December 2017

When something monumental happens there is always the clear cut moment of Before and After the thing.

#metoo started like an earthquake in the ocean and hit like a tsunami.
The landscape has changed.
And the waves keep coming.

I am here to help you navigate.

I am simultaneously working on two articles that on the surface do not seem related. But they are.

This one, and another inspired by the pontification of “I wonder whose arms I was fall into if I was drunk in a room full of everyone I have ever loved”.

Easy peasy.

I would run to the ones who make me feel safe.

When I am drunk I want to feel safe.

Fuck, ALL the time I want to feel safe.

So I gravitate to men who make me feel that way, I stay in places where I feel safe.

I understand completely that very few men, good, bad or in the middle have any idea what that feels like. To be on constant alert of your surroundings, ‘if I can just get to the store, or to the street light, if I tip the cabby maybe he’ll stay while I get in my door.’ Getting cornered in laundromats in your sweats wondering what you did to deserve this and how the fuck you’re gonna get out of it.

It might feel kinda like you do now with all of these women suddenly finding their power and voices.

But please, for arguments sake, just believe me.

Actually, that is exactly what I want to say. I could stop the article right here.

Just. Believe. Me.

Now, to be clear I am not speaking to the Low men. There is no point and no hope. Misogyny is bred in their bones and marrow, women will always be disposable chattel. Engaging with them is like trying to smell the number 9. Ain’t gonna happen.

I cannot sit down with my rapist and have any kind of dialog. He believes I did him wrong and has promised to kill me on sight. I believe him.

In fact, please recognize that in speaking to almost any woman on the planet, somewhere in the rolodex of her brain there is at LEAST one man she refers to as her rapist or her abuser. Be honored she is even speaking to you at all because for all intents and purposes, you could be the next one who violates her.

They are the BIG BAD and I am not a douchebag whisperer.

This is also not for the High men. The chivalrous ones, the allies or the good guys. They already get it and we are grateful. They are the islands of hope in this sea of shit.

This is for the ones in the middle.

The ones who have been squirming and holding up protest signs that say “not all men” or “I’m a good guy.” Tell you right now, if you have to argue in the midst of this, you are NOT a good guy. You’re a middleman at best. The ones who have done nothing wrong are sitting in quiet confidence saying nothing and letting the women have a turn.

Could stop the article here too and just say “Shut up buttercup, the women are talking now.”

But I won’t.

Among these middlemen are 50 shades of grey. The grabbers, the gropers, the stalkers, the ones who tell me to smile, like I owe them a smile, the ones who send dick pics before they even say hi. The ones who stand a little too close when my body language is screaming ‘stay the fuck out of my bubble’. The ones who pressured me into doing something because, “you got me hard”, the ones who fucked me when I was too drunk to say no and all I wanted to do was sleep, but I didn’t say no and I was flirting at one point in the night so it must be okay right? WRONG

Methinks these misters doth protest too much. I don’t know what you did but you did something, own it and ferfucksakes don’t do it again.

When you are protesting, whining and cajoling you become deaf to what we are saying. So stop. Listen. Hear our stories, weigh your past behavior against the things that scare and hurt us and for fuck sakes don’t do it again.

Educate yourselves.

I sat down with my son when he was becoming sexually active and said very plainly, only yes means yes. And if she says stop in the middle, STAAAAAHP. Cover her up, put your pants on and ask her what she needs you to do, then do the thing.

Considering the majority of women have been raped, abused, assaulted and harassed, you never know what is going to trigger us (for me it’s a locked door) so stop if we say stop.

Just fucking listen.

I am sure some men are wondering “well how the fuck am I gonna ask a woman out now”.

Ask her out. Say ‘hey, I find you interesting would you like to go out for coffee or dinner sometime?’

Rocket science this is not.

But if she says “No”. just say “Okay” and go about your day. No need to react. She isn’t a bitch or a cunt or a lesbian because she doesn’t want to go out with you.

In fact, if you hear another man speaking to a woman that way, STOP him.

The last guy called me a cunt, got a split lip. And I fucked the one who defended me, see how that works?

It’s not a guarantee that you will be rewarded for your heroics in such a way. Nothing in life is a guarantee, but it ups your chances exponetially.

I will tell you a secret, I love dating, I love having sex with men. NOT ALL MEN THOUGH.

Please recognize that just like you have your own life, body, wishes and wants SO DO I.

Being the owner of a vagina does not make me incapable of making my own choices. And I choose the ones I feel safe with. End of discussion.

The rules are simple.

1- Ask first before you do anything USE YOUR WORDS

2- Listen to the answer given

3- Respect the answer given

4- If you see a girl in trouble, ask her if she needs help, listen to the answer and then help her if she says yes.

5- We don’t want to see your dick until we ask to see it.

No woman owes any man anything. Not a reaction, a smile or a date or a blowjob. So stop acting like it.

The end.

I hit 4025 views in one day on ye olde blog. Best day to date. Kinda.

I still wish we had a better word than blog. I call it ‘my website’ sometimes, but to me, that sounds like strippers calling themselves erotic entertainers. I am both a stripper and a blogger, which means I get naked, a lot. Prettying up the label doesn’t change what it is. I have a fake name here and there, but it’s still me, laid bare either way, hopefully with as much grace as I can muster.

