One American Woman’s Fauxlitcal Understanding:

As of late, I have felt this niggling in me, this sort of freakish call of duty like that of lifting a car off of a trapped child in a moment of sheer adrenalin-driven heroism. Simultaneously, I have felt a tugging at my lady bits, not in the sexual way you might assume from me, but in this way that I feel like pounding my chest and gnashing my teeth and gathering all the children and building a refuge so we can START OVER!

Look at the 2016 Presidential Campaigns, for example, a bipolar event driving a mind-numbing divide into the nation; Democrats and Republicans, rich and poor, Black and White (and Blue), Us and Them… How are we really going to get to the crux of any matter?  The idea that any president is going to “get done” every agenda within 4 years of presidency is absolutely absurd. The time President Barack Obama has spent in the White House is a clear example of how we need to change our way of thinking and our expectations, and that a term as President of the United States isn’t about carrying out a certain party’s agenda but about continuing the legacy of our country’s ability to be the great leader of the world; ever-evolving, a truly free country, free of judgement, free of prejudice.  But, starting over every 4-8 years before we’ve had a chance to see any hard results is counter-productive, and makes Americans seem reactive and flimsy in character.

Dem. Hillary Clinton, is clearly the more educated and well spoken of the two presidential candidates, but can’t seem to shake the semi bitter, semi self-righteous Ice Queen with a personal vendetta to fulfill. And quite simply, she just doesn’t reach me as a fellow woman.  And then, of course, there is the 3rd Grade buffoon, Rep. Donald Trump, who is constantly bullying the other kids on the playground, who is the loudest person in the room at all times but doesn’t actually have anything substantial to say, ever.

Hey, I love that we are such a random country just making this shit up as we go.  We are creative, we are driven, and we are cunning.  American soil, particularly, is cultivated with hard competition and spit in the wind. I rather like that we find challenge and humor in everything we do… but it’s gone too far. When an action is done for the sake of doing something, then we have lost our purpose and we need to repurpose.  Fighting just to keep fighting, building just to keep building, arguing for the sake of arguing…does not equal understanding, growth, or progress.  This is what robots were designed to do.  Are we just a bunch of idiot robots malfunctioning in this chaos?

I’m sorry to say, but The United States of America presents itself like a daytime talk show. I suspect any moment Maury Povich will make an appearance and announce that Hillary Clinton has been having an affair with Donald Trump this entire time. Why not, right? Would that even surprise anyone at this rate?  It’s like when you’re dating someone, and you let it get more serious than you really should even though you know deep down it’s a bad idea but you do it anyway, and all you can do is hope that you’ll eventually find some reason to like that person.  And the only reason we do this to ourselves, the only reason why we suffer the insufferable is because we don’t think we can do any better.  So, looking at our government, goons in every corner, every speech, every ad, every day a reminder of “Fear! Fear! and more Fear!  And plenty more of “Blame!!”  I start to think…”Americans suffer from low self-esteem.”  People with low self-esteem either overcompensate or hide.  I’d say we have excelled at both. American men are the kings of overcompensation and where the fuck are the women in all this madness?

The truth is, I’m not well versed in politics and all the agendas that are on the table, especially when it comes to foreign affairs.  I know, that’s awfully ignorant of me as we are in bed with so much money and political agenda overseas.  But there’s so much to fix, so much grim reality at home, that it’s all I can do but focus my love and care here.  As an American woman, as a mother, a working middle to lower class citizen, I am thinking from this platform, this place that I know…home.  I’m hearing little in these debates that has hit home for me.  I think we can do better, I think we can do better than what either presidential candidate stands for.  I don’t think we can feel it from the top at this point, I think we need to feel the strength from where we stand.

I believe that the only way to get anything done anymore is to organize from the ground up; build nonprofits, coalitions, any sort of group that represents our true American grit and values, and who will rally for them peacefully pushing agendas to achieve the needs of common Americans…meaning the rest of us.

My ideas are simple, therefore I don’t understand how they can’t be done.  As I said before, my focus is directly at home, but this can be relative in the big picture as well, if projected properly and can be seen for its true intent and potential.

