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I Love Lamp

August 14, 2016

Sunshine was in the shower and I scared the crap outta her by yelling very emphatically “I LOVE THIS FUCKING LAMP!”

I don’t love this lamp. It isn’t even a lamp really, it’s a retro, scrollwork chandelier hybrid thing with dangling sparkly bits. I wouldn’t have picked it. I love my chandeliers dripping crystals, diamond bright and throwing rainbows. But it’s cute and it matches what we’ve got going on in our living room.

I love that it is up and that when we flick the switch it comes on or turns off depending.

I have no words to describe the last 28 days of moving chaos and shit going right sideways.
This fucking chandelier was at the eye of the hurricane, the poster child for everything that was going wrong.

Put it back in the corner, put the tools back in the box and try again tomorrow.

Yesterday was the tomorrow that seemed like it would never come.

Out of the blue my dear friend Cory shows up, says, “looks like you have a light missing.” And voila. There was light and it was good.
Amen hallelujah and all that sparkling jazz.

It sat in various corners and spaces for 28 days. I held it over my head for about an hour all together until my shoulders burned and my forearms shook. Giant got it to light up once, but we needed a part that he had at home and we gave up because we wanted to look at each other and I was making funny little squeaks of protest awfully close to his crotch.

The wiring in this retro apartment we live in is…well fucked. The whole building is eccentric and adorable until it’s time to switch out a light fixture, then it becomes one of the 12 Herculean tasks and there are 5 wires all coated in white paint and no configuration of 3 to 5 makes the light turn on.

“We had to make a lamp that looked like an elephant and when you pulled the trunk the light was supposed to go on. My lamp didn’t go on.”

…

“Without lamps there would be no light.”

Breakfast Club.

Then God said, let there be light and there was light and it was good.

All of the mens that tried (4 for the record) balancing on chairs and then a step ladder, twice having sparks fly from the wires, many times having the light just not go on at all and then that one time where the safety wire snapped and it fell and Hot Neighbor caught it whilst balancing on a ladder…all channeled our inner Jane Says and decided to try again tomorrow.

Someone came waltzing out of my ancient history yesterday. And there was light. Well at first there was only light, it wouldn’t turn off…but he fixed it and leveled it and now we have light.

I feel lighter.

I haven’t seen him in 22 years.

He says he can’t read these stories because it gets his blood up. Reading what I go through and not being able to see that I’m okay. I told him I was alright and he believed me and there was more light and it was really good. Literally his face lit up.

It was hard when he left. He reminded me of all the good there was for me in my high school years. I tend to remember the shit, but there was so much good.

Kinda like the damned lamp.

It was nagging at me that it wasn’t up. It’s continued tenancy in the corner behind the door a constant reminder of the things that weren’t done yet. Ghostly marks of droplets of sweat on the living room floor from when Giant tried to get it working reminded me of the coldest night of the year when he fired up the charcoal barbecue to make me steak. He spent the hottest night of the year trying to get this fucking lamp up.

And I still have days where I question whether or not I am loved?

I focus on the bad and fail to see the good right in front of my eyes.

I live in this beautiful apartment with one of my best friends. I call her Sunshine because she lights up my life daily. And I let this lamp vex me?

The lesson here is twofold at least, quite possibly many folded, like an origami crane.

I am loved.

Things get done and get better. Eventually and always.

Not everything can be on my timeline, barely anything really, and the more time I spend worrying and focusing on what is not I miss out on the glory of what is.

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Yesterday is Where I Left it.

August 10, 2016

Yesterday I saw a soldier demon try and claw its way out of a little girl. Constantine

Yesterday, all my trouble seemed so far away. The Beatles

Wait, no yesterday was the trouble and I was the little girl with the demon in her, wanting out.

I live with chronic pain. I just do. I don’t talk about it often. I haven’t had more than a week below a 3/10 since Arizona, and that was 7 days out of 7 years. I miss that chiropractor like oxygen. I swear she had angel wings and a halo. Her hands were made of magic and she rearranged my bones into a less painful configuration for a time.

I don’t talk about it often because to speak of pain aloud gives it acknowledgment and thereby power over me.

