was 102.4 F Monday. I was sweating too hard to work/move beyond writing Proverbial Dangling Carrots. A wishing post.
I was trying to work on the book, but my muse was suffering heat stroke I presume. My Sunshine said “beach?” and I didn’t even pretend to fight it. Threw on my suit, grabbed a towel and ran out the door. I am a water baby and I had a small uranium rod radiating sickly heat through my core.

Walked a half mile, put our blanket down in a quiet spot. Wandered in the water, found it frigid, got wet anyways.

And lo, and angel of the lord came unto them and said ‘look right ladies’.
And yea there were 2 beautiful boys walking towards them and they smiled and it was good.
Amen.

There were drinks and conversation. The one I thought was cute was napping and thereby extending the time I could pontificate about his cuteness. I find that sometimes you can look glorious on the outside but once you speak, the hotness fades fast. Not so in this case.

He opened his mouth eventually, flashed a brilliant, whiter-than-white smile and spoke in the softest/thickest English accent. Used big words too. Easy to engage with. I immediately looked up at the heavens and uttered a silent, yet enthusiastic, thank you.

This is important. I religiously thank god, or my version of it, every time I hit a green light, have a good bite of food, any of those little things.
And abra-fucking-cadabra, I am happy.
I don’t need big cosmic events. But I get them, for the simple fact that I am grateful for everything, always.

I don’t think god really gets miffed if you fail to notice a universe in a blade of grass or the glory of a sunset.
But when the universe shows you rainbows and unicorns? You best be fucking paying attention. And carpe the fuck out of that good god damn. Lest later, you find yourself starving. ‘Waste not want not’ applies to opportunities as well.

That is what this is, a freebie. Further proof of a godlike thing. Ask and ye shall receive.

So, me and my Sunshine went to their beach house for a wonderfully adulty night.
Good food, good conversation and a goodnight kiss that woke up some dormant butterflies.

A summer fling without strings. When I try to control things my fingers just get tangled.

He leaves in the fall. Wants to see me a few times a week. We have exactly enough in common and a fairly compatible schedule.
20something, young, articulate and not prone to bolting. Messages exactly enough. Tells good stories, really good stories.
So far this one is a pleasant surprise.

Mind you, I have said these things before. “This feels so good” (happy dance).
And then they pull the ultimate magic trick and disappear.
So I just enjoy him/this in the meantime.

All I wanted was something that feels good, and he does.

I’m not sure yet, but he might be a unicorn. I mean he is a hot ginger so he is already halfway there.

Maybe I find these rare articulate ones because I myself am rare.
I don’t speak coy, games annoy me, I abhor being vexing or vexed.
I’m an eloquent, attractive older woman who truly is not complicated. Eat, fuck, talk and I’ll go home.
I think it’s also tied to the fact that I am eternally grateful. I receive the loveliest gifts and write thank you notes.
And the gifts keep coming, as do I.
It’s not complicated.

There is a difference between being temporary and being disposable. I’m not disposable, I much prefer sex friends, casual, without labels.
I have shit to do and playing housewifey long term isn’t on the list anymore.
Although the cooking part is fun. And I don’t mind doing the dishes. Making and unmaking the bed are fun too.

regular lust

The First and Third Law (plus 4%)

June 19, 2016

I still can recall without much effort the fear that clutched at my throat and twisted in my gut simultaneously when he said it.

“I have something to tell you…”

I was terrified. We had been messaging about sex and he paused the conversation and said “I want to say this out loud.”

The phone rang and I answered it.

I understand the courage it takes to bare your soul with that much abandon, had I not done it first the phone would have been back on its charger beside my bed and I would have had a good night sleep.

I am tired of sleeping anyways. Spent a rather substantial portion of my life sleepwalking.

And that was not the way it went.

It rang and I heard his voice for the first time on the other end.

His sharp deep inhale of breath echoing my own. The way the ocean pulls WAY back just before a tidal wave, gathering strength and momentum.

I braced, like I would in the ocean, feet slightly apart, torso twisted just a bit to the left…

“I am one of the 4% of men who…”

I didn’t drown, it didn’t hurt or knock me over. I just kinda floated.

He laid it all out. And it was nothing to be afraid of, and nothing I couldn’t handle.

I can handle a lot.

I got out of the shower one hot afternoon, walked into the bedroom, that I shared with my boyfriend at the time, to find him dressed in women’s clothes.