One example, the homeless.  Many of our urban cities are plagued with an increasing homeless population.  Americans are torn every day between their empathy and disgust. Many of the homeless suffer from addiction, mental illness, disabilities, disease, some are criminals, some are none of these, simply people with nearly nothing.  We haven’t come up with very many successful ways of helping the homeless, and I mean really actually helping them.  I don’t mean displacing homeless people so that wealthier people don’t have to look at them, I mean helping them back into the communities as respectable citizens of this country.  There are two subjective feelings that have immeasurable curing and motivational powers, Joy and Pride.  No matter how many clinics you schlep together, no matter how many shelters you erect, none of it matters if the people who you made them for never feel joy or pride.  How do we help our homeless feel joy and pride?  What about giving them purpose?  I live in San Francisco, where there is a shit ton of money everywhere you look.  We are surrounded by some of the most successful corporations in the world…surely at least one of these corporations can create a giant, non-profit housing community that establishes free communal living for the homeless, whom in return work directly for the city’s street cleaning department, therefore earning proper health and retirement benefits while instilling job skills and opportunities for achievement and growth.  When you are productive and learning you inherently begin to feel joy; which increases one’s motivation, not only improving the quality of one’s life but also by increasing one’s chance of overcoming addiction.  There are win-win situations that may not make companies money but can be self-serving and self-generating, and is just the right thing to do; but not without the help of large companies with large tax write-off capabilities to help sponsor housing programs like this.

What about education?  I honestly don’t know what the right thing is as far as private or public, I just know what IS, isn’t working.  There are not enough families and educators making the decisions and voting on what makes up our public school systems.  I am not a school teacher, I’m not even a very good student, but I can tell you that by vicariously reliving grade school through my daughter’s education I am disdained.  The teachers are exhausted, underpaid, and highly under appreciated, and their resources are becoming more and more restrictive, diluted, and for some teachers, all but eliminated.  In the way of education, I feel we need to be reaching out to other countries that have had success, especially those that have turned their education around in recent years, such as Finland. Why are we so proud that we can’t let others be examples of their excellence?  Why can’t we take notes on values that others can teach us?  Why have we not taken extensive survey and asked our American families and educators directly what WE want and then do everything in our power to achieve it?  The more opportunities we offer all American children to achieve greatness the more probable we will stay the leaders of the free world. Every American child should have the same opportunity to be great no matter what their economic upbringing looks like.

In regards to my question, “where are the women?” While that question is rather accusing, as it implies that women have been absent, I think it’s valid in these recent times of political ego, violence, and fear among the people.  In the past 10, fuck it, 100 years, how many Americans have died at the hands of a woman?  How many women have performed acts of violence fueled by rage or hate ?  How many wars are women currently leading?  I don’t need to even provide you with any numbers to back me up, or statistics to prove how inherently more peaceful women are because there’s no need to.  Right?  It’s just not even close, women are not so violent.

But this isn’t to say that American men are rabid savages either, sword fighting and ball busting and resorting to old world ways.  I’m saying that American men are finally cracking at the pressure of being a leader in a world that is too big to handle…alone.  More women should be involved in policies and budgets that affect the common people.  When it comes to taking great risks, women should consciously be seated among the great minds weighing in for the people, and sure, heed caution when needed.  The mentality of protecting women and children is slightly dated.  In recent shootings, or acts of terrorism, I don’t think there was any real concern, specifically, in protecting women and children so why all the bravado?  It no longer feels like a chivalrous concern but a means to keep women out of important decision-making that effect families directly. I’m not really a feminist, I really do love men and empathize with their positioning in this time in life.  In some ways I feel a sense of purpose in easing our men, giving them safety through support and kindness.  Historically women have excelled in some of the most important roles that hold up the highest value of our country such as: teacher, doctor, inventor, lawyer, Mom.   Women can support and have greater impact within our country, taking on the nurturing of this great land once again.

So, again,  where are the American Women?

The Guise of the Lumber Sexual

I got asked this question and I had a fun time dissecting it.

What makes a man manly? (And the guise of the Lumber Sexual, or is it a woman’s dreamt up, make believe ideal?)

Well, I could certainly tell you what makes a man not manly, but I’d like to keep this on the up and up, so I will stay focused on the actual question. What is manly?

I suppose we would need to first recognize a Lumber Sexual, and most people, having now just read the words “Lumber Sexual,” have an image in their head of who this person is. When I think of Lumber Sexual, and indeed, there is an immediate attraction to this aesthetic, though not limited to men as there are plenty of lesbian Lumber Sexual’s out there, too, I think of a natural man. A man with true grit, and just the right amount of fucks to give. A man that looks good in everything because the man wears the clothes, the clothes don’t wear the man! That Lumber Man. The general head-to-toe look of a Lumber Sexual consists of a minimum of these 5 key components:

1. The Beard. You cannot be Lumber Sexual if you cannot grow a beard, the exception only being if you’re a lesbian. In San Francisco, it is probable that in any trendy coffee shop serving $5 drip coffee, you will hear a beard-centric conversation pertaining to the amount of time it took to grow that beard. Very, very interesting… The juvenile in me thinks of Roald Dahl’s crude depiction of the beard.