I hurt, and that’s okay. I am used to it and most days it doesn’t bother me. And on the days it does, I either let it or I don’t. Some days I have no choice and it huffs and it puffs and it blows my house down. So I nap and cry and put ice packs in interesting places and wait it out. All storms pass.

I am in control over my own damned self.
I manufacture my own happiness and other emotions in my own mind.

Giant said something the other day and I was quick to correct him.
He said “I can’t come running over and make you a happy Sarah.”
No you can’t, you can add to it, but you can’t create it with your presence or take it away with your absence.
My sadness also belongs to me and me alone.
I cried rivers over him, which flowed into oceans, but they were my own.
I could have stopped at any time, but I chose to go with the flow and see where it took me. Which is here, and here is good. I float.

4-6 days a year I hit an 8.
10/10 being active labor or the first while after the car crash that started all of this.

Yesterday was an 8.5

When I say I live with chronic pain I mean she sleeps with me every night, I try to roll over and ignore her, but she wakes me up sometimes. She sits with me in the car and I avoid acknowledgement until about hour four then she sits in my lap and weighs heavy on my legs and lower back.

I made a decision upon a farm couch 7 years ago.

There is no parallel universe with any version of me who would not have stubborned herself up off that couch. There is no doppelganger of mine that convalesced and died there. Sisterwife lays there dying now, her choice, not mine.

There are days where I hurt so bad that I cry hysterically and this opens me up to emotional outbursts that I cannot control. But there are days when I don’t. I live for those. I love being in the water because I float myself down to a 2.5. The stretching and cardio I get on the pole and the endorphins released during sex lessens the pain as well, or distracts me the same way opioids do. The pain is there and I simply don’t care.

Apparently poles of all kinds are good things for me.

I take the same attitude with my PTSD. I don’t have it. It has a key to my house and pops by now and again to remind me something bad happened years ago. But I have mentally put so much space between me and then, it’s like watching an old movie clip. If I put effort in I can remember the whole film, but why would I? I didn’t do that to me, someone else did and they are long gone and far, far away. I’m in no clear or present danger. Those little flashes are just warning lights when I veer down a familiar path. So I leave.

I do not understand why we would prolong our suffering. Wasn’t it bad enough the first time?

I didn’t do those thing to me, someone else did. Not my problem. I practice kindness not cruelty because I can. The only person I can control is myself, and these are my choices.

Let go and let god.

Everything is as it should be.

This too shall pass.

Laugh and smile as often as possible and pass it on to others.

I live for belly laughs, good food, better sex, writing, loving and learning.

Yesterday all of those things seemed really far away.

Yesterday don’t matter ‘cos it’s gone. Rolling Stones

Today is a whole new glorious day.

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Who is this Masked Man?

August 4, 2016

Who is he really? I have no idea.

There exists a meme that makes the rounds about forgiving someone who isn’t sorry and how that’s strength.

It is.

I should know, I just did the thing.

It’s going to take longer for me to forgive myself. But only by a lil bit.

2 years it took me to come to the realization that I fell in love with a masked man.

And only the mask.

He’s kinda an asshole without it.

He is not the Batman, beyond the rich/hermit thing. He can’t even save himself.

The lightbulb that went off burned my retinas.

Sitting in therapist’s office, she was questioning why I even come to her at all.

“Sarah, you seem to be able to figure things out rather well on your own, why are you here…am I actually doing anything for you?”

She is, but I have to stop with the day-to-day and resurrect my past. I am afraid I did that thing that I warned her I would do which was twist the conversation into a new direction to get away from what I don’t want to deal with.

Recent past? I got this.

The time called ‘before’ like when I was married? I am actually alright with all of that too. I learned a lot, mostly what not to do. I shed skin that didn’t fit and itched something awful. I have already danced naked on that grave enough. I can’t even remember where I buried them.

Way back when I was a little girl with glasses, a huge vocabulary and skinned knees?
She needs some love and attention and then I think we are going to be okay.

Someday soon I will reach back and pull her out and tell her everything is going to be better than fine. It is going to be spectacular.