My response?

“Well that explains the bra and panties in your bottom drawer”. Followed quickly by “is this a new thing for you, how does it work and what do you need me to do?”

I have long been treated like one of those priests in a box. People just tell me things. Maybe it’s my face, or my small town demeanor in the large city I transplanted myself into. I am always being approached for directions, time, advice and confessions.

How many Hail Mary’s for the other boyfriend who pulled out a dildo and asked me to use it, on him.
None. I don’t hand out guilt. I play along. My sexual comfort zone is a rather large place and no one, so far has asked me to step out of it.

When I’m asked about what I like? I always watered it down, afraid of reactions and rejection. It is only the last few years I have started to realize I am not as strange as it think I am.

I think I always thought that a part of you dies every time you make yourself vulnerable and someone says ‘ew’. So I never say it.
Those parts of you are only mostly dead, and with a small miracle can be resurrected.

Funny how I always let everyone own their wishes wants and kinks and I set mine aside.

I willingly handed over a knife every time I got in a relationship and allowed them (asked them really) to carve off bits of me so they could fit. I wasn’t comfortable being me. I was scared of my potential, of being myself and having to choose between what I Really want and being lovable. No one could possibly love me the way I am. Too much, too wordy, too strange, too sexual, too quiet, too loud etc.

This is not the way. I have been wandering through my past for the last few years, safely alone, picking up pieces of the girl I was and lost trying to put me back together. Finding things I didn’t know were mine. Way more ‘me too’s!’ than ‘ew’s’. And even then, doesn’t matter, I am alright with who and what I have become.

I had a dream that I was wandering in the woods and I found a cottage, everything I had ever loved and lost was inside and I was so happy.

That was how I felt when we talked on the phone that night.

Desires lining up like puzzle pieces. Not the same exactly, but a perfect fit and part of a bigger picture.

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

A man like him and a woman like me. Equal and opposite. Symbiotic.

Newton’s third law and the 4%.

Compatibility of that magnitude is rare.

Since finding him and realizing this exists, I have met another…hidden right under my nose. He, his views and relationship with his wife making me feel more comfortable in my skin.

I have my suspicions about a third.

There are more I’m sure.

But him…fuck

He is irreplaceable. The change he caused, or the awakening of what was already there, irrevocable.

I hesitate to use the word soulmate. It’s losing meaning with how often it gets thrown around. But he is something bigger than I have experienced before.

Sexual compatibility is amazing, spectacular and necessary. But there is more. There has to be more.

How did Ludacris put it… ah yes “a lady in the street but a freak in the bed”.

I have the freak part down, and I let my flag fly. Sometimes when it ought not to be, often when it ought not to be.

Some things have to be sacred.

I get excited and I forget this. I babble, I dig my heels in. I over think and under react. I underachieve too. Not sure if I am more terrified of failing or succeeding. The thing is I love being challenged and I rarely am, so why do I sabotage it. Things to ponder.

I regressed after meeting him, tried handing him the knife so he could cut out what he didn’t like. But he didn’t take it. He dared me to build myself up, be more, do more.

He became the first law of inertia.

An object in motion stays in motion with the same speed and in the same direction unless acted upon by an unbalanced force.

I needed thrown off balance and set on a new trajectory.

dancing girls

Angels of Harlem (and elsewhere) a playlist

June 15, 2016

I should be writing.

I am not out of the sad zone just yet but I can see where the end is, timing depends on my momentum and traffic.

Instead I made 8 new playlists.

My fixation du jour?

Cleopatra by the Lumineers.

“I was late for this I was late for that I was late for the love of my life.” (I really was)

I heard it in a store and quickly scribbled down lyrics so I could look it up.

I am currently late, for an actual party.

The house is clean, the bed is made, the dishes are done, the dog has been walked. I am showered and adorned semi appropriately its 39 degrees, 102.2 F. I googled it. So I am wearing a sheer skirt, my ass is covered. The rest of my tattoos, just barely.

I am fighting going out.

I want to stay home with my music. I barely know anyone where I am going and my shyness is coming back in a way I don’t know how to deal with.
So I have gone back to high school and am hiding in my room with my albums to shield me from the world outside.

I was told therapy is making me into an open wound.

There it is. I feel raw and exposed right now. I don’t know how to people. The last few attempts have gone badly.