“…a hairy jungle around his mouth, he was always able to find a tasty morsel here and there to nibble on.”

Alas, I am a dirty girl and a huge fan of them. I find The Great Beard incredibly manly. I love to sink my fingers into a man’s beard and pull him toward me for a kiss. Every man has a signature musk in his whiskers. Some are beautiful, filled with so many colors and patterns. For me, beards turn me feral and growly. They make me more sexual and I want to rub my most womanly scents into them. I worship the beard.

Sooooo, Fella’s, when you don the Great Beard and you don’t make me feel like a cat in heat, it’s such a bummer. Those are the moments when I feel bamboozled, when I realize that I was attracted to an aesthetic that had nothing to do with who the person is, and that is what makes it a disappointment.

2. The Hair. Honestly, it’s a 90’s throw back with more grease and pomade. Long on top with some sort of product worked into it, clipped down short on the sides, and that one pendulum of hair that, not by accident, swings between his eyebrows. It’s like a 1950’s, sexier version of Zack Morris from Saved By The Bell.

I can take it or leave it. I can pull your hair or I can lick and bite your head, doesn’t matter to me at all. If a man has kind eyes that can hold my gaze and tell a thousand playful thoughts without saying a word, that is manly.

3. The Flannel. This is not to be confused with the type of flannel that Kurt Cobain wore, loose and thrifted, and covered in cigarette holes and stale nicotine. These flannels are crafted and made of fine wool. They can be worn under a 3 piece suit, and probably have. These flannels have never touched a grain of sawdust, let alone covered the back of a man who has cut down a tree. These are sensible shirts to keep men warm. They are no longer outback to me, they are universal, practical, classic tartan that have no association with nature.

What I love to see is the broad curve of a man’s shoulders under his shirt. That beautiful shape of a man who still holds himself up. But this is a man who looks best in a white t-shirt, or nothing at all. This is a man who still lifts me up when he gives me a hug because he likes the weight of my entire body on him, which sends a deeper message that he’s strong enough to hold the weight of my world and can keep me safe, at least for 5 seconds. It’s not the flannel that keeps this man warm, it is the abundance of love he allows in.

4. The Denim. A Lumber Sexual wears quality materials, less is more which is a sign of maturity, refinement, and financial stability. Often this denim is $400 Japanese selvage, zero stretch, cuffed about 1.5”-2″ above the boot exposing an intentionally colorful sock beneath. If this Lumber Sexual is a true denim connoisseur, then he never washes them. Instead he spot cleans and freezes them to kill any bacteria and scent, then hangs them outside to freshen up, so to preserve the physical idiosyncrasies of the man inside them; the wallet imprint, the shift bulge, the whiskering in all the creases, and the faded highlights of his leg muscles.

I absolutely approve these jeans for men. This can only be done with a well made pair of quality denim. I rather love the idea that no man could wear another man’s pants. Women are generally softer, so our fade marks don’t have the same definition that men have. Women need the stretch in denim to keep their squishy parts from looking flattened. I secretly want denim that I can wear almost every day without washing, that bear my womanly essence; but sadly that essence can also be known as the all too infamous “crotch rot” (which is an embarrassing combination consisting of dried up pussy juice and possible menstrual tracks…for those that didn’t know, now you do…sorry.) So, I am envious of the relationship men have with their denim, just as I am of their ability to write their name in the snow.

5. The Boots. The boots are typically qualified the same way the flannel and denim are; something of the hand made variety, sewn together with industrial thread, soft hide, and stacked wood. They are usually about ankle high and worn with colorful or printed socks. They’re meant to last and be resoled again and again, his foot so embedded in the shoe that you could cast a mold of his foot out of it.

I, myself, love boots. As a woman, one shoe does not cover the spectrum of moods I present myself in. I could never be satisfied with one image. But, if you are going to commit to a look, then I think, at the very least, own it. I can respect anyone that breaks in a boot, because they can’t just be any boot, they have to be “the one”. You get a gut feeling when you know you’ve found the perfect pair, and there is always a grievance period when it is truly time to replace them. You don’t have to be Lumber Sexual to have this kind of relationship with your shoe, this exists with lots of people and lots of types of shoes; the same can be said for a trusty pair of Chuck Taylor’s or Vans Half Cabs.
But a lovely pair of leather boots age and wrinkle with the man, they can reveal a thousand miles of life, they are an extension of the walk he walks. The boots I am attracted to are not the steadfast boots that stayed the course, creating a seamless and smoothed out route leading to clear destinations and boundaries. And mind you, there is nothing wrong with this pair of boots, they are by no means less honorable, but I would grow tired of the trench they have created. Okay, so what does that mean? Does a man with boots covered in nicks and dings in the leather, and soles caked in mud and grease really live a more ruthless and carefree life? Do these boots really will him to step into any situation and toe the line no matter what obstacles are put before him? Probably not.