I hold onto ghosts, lawd knows I do. I feed them, water them and give them a place to manifest. My bedroom is a Ouija board and I commune with the dead on soft sheets, my hands are wandering planchettes that move with psychic, spiritual guidance and spell out sweet things on their skin or trace the constellations in their freckles trying to decipher maps to home or both.

At least when they appear I can recognize them, they remain true to the men I knew, and their newfound transparency is pretty sweet.

The golden rule with the dead is ask them what they want.

I said to the Giant “When I start to develop genuine feelings for someone it’s like a bell gets rung in my heart’s graveyard and all my skeletons get up and ask me to dance.” Via text the morning after we slow danced in my dining room.

Happened when I loved him, Jason too and the Hulk. Young Un the first was the first so he got immunity and I recovered alone.

I am doing that thing again. Talking (non)sensical nonsense in avoidance.

What of this masked man…

Well shit.

I can see it with abundant clarity now.

Flowed off my tongue as the truth tends to do.

I said

“The first night, the night we talked for 12 hours he was this attentive, excited, vulnerable man with this unyielding strength. I fell in love. I did. I fell in it and stayed there, wet up to my waist and waiting for his return.

But the man that called me the next day and every subsequent day or night after that, wasn’t him.”

Maybe the stars were aligned a certain way that first night, or it was the Fireball, blame it on the alcohol. Or maybe the doors of perception were either cleansed or filthy…filthy sounds more astute.

Or it could have been prima nocta. I was taken away and mindfucked by a man that wasn’t mine.

There it is.

Whatever happened, he never came back. Except to lord over me a bit.

I wanted that back so badly I couldn’t see the truth. I just wanted My Poet back. But My Poet didn’t actually exist outside of that time and place.

It was a well-constructed mask that fell away over the next two weeks and then he fell away too.

I did the same thing in my marriage. Fell for him in the first 3 months when it was summertime and we were new and life wasn’t hard. Then he turned into a video game playing couch-potato and I became a Fallout widow. But dammit I hung on to those 90 days for dear life and wasted my dear life for the next 2556.69539 days.

Until I landed in therapy.

I’ve worn masks too.

I wasn’t exactly myself when I’d go to work, but that veil was a fake name and more make up than I wear on a day to day basis. Geisha-face with stilettos basically. Salome in her war paint. Call it what you will but I was only selling the skin my soul came in, not my soul itself.

I’ve spent a lot of time teaching and training myself not to lie, I can happily say ‘what you see is what you get.’ I’m mutable and I have my moods, but I am always myself.

I wandered off again.

He claimed to be one of 4% of men who derive pleasure from sharing his woman with other men. We talked about it at great length, I sent stories and started a book about it.

I had yet another moment of clarity. They have been coming down from heaven like lightning strikes in the heat of July.

He’s never had what he wanted. What if the reality of it is actually more than he could bear?

That too feels like truth as it rolls off my tongue. It’s my truth as well. I am not sure I could be that girl/his girl, but I was willing to try.

I am all the things all these men ever wanted until they are confronted with the reality of it.

Be careful what you wish for.

This is my one true face.

lost boys

The Graveyard of Almost

July 31, 2016

My ex-husband sent me to therapy. Told me I couldn’t come home until I saw someone to ‘tame my crazy’ and ‘manage my anger’.
He stayed home with sisterwife while I walked into strange women’s houses, sat on their couches and spilled my guts into their loving laps.

Oh honey. What did you think was going to happen?

Did you really believe they would tell me to stay in the toxic waste dump of our marriage?

Seriously?

I had been drinking the poison Kool-Aid for so long I didn’t even notice I was dying until they showed me what happy tastes like.
Freedom and unconditional love are far sweeter elixirs than a man who forced me to share him and called me crazy for not eating his shit with a smile.

Funny enough, my “crazy” became quirky and cute and my “anger” no longer existed at all, thereby negating the need to be managed. I completely stopped panicking when I wasn’t being attacked.

You don’t try to ‘manage’ a tumor, you cut the fucking thing out and let the body heal.

I healed.

I was speaking to the Lumberjack the other day, sitting in Sunshine’s truck, we had just hit the garden center and everything smelled like basil and bougainvillea.

I was that girl. No, not Team Compromise. The other one.