But I promised. And I love the birthday girl.

Just one more song…please.

I remember being blissed out when I realized you could find music on the internet. Just think of a song and there it is. Except I can’t seem to find a copy of Crash Vegas covering Down to the Wire by Buffalo Springfield.

Every once in a while I hear a song that was hidden in an album somewhere, and or never made it to the radio and I didn’t remember it until I heard it again by fluke.

My heart stops, then starts again a little too quickly. It hurts. I shake. Sometimes I cry.

Elvis Presley and America by U2, was like that, heard it pouring out of a van in a gas station parking lot and watched the sun go down with a stranger in total silence and awe of how perfect that moment was. Hadn’t heard it since 1990. 20 years had passed. Could have been to the day, I have no way of knowing.

I had a moment when I was waitressing, Curtis put on a Peter Gabriel album and I heard I Grieve for the first time in 10 years. I stood frozen in a sea of people, just lost in the music, he took the plates from my hands and served them for me so I could just be.

Yesterday…the Badger by the Tea Party came on and I was transported back to my early 20’s. It made it onto the instrumental playlist. I haven’t named that one yet.

The one with only women is Angels of Harlem, and elsewhere.

I like naming things.

On the Mend by Foo Fighters was on one drunken night in Giant’s kitchen. Hadn’t heard it in forever. We both just sat quietly until it was over and I sighed a lot. He was playing Matthew Good Band in the truck the first night he picked me up for our first real date. “I came back for you, so you wouldn’t be alone.”

I am alone now and avoiding that song.

Once upon a time in a strip club probably 7 years ago now, I sat with a table. Asked them what they did when they mentioned working together. They worked for a company that was engineering speakers that attached to the body and connected to the nervous system.

I got totally overwhelmed and excited. I took a card, they offered to let me try it.

I proceeded to get rather drunk and lost said card, never heard of it again. But it sounded like heaven.

I wonder how many once in a lifetime moments I have experienced and then lost in strip clubs, in the haze of drinking myself not shy.

Speaking of. I have quit. My skin is happy with the lack of alcohol I have been imbibing. My body is doing fine as well, except…

I was putting together the playlists and stumbled on Rat Finks, Suicide Tanks and Cannibal Girls by White Zombie and muscle memory dictated and urge to run to work and jump on the pole. Good god I can move my body to that song. Mark that one as a trigger and pack it in a box until a later day. It isn’t safe yet.

Sitting in the Giants truck. He lured me in by saying “I have this really great playlist” and proceeded to play one of the CD’s I made him. I smiled then and I am smiling now. It was the same disc I had to replace because he wore it out.

He stopped for a second. Said he heard something that made him think of my trip to New Orleans. I smiled again and am smiling again now.

I listened for a minute. Went to peek at the display to double check before speaking, but I knew it was The Band and said so. He said yes. I replied “my sister’s dog is named Levon.”

Thought of another story tonight, wherein I remember one of the half a dozen times my dad ever yelled at us. He had gotten a VHS of the Last Waltz. Sat through all the opening of all the presents, had breakfast with us, cleaned up, did all his weekend/holiday dad things and finally sat down to watch it. We were all running and being loud like kids are prone to do.
He said “I have been waiting my whole life for this, let me watch it in peace.”
I swear I barely breathed for the next 4 hours.
I feel that way too now.

Having to skip back to the beginning of a song because I wasn’t listening with all of me.

I wish we could do that in real life. Just hit repeat, make lists and mixed tapes of our favorite bits.
Skip back. Make lists blend sweetly with perfect cadence.

Shazam experiences so we can see the details of what is actually happening.

Wishing I could go back and hear things again for the first time.

Sometimes, when I get really lucky, that last wish is granted. And it’s almost better with that buffer of time. I am a new girl hearing something old and precious with new ears and a new found respect for something once lost and found again.

men

Tripping Down Memory Lane without Skinning my Knees

May 18, 2016

For once. Actually, wait for it…I almost made it.

Normally I end up bloody, road-rashed and crying in a puddle of my own making.

This was better.

I saw a meme about bigger men cuddling better.

That shit drives me nuts. Real women do this and real men do that and skinny bitches are bad and men can’t do this and blah fucking blah. To each their own. If we all like the same thing there would be only Appleby’s, the Gap, Oprah’s recommended book list and top 40 music. I would die from banality within a week.