And if I haven’t confused you with so many metaphors, then you might find yourself wondering how many other expectations we have placed on someone just by the trend they got onboard with, or the ideas we’ve created around that image. Just the same that a man dressed as a lumberjack should be strong and rugged, self-assured without a need for validation, to smell of eucalyptus and cedar (and maybe a touch of pipe smoke), and to embody a calm and warm spirit that puts my restlessness at ease; it can be equally assumed, at this rate, that a woman dressed with done up hair, flawless make-up, a body hugging dress, and stiletto heels is an excellent lover, body confident, witty, flirty, and sexually diverse.

Sometimes liking what you see isn’t really seeing what you like. As I grow older, I find myself more deeply attracted to traits that cannot be bought. Traits like humility, a sense of humor, patience, an open mind, and kindness. If you possess these in addition to a rugged aesthetic, then you are winning, otherwise, you’re just another trend representative with some explaining to do.

Living in Domnation: The Pussies

You’re reading this because you want to know, and you might even feel a tickle deep inside.  And if you do, for the love of Goddess, enjoy it!  Whether it’s the cast of stigma and shame that it has been burdened with, or the weakness in our understanding of it, “Pussy” is such a great thing of nature, that it deserves so much more recognition for its strength.  I am pussy, and pussy is me.  My need to be one with my pussy is rich, and I intend to make it all the wiser.

If I leave my understanding of pussy to science, I feel detached in every aspect.  When I look at pussy in the perspective of long, unpronounceable Latin words and colorful, anatomical charts, my pussy seems without a soul.  Not to say there is no room for scientific explanation, believe me, my loins sometimes behave in a way that can only be biological.  But even when I leave my orgasms to electric or lithium operated tools and rubber, I am distracted by the barriers that block my human need for touch and turn me into a gyrating robot instead.

I speak a lot about men and the variety of ways I engage with them, but lately, it is with women that I feel the strongest connection and appreciation. This is new to me having felt guarded most of my life towards women.  As a girl I was conditioned by society to feel threatened by other girls; hundreds of deep-rooted years of learning to be more desirable, so to marry and secure a place in this world.  And it continues today, as pop culture often pits women against each other in an attempt to sell products that make us believe that one is better than the next. We can easily forget our human nature, that we work best as a community, offering our bosom when one is too ill, nurturing the belly when one is too weak, stroking the skin when one is longing for affection.  How did we ever allow ourselves to get to the place where we would secretly wish for another’s failure for personal gain?  This, to me, is the departure of our species as women, when we no longer nurture and we stand against each other with our arms across our breasts.

For me personally, I learned to form more meaningful relationships with women through motherhood, art, and now kink.  When I first became a mother I didn’t have women that I leaned on.  My own mother was not raised by her mother and didn’t seem to embrace mothering herself.  I had no one to tell me that they also didn’t know what the fuck they’re doing, that their relationship with their partner is also shifting and changing, that they also have needs and no longer know if they’ll ever tend to them.  I searched out the kind of woman who will bring out my best self, and who let me be needed so that I can help her, too.  These women are my sisters, they are an extension of the woman who I strive to be, their infinite energy helps me to see and touch the world in places I’ve never been.  As a dominatrix working out of a cooperative playhouse, I have a community of women with like interests.  For the fact that we are generally physically vulnerable; no clothing to stereotype the other, no preconceived notions as to what we’re all doing there, no need to compete for attention or affection, we can be our truest selves.  When women are together in an unguarded and supportive unity, I can see why the man has historically wanted to protect the woman and keep her safe, instinctively throwing himself against any imposing forces.  It is not because women are weaker, or couldn’t hold their own when threatened, it is because their sense of nurture and communal strength is so strong and deep, that we could not have survived without it.

Still, when our pussy becomes the object that defines who loves us the most, and who we love the most, the pussy’s instincts become inhibited and confused about how to feel.   And why is this?  Because the pussy is where the sex happens, and when burdened with devotion, it becomes the cave in which we hide our love from each other, it no longer is the center in which we reach ecstasy and let our animal spirit out.