I was a whiny weak little bitch that clung onto a shams of relationships like I belonged there.

I didn’t belong there.

I am ashamed to say I have been back visiting the graveyard as of late.

Saw Giant and Gelfling, been peeking at the Poet’s page when I ought not to be. Had a lovely conversation with the Hulk recently. I wish them well, I truly do. But they do tend to make me question my worth.

Do I have a sign on me that says ‘hey let’s play a rousing game of come here/go away’?

I am tired of trying to figure out what is wrong with me and starting to see what is right with me.

I am a really good girl.

Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadows of my exes…

I can’t even call them exes. All they are is ‘almosts’, as in we almost dated. I was poised and ready to put on my monogamy pants and be with them, and they bailed.

The Poet sent me to therapy right before he jumped ship.

Said he was done trying to love broken girls like me.

My therapist asks after him from time to time.

To which I reply “No word, still blocked, just posts photos of his words on my body.”

She has yet to ask me how that makes me feel.

(Comfortably numb for the record.)

She accused me of only being in her office For him.

I corrected her, quickly.

It was his idea, yes. But did I do it because I thought somehow it would make him love me back?

Nope.

During our 2 year on-again-mostly-off-again-whatever-it-is-we-have-been-doing/not doing, I’ve realized that although his delivery sucks, hes often right.
I tasted the idea of therapy that he handed me, and found it delicious. So I ate it. Every Tuesday and I wash it down with coffee.

Oh honey. What did you think was going to happen?

Did you think she was going to tell me to stick around for someone who can’t even pick up the phone yet passive-aggressively posts to Facebook?

That is some teenage drama queen bullshit, and I ought to know. I was one.

On our way back from the garden center/amazing lunch I found myself briefly contemplating Gelfling for a moment.
I looked up and saw a solitary raven outside of a cemetery.
Biggest one I have ever seen this far south.
One for sorrow. Two for joy.
I think I’m getting the message.
Unrequited love isn’t cute or romantic.
It’s ridiculous.
I’m not a ridiculous girl.

My Pixie girl Ciara said, “Sorrow is still a valid emotion. Feel it when it comes, let it pass.”
To which I replied…
Nope.
My brain is my brain, my life is my life. It’s as simple as deciding I don’t want to be somewhere anymore and walking away.

I must again reiterate the Matthew Hussey idea of unrequited love being ugly.

It’s truly a colossal waste of time.

Channel your inner Luda and tell them fence-sittin’ boys to “MOVE BITCH GET OUT THE WAY.”

Even better, realize they’re not listening anyways, and go around.

The important thing is to keep moving.

I was in my car and that Frank Turner song came on.

Because I know you are a cynic but I think I can convince you.
Yeah, cause broken people can get better if they really want to.
Or at least that’s what I have to tell myself if I am hoping to survive!

It’s a long road up to recovery from here, a long way back to the light.
A long road up to recovery from here, a long way to making it right.

So darling, sweet lover, won’t you help me to recover…

He isn’t going to help and the road is not long.

Besides, I know a shortcut.

It is called ‘I have a nice life and if you aren’t making it better you can’t come in’.

I don’t even like Kool-Aid.

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Enough Buddhas

July 28, 2016

Roommate (aka my Sunshine) says “We have enough Buddhas.”

Considering the size of our apartment, she is probably right. Considering who I am as a person, I have since bought one more Kuan Yin and will probably sneak another Buddha into my room.

We have one in the sanctuary we call ‘porch’ and he is the only one facing the right way. Funny if you think about it. Does Buddha really care? He might have a preference for early morning sunlight on his face, I do too. But he doesn’t actually give a shit where you put him. He is not an overly thin skinned prophet.

The emotional freedom I gained when I finally internalized the words “Everything is as it should be” was…all. I immediately stopped fighting. I couldn’t argue and I stopped wanting to.

I probably don’t have quite enough Buddhas. I still forget. I lose time thinking about what almost was.

So I am talking to my other girl. My North Carolina Mawmawolf. It’s killing me in small increments. She is my mirror image from my sad days on the farm. I want her outta there. Trying to rig up a tough love catapult to launch her out of the past.

She said she wrote something and confessed to attempted murder.