I am always after Young Un to borrow my eyes and see what I see. He fusses about having a ‘dad bod’. This negative body image shit isn’t limited to women.

I personally think he is sexy as fuck. More so when he opens his mouth to sing or speak, boy has substance. I don’t covet him anymore but I am not deaf/blind either.

But that’s me, I am a sapiophile. Attracted to intelligence over looks every damned time. That and compatibility.
I spent way too long with men who had no desire to know me on any level other than how well I cooked, cleaned and fucked.
I’m past that now. But even they had bellies, some of them.

There is an anthropological precedent that leans towards a natural attraction to a heftier man.

Cave men had to journey far and wide to bring home the proverbial bacon. Bigger belly, more fat stores, more successful of a hunter.

I messaged he who posted said meme and said ‘I like cuddly menfolk’. I do.

Hot Neighbor and Gelfling were exceptions. I outweighed both of them by 10 or twenty pounds (never could guess weight). Their hipbones and cheekbones sharp as knives. The pixie dust running through my veins loved the pixie dust running through theirs. And if my washing machine ever broke I coulda just scrubbed the dirt outta my clothes on their abs. I let them go.

Wolfling was tall and toned, but he was a fun gym-rat-sport-fuck, nothing more. Although he had moments of sweetness too, I will give him that. But that is all he gets. I let him go a long time ago.

I pulled up pics from the archives just to say ‘look, this is what my exes look like’.

Ex hubby and the Hulk in particular.

“Well, I figured the Hulk was big, you call him the Hulk.”

“Good god I loved walking next to him, feeling so safe and so small”. I said, “how I felt about him wasn’t conditional on him loving me back, mind you he finally said it the day before he moved far away.”

I said something to him about loving Memphis Lee, and he said “We love you too.”

My eyes lit up, so did his. I remember that moment clear as day, blue eyes shining in the sun, that squint he would get and just the slightest curl to his mouth when he saw that I heard him and understood. I do, I did, I always did.

I just love who I love for as long as I love them.

My love for the Hulk manifested in an hour drive every two weeks to knock on his door and give him candy and a hug. I called it reverse trick or treat. Sometimes he let me in the house, sometimes he didn’t. He had the sads worse than I had ever seen. He moved home the day after he said that and has been happy since. And I let him go.

I had a private photo album hidden up in my Facebook with photos of ex-hubby. I’d forgotten about it and briefly wondered if I had deleted it, but nope, there it was. Was being the operative word. I opened it looking for proof of his thickness to prove my point and braced myself for … something … anything.
And nothing happened. That was what shook me up a bit, the nothing. I took what I needed, just a moment from the past to show the present and deleted the damned thing. I let him go years ago.

I spoke yesterday about the distinction I make about ‘before’ and ‘after’. Sufficed to say, ex-hubby was from the time called before and there was no magic there.

The time called after has been a sort of fairy tale. My bliss coming in metered doses, chapters if you will.
No happily ever after…yet.
Glass slippers and valiant knights, wolves in men’s clothing, Giants and other assorted beasts and fae.
And now this…
“You’re the King and I’m your lionheart.” Of Monsters and Men.

I found my king and I am his lionheart. I just had to figure out what that meant.

I started the whole body type conversation trying to explain that I don’t have a type, but I do.

It’s just not physical.

I love someone.

“He loves me and is terrified of it, I am not over him. I blink and he is there, so I try not to blink.”

“…you’re not over him….It’s never fun it hurts.”

(over him is not an option)

“Especially since I know he is just being a chickenshit.

(oh lord)

Maybe I do have a type.

FUCK.”

That was when I started to cry. Not from the memories but because of the reality of this mess.

I love someone who is afraid, because I am afraid too.

I wasn’t running, I was standing still. Which, as it turns out, is just as bad.

I likened my heart to a revolving door. I don’t know how to deny entry without risking broken glass and no door at all.
Time to tear it all down and start over.

He comes and goes and until now I just let him because I too was coming and going.

Not anymore.

Maybe I should move out of this building and build a castle with a moat around the empire in his chest.
Keep us both safe from the world and broken glass.

men

Cyranos

May 16, 2016

I had one of the more fucked up conversations of my life today.

If my sister heard me say that she’d undoubtedly quip…”Well that must be pretty fucking weird coming from you Sarah.” I don’t think she reads this, probably best all things considered.