When the men went off to hunt, and the women stayed together with the children, surely you do not believe that a woman never answered the call of her own desire.  Even today, when women spend regular time with each other, their menstrual cycles sync up, they naturally adapt to each other’s ebb and flow; which means that it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that they also got horny together.  And what do women do when they are in need?  They help, they lend a very helpful and loving hand indeed.  It isn’t about being bi, or gay, or in a relationship, or even emotionally responsible for each other, it’s simply about fulfilling a need.  Women are generous by nature.  The women I have surrounded myself with are so hungry for life, yet so willing to be devoured, I am humbled regularly by what some will sacrifice to keep the peace.

Having spent so much more time with women in a sexual environment, I have learned that some of my own hang-ups are quite normal, and needn’t be a hang up at all.  I revealed to my sisters that it is much easier for me to orgasm with, or in front of, someone that I don’t have feelings for, that I’m not even necessarily physically attracted to.  In some instances, the more appalling or gross the man is, the more crude and obscene I can be in my own orgasm, thus reaching it easily and rather quickly, compared to my usual 20-30 minutes or never.  It seems that when I have deeper emotions for someone, that it muddies the freedom I have to let go, that there is so much more at stake, that I end up caring more about their pleasure than my own.  Almost every woman that I’ve told this to has quickly responded, “Oh I’m that way.”  When I told this to an ex partner of mine, he said, “I hope you figure that out, what a shame.”  Which revealed a fundamental difference in how we consider sex, intimacy, and our understanding of how the pussy works.  To him, it is a shame that I have a harder time sharing or reaching ecstasy with someone I love, perhaps like withholding, or some kind of faulty disconnect that is tragically deep-rooted.  That the word “shame” was used at all to describe what I felt to be an enlightenment, says a lot about the mind-fuckery we create in our heads around sex and love.  The ability to produce an orgasm, as a means to express the depth of our intimacy, is an immediate form of pressure, which makes it impossible to let go for the “Big O.”   Not only that, you are left with a trail of self-doubt that runs through both participants.  The non-producer feels they have let the other down, or has to prove in other ways that they love and enjoy them, while the other feels ineffective and inadequate.   And not to say that my ex meant it that way, more so, I’m sure he meant that it would be a next-level connection if you can orgasm with someone you are deeply in love with.  I think that sounds lovely, too, but I don’t feel ashamed of the type of orgasm I reach, or that I have loved many people without the ability to have an orgasm with them.  I am learning to enjoy my orgasm without pressure, that it doesn’t have to be racked with so much fucking romance.  The most romantic feeling I have ever felt is the feeling of being understood.  Which is probably why I’m feeling so lovey towards my lady friends.

What has felt like a greater shame, are the friendships I have lost when sex was taken out of our dynamic.  In general, I think women want to have some sort of friendship with their lovers, at least I do.  I have bedded men that, once sex was introduced, became attached in a way that we did not agree on.  And I believe their attachment transpired because of my natural instinct to want to nurture and tend to them; feeding their bellies, their minds, and their libido.
While I haven’t figured out how to balance love, and sex, and exploration with men, I am deeply comforted by the fact that what I share with my lovely women will not be possessed, but rather shared like a recipe for love and affection.

Living in Domnation: “Bernie”

For those of you who are squeamish about kink, or are uncertain if you really want to hear my stories, I advise you to go no further. However, if your curiosity will open you to a world of people and their “quirks”, maybe even help you get in touch with your own, please embrace the weird I am about to share. The single most important take-away I have gained from becoming a Dominatrix is, from day one, I judge people about 90% less than I did before I did this type of work (which I consider an alternative therapy). I truly feel honored to be someone that people are comfortable to let go some of their most secret desires, their most deep-rooted shame, or just their need to relent and be free of pressure.

For some odd reason I don’t feel like starting at the beginning with this development in my life. It just doesn’t feel organic enough to go back and reflect on it sequentially. Basically, my journey this past year has lead me to a life of doing P/T random jobs, and P/T Dominatrix work. I won’t lie, I struggle with the Dominatrix title a bit; not just for the scared, glassed over eyes that I receive the moment someone registers the word “dominatrix” after I tell them what I do, but also because I simply do not like titles at all. I never identified myself as anything until I became a mother. I was not the girl who became part of a group that was called anything (i.e. jocks, preps, nerds, even artists). School was agonizing for me, I was so uncomfortable and spent most of my time trying not to show it. That being said, I am open to all kinds of people, especially if you’re quirky.