A) It was 17 years ago
B) She wrote an article about an ‘almost’.
Ergo…
C) All it is now is a really riveting story.

Sucks that it happened, awesome that she wrote about it so well.

https://letspretendblog.wordpress.com/2016/07/21/if-i-had/

I can’t find the words to get her to let go.

Closest I got was “BUT DID YOU DIE?”

There is an alternate reality where I have a crippling opioid addiction and I am still sitting on the stinky farm couch with an equally addicted sisterwife.

But it ain’t this reality.

Currently I am sitting in a house full of Buddhas, music and sunshine. And it’s clean and it smells good. I am only here because I changed how I think about things.

I wrote an article, feels like forever ago, about the times I almost died. It’s been a lot. Enough to write an article about it. I also wrote in “Regeneration, After the Fire” about how imagining what could have been worse about something that was already bad enough was a misuse of time, energy and imagination. Because it fucking is.

But did you die?

Nope.

Carry on then.

Why are we so addicted to drama and worst case scenarios? I know I used to be that girl but I have no interest in digging her up to glean the why. She smells like desperation and monkey shit from running around circus tents that weren’t hers.

Time is too precious.

I lost 3 days fussing over a move that didn’t go my way. I lost nothing but 3 jars and 3 days. Can’t get it back so…moving on.

I could very well have been raped on a Tinder date. But I wasn’t. Not dwelling on what happened other than fine tuning my collection of red flags and adding a few.
The Poet posted some poem about loose women looking for trouble in bars and getting what they deserved right after I posted what happened. Little lemon juice in a wound that was barely closed, but whatever. Chased it with a shot of tequila, had a chuckle and got on with my day.
(Hi honey. I’m fine thanks, and you?)

I saw this lovely British man do a short excerpt/talk about unrequited love.

https://www.facebook.com/CoachMatthewHussey/videos

I watched it until my eyes bled and it became my marrow.

Been turning that grain of sand over in my head like an oyster and I came up with this little pearl…

If he wanted me he would be here.
If any of them were supposed to stay and love me, they would be, right here right now.
Jason has been trying to get me to accept this for a while now. And I always came back with a “But, but, I understand why he is doing what he is doing.” Which translates to a very meek “I’m not worthy.”

Um, ya, I am.

I am a kind, funny, sweet, loving, understanding, talented woman who loves sex and values men as men. Plus I make killer sammiches.
And I am wicked smart.
Me hanging onto a future I manufactured in my own head is not sexy, is not romantic.
I hate martyrs and I am not going to be one. I have shit to do.
I am a good girl, I’m human and I make mistakes and sometimes I have to play dead to get out of bad situations. So be it. No harm no foul, I washed it off.

Poet bailed on me shortly after my birthday citing that I embarrassed him, no explanation, just a block.
Some harm, some foul.
But I don’t have a time machine and if I did I wouldn’t use it to go back and edit a 20 minute conversation I had with a strange woman about coffee cups. Again, I have better shit to do.

Like write a book inspired by my fantasy life that I made up in my head and is going rather nicely actually. Someone once told me sex sells on the internet, and he wasn’t wrong.

Shoulda done this years ago…tee hee.

Everything is as it should be and everything went the way it went.
No amount of fussing or self-flagellation over imaginary sins is going to change that.

You made it, here, to this moment. Enjoy.

I can play the coulda woulda shoulda game like a gold medalist, but it gets me nowhere. I should never have dated that psycho-wannabe-soldja-boy. I had the Giant. But who says if I had done anything any differently that Giant wouldn’t have left me for his safe traveling waitress anyways?

I did what I did. I am what I am and I own it.

I don’t have time to figure out what other people want me to be, I’m way too busy enjoying being myself.

Here and now.

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Digging in the Dirt

July 8, 2016

Every harlot was a virgin once. ~ William Blake

Everything changes, letting go is the only way.

I’ve been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could’ve been.
I’ve been wallowing in my own chaotic
And insecure delusions.

I wanna feel the change consume me,
Feel the outside turning in.
I wanna feel the metamorphosis and
Cleansing I’ve endured within
~ Tool 46 &2

I can feel it. Mostly in the lack of things that were here before…and in the warmth that has replaced them.