It was sister. It truly was.

It wasn’t the words so much as the source. All things in good time and in context.

I read a thing a while ago that I shall now paraphrase out of sheer exhaustion and laziness. I have been writing for 13 hours, I can’t seem to turn my brain off nor stop. I haven’t eaten save a few handfuls of M&M’s. I am running on caffeine alone. 4000 words of good copy.

Maybe it’s time for the fighter to be fought for, for the lover to be loved something something blah blah blah.

I read it a while ago and for a brief moment I allowed myself the luxury of hope.

Hope is a four letter word. I try not to indulge.

I posted today, something called Still Is. I tried to hide it over on my page.

Didn’t really work so good. And hour later…the ding in my inbox.

“It’s about him isn’t it.” Statement, not really a question.

I paused before answering, sometimes the truth needs a deep breath and a whiskey chaser.

“Yes.” Another statement, no question. Everything seems to be about him even when I don’t want it to be.

“So fucking call him already and stop torturing yourself. Or give me the number and I’ll do it.”

Ever get that feeling that hovers between awe and dread. Ya, I had that.

Desperate times call for desperate measures and all, but no. Bad idea.

The awe turned quickly to AWWWW.

Seriously? You would do that for me?

It’s not that far of a stretch for me. I do this shit all the time.

And it’s funny, I can easily set my ego and wants aside to help those I have coveted and fucked, no problem…never expected to have that happen to me. I always get the polar opposite. If they don’t have me, they hate me. For a while anyways.

And here is this man that by all rights I hurt rather badly and rather recently telling me “If he has any fucking ounce of a clue how valuable you are….he will swallow his pride and finally come get you…..if he’s half the man he claims he will hold on to you like it’s life or death….because it will be.”

It is such a strange sensation to be treated the way I treat others.

Case and point.

Young Un messaged me last week out of the pale blue.

We talk once a month sometimes more, rarely less, hence the paleness of the blue.

Been doing this for a while. Tripping in feelings and using the other as an opposite sex touch stone of sorts. Ego strokes and advice from someone who thinks differently enough to break the loops/bad mantras we both get stuck in.

Said he needed advice.

I love that he trusts me. I love him.

It’s been 2 years and 2 days since we met.

We had a rough go for a bit in the middle there.

But in my candy coated way of glossing things over, he was, and remains sweet as fuck.
Because he always was.

I credit him with my first steps of becoming. He was the first boy who was my choice. The first one in a long time that was of my tribe. In the brief time we had together he treated me like gold.
He made the transition from mundane to magic a lovely one and raised the bar.

He laid out his dilemma.

Said “the overthinking part of my Scorpio brain is having a meltdown”.

Oh baby, I know those.

His sounded like “what if what if what if”…

He is smitten you see, been talking to this girl since Christmas, but she had a boyfriend.

Now she doesn’t.

So the ‘what if’ was clearly labeled “what if I don’t say anything and I lose her?”
Followed closely by “what if I say something and I lose her?”

Conundrum.

I am Queen of the land known as SAY IT SAY IT SAY IT. It’s actually pretty hard to shut me up unless you put something fun in my mouth.

Young Un is fully aware of this. I practiced on him one time in late July and again in March.

I also have some shining examples of phrases that make girls swoon…

So I Cyrano’ed.

I said…

Here’s what you do.
Go look in the mirror.
Use my eyes so you can see what I see.
Realize how incredibly handsome and wonderful you are.
Then tell her what you just told me.
That you value her friendship but you are smitten as fuck and you don’t want to lose her.
Tell her she is worth waiting for if that is what she needs.
You used the term ‘head over heels’, tell her that, because honestly it is sweet as fuck coming out of your mouth.
And one more thing…tell her talking to her is the best part of your day…if that is the truth.

He told me it was the truth and he did SAY IT SAY IT SAY IT.

10 minutes later…

She said the same thing back to him. I could feel him glowing through my phone. And I glowed along with him.

That is what love is.
I’m not IN love with him, I don’t need him with me, his mess is mine and so is his joy.

He told me he is glad we stayed friends, I am too.

I forgive and have been forgiven.

And listen here all ye who are actually listening…if she/he is important, don’t let them go.

“And he had better grab onto you and hold you like you’re the fucking Holy Grail.”

I am beginning to believe I just might be.