My first story in my “Living in Domnation” series is going to be about Bernie. The thing about Bernie is that all the women, dominant and submissive, who have seen him have talked about his session. Bernie is OLD, as in 90 years old, not even kidding. He smells of pungent musk and rancid lunchmeat, and he has grabby hands that, half of the time, look petrified in the grabbing position.

A session with Bernie basically consists of an hour of playfully taming him. Like when you have a puppy that keeps jumping up and you have to kindly, but firmly, push the dog down and wag your finger, “oh you….” His profile is covered in warning notes made by all the Mistresses, and believe me he has seen us all.

“He likes his n/t (nipple torture) but watch out they drip!”

“CBT (cock and ball torture) but they’re soaking wet, MUST WEAR GLOVES the whole session!”,

“He grabs and claws at you, set boundaries and punish immediately!”

I admit, I was curious, don’t ask me why.

So yes, I agreed to meet the old fart. I guess I had to know what it was like to beat up, a little, on a 90 year old man. When I met him in the Welcome Room of the CoOp that I work out of, indeed I could see he was that of history. The skin of someone that old is so unique to age; the way a newborn baby fresh from the womb has a purple, embryonic tone to it, so does a very old person, no matter what your origin is. And truly his smell left much to be desired. I adjusted my breathing to breathe through my mouth and out my nose so I did not have to taste what I was smelling. When he first looked up at me, his bottom eye lids drooped just enough to flash their veiny, red insides, and his bottom lip also drooped just enough to reveal the tops of his purple gums below his thick stained bottom teeth, which solved a mystery that I have wondered about all of my life regarding old people and their teeth. Up until that moment I had always wondered why old people’s teeth seemed so thick and rounded, and then I realized that they are the stumps of what is left of the tooth, and that the gums have receded down. Isn’t that something to look forward to? Thank goodness that mystery is now solved.

Bernie says, “Ahh, you’re cute”, and proceeded to refer to me as such the entire session. It’s not the most powerful endearment, if you know what I mean? I lead him to the one first floor room meant to bring life to sissy or mommy type scenes, which boasts a metal twin sized, canopy bed, a vanity, and a mirrored wall cabinet equipped with “soft impact” tools and a variety of clamping and clipping devices. Bernie is probably about 5’11”, but I bet he was about 6’1” when he was in his prime. When he drops his trousers, he reveals thin legs, each with a bit of saggy inner thigh that resembles freshly piled whipping cream. He’s shaped like a lollipop with two sticks. When I start my sessions with someone for the first time, I like to take time to get to know their bodies; run my fingers over every inch, find their tickle spots, slap them hard suddenly to test out their threshold in a playful way, remind them when they complain of how hard it was that they just survived the pain just fine. But with Bernie I was conflicted and uncomfortable to go further with my natural way. His skin was covered in odd greyish patches of dry skin. None of it was soft. I felt by running my fingers across it, it would cause bits of skin to fall off. (This is what they meant by “gloves the whole session”), it seemed so humiliating to put gloves on when I am not touching anywhere near genitalia. Still, I understood the need as well. I decided to leave my sheer stockings on, and to use my legs as much as possible. I approached him in a burlesque sort of way, since he loves to see all the women, which to me meant he enjoyed the show or performance of us. While I was hanging from the bed and batting his grabby hands away and kicking them before he could touch me, I looked at his sweet, goofy old face watching me twirl above him, then slink over him from one side of the bed to the other, poking my head up the side of the bed like a kitten ready to pounce, and all I could think to myself was, “I might be the last woman that he plays with…I could be the last woman he ever sees!” This man is a veteran of motherfucking Word War II! Can you even wrap your mind around that? A thousand years ago, or rather 70 years ago in 1945, he fought in a war and came home, and some young woman in her 20’s probably climbed all over him then, too.

I became acutely aware of how much I wanted to be the most beautiful, sensual, playful woman he ever did see. I romanticized about how I would dance in and out of his final thoughts as he falls into an eternal slumber that night, this old kinky soldier who discovered his kink in the 50’s. What a time young Bernie must have had.

Bernie broke my imagination, bringing me back to the reality of the red wine colored carpet and the dated gold trimmed vanity, by stating he wanted to stand with his back against the wall to “finish up the session.”

“Okay….sure, of course.”