I can control time, speed it up to get through the unpleasant, slow it down to savor the bliss. I have the blessing of not noticing the unpleasantness around me until it is time to get out of harm’s way…or just not at all.

It has been years since I had soul crushing panic attacks that would rob my breath and sanity and cause me to feel as though I would never be happy again. My limbs used to solidify into deadwood. No more. I am rooted in the ground and branch out to the sky collecting sunshine and rain.

I have succumbed to baby backslides now and again, but I accept them…learn from them and find great satisfaction in conquering them.

I’ve looked inside myself and found grace, peace, strength, bravery and love.

I know I must allow the universe to unfold as it will.
My responsibility is to think happy thoughts, work hard and follow my gut towards my desires.

I know I can only control my actions and my reactions to the actions of others.

I no longer feel the need to cloister myself in the nunneries of dry, sexless, loveless, passionless relationships.
Hiding my potential behind men who were never worthy or enough, just to justify my feelings of being unworthy and never enough.

I have freed myself from those prisons and somehow I feel my eyes are still adjusting to the light.

It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell. ~ Buddha

I do revel and rejoice in my victories over myself, no matter how small.

I cannot seem to shake this feeling of unworthiness, but it is lighter than before.
I am no longer crushed under the weight of it but I am still dragging it around.
Still laying my boots to long expired equines on occasion.

Past dictates that no matter how hard a hold of my heart someone once had I can learn to let go, or at least adapt and maneuver in the parameters given.

My heart is currently bound to someone worthy. I am working at becoming worthy back.
And regardless of outcome, that will be mine to keep.

The relationships I find myself cultivating in my present life are passionate, lovely, satisfying and yet my past dictates that I still anticipate the alternate piece of footwear will succumb to gravity at some point. I’ll just go barefoot.

It’s true, everyone comes and goes. It’s my job to love them.

I am hand shy I have to stop flinching.

So shed your skin and let’s get started ~ Hunters & Collectors

I am working on it.

Digging in the dirt, find the places we got hurt. ~ Peter Gabriel

All due respect to the process, the earth has been turned enough now. Time to plant and start growing up.

Those who sow in sorrow, reap in joy. ~ William Blake

I sowed in sorrow for a long time.
Always pouring concrete over the gardens I had planted right before the seeds broke the soil, so they never saw light. Self-sabotage.

I constantly find myself marveling in how far I have come and reveling in how far I have to go.

Sometimes I wallow.

I have been alternately wallowing and skating by for years.

What have I done?

A much easier question to answer than ‘what do I do now?’

It is time to live, breathe, move and work with purpose.

I will suffer fools, gladly. But I can no longer beat them nor join them.

I have no enemies in this place. You are with me or you are inconsequential.

My past does not dictate my future. I have conquered everything that has happened to me up until now and I am still here, with more grace and strength because of my trials and tribulations. They haven’t made me what I am, I have.

The time has come to thrive instead of barely surviving.

I am no longer scared of my potential.

I suppose by sitting here waiting to find patience I am, in fact, being patient…

regular lust

Plastic Pussy

June 30, 2016

Four score and seven years ago, I got laid for the second last time.

[Author’s note: I wrote this article, or half of it, on pizza flyers on my way to work, way back when I was just getting back from vacation. April/May? I got a little lost around then, time got slippery and slid. Also, I lost the third flyer so some of this is now from memory.]

Back before my pilgrimage to New Orleans, Giant was both the second last and the last time I’d had sex, for quite a while. I kept going to ground and I was crying a lot. Not exactly sexy.

There was Football, but that game got rained out. The stripper in NOLA, just enough attention and snuggles to get my mojo rising, made even sweeter by my insistent insisting that it was Friday night and he should be off making money, but every time I turned around, there he was. And then I met Jason at the airport and there were sparks everywhere. I wanted to crawl inside him like a Taun Taun, but there was a table in the way and I had a plane to catch. So no sex.

Truth be told, heart was on lockdown and she took all of me with her.
Sequestered in an oubliette with nothing but my toy box and memories of lightning sex.