It’s time to say what needs to be said, in my own words.

regular lust

Happy, Fun, Consensual, Sexy Time with a few Partners

May 11, 2016

Author’s Note

It has come to my attention that the term gang bang might be an exclusively male idea/ideal.
That is not how I meant it, however ‘orgy’ doesn’t fit because it implies mixed genders.
So what I meant was…whatever you would call me being sexually satisfied by many men at once, men of my choosing.
If this offends you, too bad.
If this triggers you, I’m sorry.

“Did I tell you the gang bang story?”

I typed and waited. Bracing myself out of habit and fear.

“No” he replied. “Not yet.”

Hmmm. No “ew, gross”. My comfort leveled-up in that moment.

This has become a litmus test.

Gaging reactions when I say those two words.

It’s not my gang bang story.

I haven’t had one.

Yet.

Once upon a time in a barber shop far, far away there were two barbers. There were really a dozen, but this story focuses on these two. One was an uptight dude and the other an open-minded woman.

Open-minded Woman said one day, out of the blue “Damnit.”

“What?” inquired Uptight Dude.

“I just realized I forgot to scratch something off my bucket list before I get married.” She said.

“And what is that?” he asked, mild concern in his voice.

“I wanted to have a gang bang.” She smirked, and waited for the fallout.

He huffed and puffed, grumbled and rabbled and finally spit out “well that isn’t very ladylike.”

She sighed, smiled and snapped back sweetly “Well then, you can’t come to my gang bang.”

I heard the story second-hand. I immediately wrote down the words, “You can’t come to my gang bang.” Knowing I wanted to write about this somehow, someday. A bunch of us were sitting around a dining room table, laughing, talking and drinking…swapping stories. 2 of the guests, barbers that had born witness to the aforementioned exchange.

That was about a year ago now. Took me this long and a few other occurrences to find my brave.

I’ve yet to have a gang bang, not sure about her. Fingers crossed.

I grew up in a small town. Having sex with more than one person every 6 months was considered slutty-as-fuck. I hid my escapades as best I could, but the label caught up and stuck. I tried to fight it, but as I get older and more comfortable in my skin, I am what I am. Sex is awesome. But that multiple partner taboo seems to have stuck with me. I should just channel Taylor Swift and Shake-shake-shake it off.

Once in my life I’ve had sex with two different men on the same calendar day, many hours apart, a righteous shower in between, two different locations. See how I had to pad that? You can take the girl out of the small town, but… I had so much guilt I was wide awake at 3am. My girl checked on me to see why in god’s name I was still up, I confessed, she absolved me and I fell right asleep. I needed to say it out loud. “How do you feel?” she asked. Sated, the answer was sated. And sore, and sleepy. Thanks mama.

Gang bang has become a reoccurring bright red thread weaving in and out of the tapestry that is my life.

There was the Ashley Madison hack wherein I heard a woman, about my age, married, kids, who had an account specifically to get fucked by two or more 20something guys at once. It was her kink, and I respect that. Especially because she made me feel less alone.

I can’t remember if I heard her speak before or after I started writing ‘voyeuristic husband slutty-as-fuck wife porn’ on demand.
I’m working on a novel, for publication. Due date is looming. Late July. Everything happens in late July.

The more I think about it the more I am grateful that I no longer work at the club. Except…I did recently work with an ex porn-star. And guess what her last movie was…yep…gang bang. I haven’t seen it. Not sure if I want to shatter the illusions I have in my head.

Seems like everyone else saw it. She had no shame about it at all. Nor should she. I gaged reactions from different co-workers when the subject was raised. They ranged from “ew/gross”, to “she has a really pretty pussy”… My reaction? Holy shit, good for her. But I couldn’t say it out loud lest I out myself. I never got a chance to talk to her about it before she left. I regret that a bit.

A few days ago, another dining room table, a bunch of friends sitting around having drinks swapping stories. My girl was taking a long time to tell a sex story, so I cut in and said ‘so then you had a gang bang…’ she said, “No, but I want to.” I looked at her with awe and reverence and I could barely get the words out…”Me too.” I whispered. I’ve never said it out loud.

There were smiles all around the table as the conversation took a brief detour about how to make that happen for both of us. I fucking love my friends, I truly do. Feels like coming home after 40 years of wandering.