What came next I could have never in my perviest, wildest dreams imagined. With his back to the wall, like a crude question mark up against a straight line, and his legs in a permanent saddled, urban cowboy position, he reaches down, cradles his old cock with both stiff hands, as if lifting a fallen baby bird, then vigorously, violently starts to make his hands go back and forth in opposite directions, as if to warm and save the dying bird. I think during this particular moment I embodied no actual dominant role, nor did I pretend to find what he was doing sexy in any way. I just leaned my back against the metal post of the bed and watched in amazement as he gave his cock an “Indian Burn”. From the grunt and distorted face that followed, I assumed that he must have orgasmed, though nothing came out of his cock, save the constant drippiness that existed the whole session, which was exacerbated by my following him around putting a towel underneath his feet, again, like he was a puppy about to wet the carpet.

To a lot of people this doesn’t sound fun, and I will admit, it is by far not my favorite scene. But, he’s a human that will die living, and I support that.

Crazy In Vain

To be called crazy is one thing.  As an individual you can process that word however you choose; maybe relating, maybe feeling misunderstood offensively or defensively, or maybe just indifferent.  But when called or referred to as crazy when you are a mother, there is no contemplating the word, you are simply hyper accelerated into a next level category loaded with stigma.

I am a bit sensitive to this word these days.  I have displayed antics over the past couple of years that are worthy of a raised eyebrow, at the very least, and definitely a topic of conversation for mutual friends to discuss over drinks, or dinner, or group texts.  I don’t deny that if I were on the outside looking in, that I would also indulge in a conversation about me.  As a matter of fact, I find myself so interesting I am constantly trying to find ways to put myself on blast so that I can shoot this thing out for the world to gobble up, regurgitate, devour again, and so on.  Being an openly sexual woman, telling my true and fictional stories including erotica, embracing BDSM as a legitimate outlet for some’s mental stability even my own, and hoping to create a community of like-minded individuals, is not for everyone.  I am not offended by that.

I believe in projection, that what I put out into the world bounces back.  I think that if I want to be an honest person willing to reach down deep inside, so that even the ugly is beautiful enough to expose, that I will attract the people I really want in my life, which means it will be filled with love.

I know, I know…that’s soooo crazy.  It is crazy…feeling…when you are ending a 12 year union (8 married), with two beautiful, young children that are like our spirit animals, while undergoing a frustrating and clumsy transition in career, and living in the most beautiful city that we can barely afford to live in.  This does feel crazy, believe me.

My mother must have reached this place.  Once, or thousands of times, she must have been here wondering if her wants are strong enough to disrupt what IS, and knowing her convictions would have to be strong enough to turn into realities.  Can she do it?

My mother did not leave with her convictions and create new realities.  She did not leave and create a space that suited her better where she felt she could be herself and thrive as an individual.  As her daughter, I did not get to see my mother bloom her fullest bloom, or dance her personal dance with all her best moves.  I understand her sacrifice staying married, what she sacrificed of herself, what she never got to know.  Maybe self-doubt was the cloud that took the light from her, I don’t know, but as her daughter and now a mother, I believe that she could have used some support.  As her daughter I don’t want her sacrifice to live in vain.  As her daughter, I would like to give her sacrifice some honor by becoming a woman that chose to live full of life.

To my mother, who I have called crazy, who I have misunderstood, whom I was disappointed in and maybe have disappointed, I understand.  I’m crazy, too.  Maybe even crazy enough for us both.

Some Place, Oregon

We approach each other nervously because it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other. Your eyes are the same blue with a silliness masking uncertainty. We’re different to each other and familiar at the same time. You feel my energy right away, nearly taken aback. It’s aggressive but relaxed. You make a conscious decision in a split second to let whatever happens happen. We hug and you lift me off the ground and let me be extra heavy on you for a few moments, and then we take a deep breath at the same time and our rib cages flutter. I’m sure you can feel my heart pounding under my breast.  When you set me down you slide your hand down my arm, and lead me to your $50 motel room in “Someplace, Oregon.”

We laugh at the room, it takes the pressure off of having a hot and nasty night, because the room seems to bare evidence of many nasty nights left behind.  We start stripping off all the bedding and moving the furniture to make room for whatever we were going to do to make that room a magical, seaside retreat.  We create an open space.  I dim the light by turning on the closet and bathroom light, then turning off the main overhead light.  I turn on music and I start to dance. You strip down to your boxer briefs and sit in a chair directly in front of me, never taking your eyes off of me.