It’s no secret that if I am home alone I am probably playing with myself, less when I am sad but still. Less than a-fucking-lot is still some. I write porn, it’s a good gauge. If my princess parts ain’t a-tingling by 3pm, I probably need a rewrite on that chapter. If I get worked up while working on it, it’s good.

I equate masturbating with fast food. Tastes hella good when you are starving, fills you up. But there is no real sustenance there, and leaves a funny aftertaste.

Herein lies the title.

My one toy is a little plasticky. Because it’s plastic. Silicone to be specific. Hella ugly to look at but damn it felt good.

Giant and I had not-a-date planned for a Wednesday afternoon (see also Afternoon Delight).
I missed an opportunity Saturday and had vowed that next time I would walk out the door and knock on his.

Tuesday. I’d been writing all day before work, worked myself right up. Whipped out my toys and went off like a rocket. Jumped in the shower and went to work, just like any other Tuesday.

Now, once upon a time when I was a stripper I felt it polite and part of my job to show up clean.
Sadly, some of the clientele did not feel that way and I avoided them like the plague they smelled like. Eau de Bubonic and B.O. Bleck.
I however, was almost always freshly showered, mostly shaved, with my geisha/game face on.
I like playing dress-up, it worked. Playing the odds, my 4% versus everyone else, I wasn’t about to bet it all on black 19. I had bills to pay.

When it came to my actual sex life, the getting ready process for work and the getting ready process for a date with a boy I like? Two totally different things.

I had work bras and panties and I have sets I wear for the men I’m actually with. Something has to be sacred and different. Everything work-related was disposable, as was work.

The second involved a proper shaving of the legs, less make-up and a little extra prep work on my princess parts. I.e., I cannae be smelling/tasting like coconut oil and plastic. No one at work ever got close enough to notice, I was rather protective of my pussy. It’s MINE, don’t touch it.

Lamia: You shall not see the star, touch it, smell or hear it. You will not perceive her even if she stands before you.
Kinda exactly that.

That’s another thing. When will the makers of Summers Eve and other such French showers (google it I dare ya) realize men don’t go sticking their tongues in bouquets of peonies looking for a taste. They aren’t hummingbirds. Nor do they wrap their mouths around cups overflowing with baby powder looking for a drink.

I propose a new line of douches. Apple Pie, French Vanilla Ice Cream, Papaya or for the more adventurous souls, I feel like Maple Bacon Cupcake would go over rather well.

Again, for the millionth time, I digress.

The night in question, I walked out one door and into another.

Victoria: It’s not the star that I want. [She puts her arms around him]
[Seductively] You know what I want.

Except I was a little tipsy, seduction wasn’t necessary or possible. I was giggling and clumsy and fell into him and eventually into his bed.

First time we didn’t even pretend to watch a movie.

I have mentioned to him a few times that I admire this switch in him, where he goes from mild mannered mortician into full angel of death with wings. It is magnificent to behold and be on the receiving end of.

It gets even better with bellies full of scotchy-scotch-scotch.

We were messaging the other day about, well none of your business really. But the last thing I said was “I never really let go with you.”

I didn’t finish that thought. The closest I got was after he started dating she-who-skis and she happened to be away and I happened to be there, lost in him enough to forget that my pussy tasted of fucking plastic until his tongue was just south of my belly button. Then I squealed a “NO”, with an explanation.

We tousled and he won. I called him the Giant for a reason. Actually I won. He ate my pussy with conviction and vigor, I squirmed and squealed with delight and a bit of horror. And when he came up for air and a kiss, I realized it wasn’t so bad.

Then my own switch flipped. I let go of trying to control anything, especially myself.

He liked hearing about what I had done to myself, he liked tasting it too.

I liked being coveted/appreciated/consumed in my less-than-perfect form.

Me and my plastic pussy, my not-so-shaved legs wrapped around this godlike creature. Explosions. Thunder, lightning and storm swells making soaking everything. The lingering scent in the room after it was over and I fell asleep on his chest? Petrichor. The smell of the earth after it rains.

I almost attained Ataraxia. (The tranquility attained from not fearing gods.)

And I love the smell of napalm in the morning. (Apocalypse Now)

(All italics from Stardust, Neil Gaiman)

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.

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)

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