I had a taste of how that felt late last July. The idea of another person being home. How it felt to be completely understood as I am. A man accepting and encouraging every bit of depravity I could imagine and celebrating me for it. He got me writing about it. I filled his inbox with debaucherous fantasies and realities and he praised me for it and found me a publisher.
It took me a while to wrap my head around him. Until one day the answer came. He is a lot like me when it comes to love, sex and the rest of it. Emotional monogamy is paramount and sex is just sex.

We had a falling out as of late. It is my fervent hope that one day I will get to come home to him. Time will tell, with help from fate, faith and work.

Now I know a lot of you will say ew. Think that I am setting the feminist movement back centuries. Judge me as dirty, depraved, wanton and slutty-as-fuck. To that I say “Yes, I am those things. And if you don’t like it, you can’t come to my gang bang.”

men

The Claiming

April 25, 2016

My relationship status on Facebook has been non-existent for over 5 years now.

I haven’t been single for 5 years mind you, but I left it blank.

I dated Pimp Daddy for 2 years and never felt the need to claim him, gee I wonder why.
(See the 3^rd word in the previous sentence.)

He never called me his girlfriend even after we moved in together, even after I got pregnant and then fired, rendering us gypsies. Even after I got us out of that mess and every subsequent mess after that.

He wasn’t that important.

End of story.

There was a method to my madness, or a reason for it.

I remember one day when ex hubby and I were fighting. I’d run away from home and was sequestered in a Pepto Bismol pink room above a strip club surrounded by everything I could possibly jam into my Jeep, including my laptop thank fuck. I was using it for evil, posting passive aggressive shit. Obsessively checking my relationship status on Facebook to see if maybe this was the time it would actually be over. It wasn’t. I mean, he DID dump me on Facebook that week, but it didn’t last.
And so it went, different locales, always the same game.
Is it my turn or hers?
Where am I sleeping tonight, and watching my status obsessively to assess how bad things were this time.

If I left 7 times I left 20. If he dumped me 17 times he dumped me 57. The center didn’t hold. It was never my circus and they weren’t my monkeys.

My monkeys fly.

And you know what? Fuck it. Fuck this, fuck that, fuck them.

Every time I start shit talking my exes, I hear Sophia from the Color Purple.

“He ain’t worf it.”

“Don’t trade places with what I’ve been through. Sat in that jail, sat in that jail till I about done rot to death.”

I did. A few times. And I was always the key.

Hell can get pretty comfortable if you have been there long enough.

But I was the key, the key to leaving, the key to the locks in my life.

The secret is all inside your head she said to me. The answer is easy if you take it logically. I’d like to help you in your struggle to be free. There must be 50 ways to leave your lover. ~ Paul Simon

The leaving, I have that down. Being left? Got that too, don’t want it but I get it.

But what about the in between?

How in the good lord’s name do I deal with that?

Where is that fine line between belonging with/to someone and territorial pissings?

Once upon a time I posted a profile pic of me in a doorway, wearing The grey dress. My corner of the internet exploded, compliments flying everywhere. But the one I fixated on was from Young Un. We had an inside joke about ‘man pants’, jeans I owned that hung off me rather than hugging my curves. He posted under said grey dress pic that I was beautiful no matter what I wore, even in my man pants.

It was the first time I had been claimed publicly by someone I was with, in what felt like forever.

And it felt amazing.

The Poet did the same, a few times, and it always elevated me. I felt wanted, like he was announcing his presence in my life. And I liked it.

I realized, I had lived without it for so long that I no longer need it, but I kinda want it.

With the new one, good god I wanted to brag. But I would restrain myself, mull over the comments I was leaving out for the world to see, and if I felt they might offend someone…inbox or not at all.

We talked about it, he makes it easy to talk about everything.

“I’m scared.” I said.

“It’s okay baby.” He replied.

I wanted to climb the air traffic control tower at O’Hare and announce how smitten I am with this man.
I told him that too.

“Okay baby.” He said.

Shortly after we each got called out by mutual friends…”so you seem really happy, what’s his/her name?” They already knew. I am so transparent it’s like trying to hide elephants inside a greenhouse.

I don’t want to hide anything, I don’t keep secrets nor am I one.

So I said it, out loud. Posted upon the Facebook that “I am smitten as fuck with Jason King.”

Took him nanoseconds to comment underneath “and I am smitten right back.”

And in that moment I allowed myself to be happy. Still am.

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

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