While I dance I let my hands lightly touch all the places I want you to kiss, and lick, and bite.  My neck, my collarbone, the sides of my waist…I lift my shirt over my head, I have no bra.  My breasts are small with gumdrop nipples and you lick your lips.  I turn away from you and slide my panties down to the floor and step out of them.  I slip my hands down to grab my thighs under my ass and pull up while raising to a tip toe.  You give a soft, low moan as you feel aroused and shift in your chair.  You reach out and grab my hips and pull me into you.  I am quivering and breathing deeply. You lean your face down and place your lips lightly on the skin above my pubic bone and breathe me in, and breathe me out, your warm breath like a blanket of sex on my skin.  I am shaking, my clit is pulsing and making all my cunt muscles contract.  I grab one of your hands and lick your long, strong fingers and kiss the palms of them.  I swirl my tongue around every index and suck and lick between them, and then I shove your hand down to my pussy, I want your fingers inside of me so bad.

You take one finger and give me long deep strokes from clit to deep inside me, making my pussy flex and become juicy. You slide another finger in. You steadily pump them in and out twisting like a screw. Your fingers are glistening. You taste them, it is sweet and clean, it makes your tongue twitch. You lean down and swipe your love muscle over my cunt, lapping from my wet hole to my swollen clit, over and over. You feel my pussy around your fingers grabbing at you as if to pull you in, and you feel mesmerized by the sounds of my moaning and breathing. You guide me down to the chair, leaning me back, and kneel in front of me, shoving your fingers hard inside me. The contractions inside of me are making your cock throb and you want to fuck me while I cum.

So, you lock your soft warm lips around my clit while your wet tongue strokes it and delights it with little tongue slaps.  Your juicy, wet fingers are pulsing my g spot masterfully causing my moans to increase and become louder.  Meanwhile, I am whispering “my pussy feels so good… slap my pussy…yeeeeess…mmmmm…..yyyyeeeess…don’t stop finger fucking me…harder….harder…I want to feel your knuckles when you fuck me…..” And I reach down and rub my clit hard while I start to cum and moan so loud; and you square up in front of me and run the tip of your dick all around my hole, and then insert it big and long and hard while my pussy convulses, wet and gooey and white all over your cock.

A letter to Alcohol

Dear Al~[cohol],

It’s been a while since I’ve wanted you, but I think about you all of the time.  You were the love of my life.  I hated you.  You were an abscess on my self-confidence.  You were always there for me.

Try as I did [pretend to] I couldn’t seem to get rid of you.  You just kept me in your glass; I was a pointless grain of sand being flipped over and over in your time.

But you knew me, Al.  You seemed to love me.  The good, the bad, and the ugly as they say…you preferred ugly.

It was a red flag I ignored when I started waking up to incomprehensible lipstick poetry written on the vanity mirrors, which I would frantically wash off before the boyfriend saw it.

I should have known you were trouble when you sent me on a  2 year whiskey kick believing I was a pool shark.  Remember that, Al?  Remember when I shit-talked a couple of Mexican bar flies and handed them their asses in pool, until I could barely walk and they had to graciously help me onto the 49 bus line to Van Ness, where I passed out until the bus driver shook me awake and told me the line is done for the night?

Oooh, Al! I would hate you more if I could remember all the embarrassing reasons why I should.  You were so boring!  What was I thinking?  I’d spend all that money on you and we rarely ever had sex.  I felt so unattractive and worthless with you.  But who would want me?  You, Al.  Always you.

You got really nervous when I told you about a little voice I heard; a little angelic whisper which seemed to be coming from deep inside, from a place of creation, a place of birth which sung out to me like a jingle:

You get one life.  You get one life.  You get one liiiiiiife!!”

Well ain’t that the truth?  Oh God! The truth.  The truth is, I can’t live a life with you, Al.  I can’t live an honest, attentive, loving, and generous life if you’re in it.  You really had to go.

It’s been 2 years since I said goodbye.  I see you around town everywhere I go.  We share a lot of mutual friends and even family.  You are always going to be there for me, and I thank you for it.  I owe you an apology, Al.  I really do.  I used you and abused you and then projectile vomited you to the curb, quite literally.  You were only doing what you were supposed to be doing.  I blamed you for all my character flaws, even now I find myself doing it.

It’s not your fault, Al.  It’s not your fault that I never learned to believe in myself, or that I’ve been on survival mode for so long that I didn’t know how to reach out for help, or a hug.  So I reached for you, and you were there for me.   And now I get your message, Al.

You needed me to get over you so I could gain my worth back.  Leaving you made me believe in myself.  It was you or me and I chose me.  You have become the thing that I am most proud of…So Touché, Al, Touché.  And while you will always leave a lasting flavor in my mouth, I hope I never taste you again.

Yours in vain,