So, the bulk of the hits were on a post called ‘Sex Gods & the Woman Who Fucks Them’.

Great fucking title, sadly attached to a mediocre post.

We all know I have a lot of sex. We all know mostly date beasts and other mythical, magical beings.

We all know I love my lovers in one way or another.

My monsters, my immortals. I don’t write this for them, except when I do.

But do WE all know? Who is this we I speak of? I have some faithful readers, I know this. Sometimes it scares me to hear someone say they have read everything I have written, some of these are really bad.

And therein lies my twinge of angst with the hits of yesterday.

Sex Gods is not a standalone article. I reference specific men without backstory, one would have to be a fairly faithful follower to know what the fuck I was on about.

And I am about to do it again, but just for a second.

The Poet said “It’s not a diary darling.”

I hate it when he isn’t wrong.

He read an article of mine in another lifetime and I felt the same sense of shame that I am experiencing now. Which is ‘why did it have to be that one, it’s not good enough.’

A lot of them are shit, I know this. There are 478 of the things, I really like 10.

But I leave them up. Even if they end up being full of lies and misconceptions.

The Poet himself, after 3 years of on and off infatuation and internet only contact, turned out to be a catfish. Like THE worst. So why leave up the accolades I wrote about him, singing his praises, pontificating about a future with someone who I came to find out is a fraud?

Because it happened.

And sorry dude, but this is kinda a diary. A time capsule that I can open at will and think ‘wow, I did actually feel that way’ or ‘that actually happened’, a graveyard where I tend to the bones of all my dead ideas of love and lovers that are dead to me, all 2 of them. The rest are ghosts on my Instagram or Facebook haunting me with the occasional like or cartoon heart. “Yes honey, I know you exist and for the most part your existence pleases me, when it isn’t vexing me.”

I am substantially less vexed than I have ever been. I think I am evolving. The same boy who vanished a couple years ago came back and went away again with little to no turmoil. I can compartmentalize experiences and people I meet as ‘that was good while it lasted’. Mostly.

Life is never total or absolute and I accept that as well.

It would be pretty boring if it was.

It is never going to be perfect either, we are children of nature and nothing in nature is perfect.

The best we can hope for is pretty fucking good.

And, some of these words I write are pretty fucking good. They can stand alone, the message is clear, my words well-chosen and flowing. Sometimes that flow lasts for the entire article. Rarely, but it happens.

When I was little I had a binder. It was ¾ the size of a regular binder, my size. I loved the thing. I loved it so much I would never write in it. You see, there was a limited amount of ¾ sized paper to go in it. And I was scared to ‘waste’ it with something that wasn’t perfect. I won awards in public school for my handwriting, it was always between me and another girl for 1^st and 2^nd.  Doesn’t get much better than that, yet I hesitated.

I still do.

Which lends itself to the same way of thinking that has me saving my ‘good’ clothes for something special and then they never get worn.

So 4025 people read the blog yesterday. 1095 people read an article I am not overly proud of.

It can’t be helped, it’s done now.

Some of my better/more praised articles are the ones where I show all of my guts and mess, where I am mid breakdown and I just let everything out in a gush of word puke. I have come to realize it makes other people feel better about being vulnerable.

And that is exactly what it is.

Vulnerability, when the perfect white dress is hanging in the closet, nothing bad happens to it, no wayward mustard stains it. When the page is blank, nothing can go wrong, no scribbled out words or trembling hands making a mess of my perfect penmanship.

I am beginning to accept that to be vulnerable is to live.

There is a girl I knew in public school who has taken to reading these things, and even typing those words now, accepting the reality of that fact is causing my stomach to clench. I haven’t yet shaken off the idea of being perfect. She asked me if I wanted her to stop. I said no, keep reading.

If I am to accept myself completely (and I really want to, I think deliverance and bliss are on the other side of that mountain)…I cannot pretend to be perfect. I am composed of all my flaws, typos, badly written prose, grass stained hemlines and bruised knees from falling down a lot. As well as the good moments when I am shiny, articulate and graceful.

All in all, pretty fucking good.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1yOifFvYW2o

Been revisiting Eddie Vedder’s voice.

First thing to hit my ears this morning, except the ocean, the whirring of the ceiling fan and the binging of the elevator to let me know the power came back on.

Lost power.
Got it back.

So it is in the condo, so has always been my state of being.

I went down a weird YouTube rabbithole yesterday, all Viking chants, words I didn’t know but they sounded familiar and lovely. As did most of the music.

I get stuck in ruts and then I find new things, then I run back to the old.

It is my way.

I remember being 13, going outside for recess and one of the girls I kinda hung out with exclaiming “Kim found a new song”, so we all gathered around a tape deck and listened. It was Dock of the Bay, Otis Redding. So far off from the usual pop stuff we’d listen to. I shouldn’t say I gathered, I stood off to the side, I was not welcome in that group per say, but it didn’t stop the music from reaching my ears, and I really liked it. I still share music with a boy I went to said public school with, oh the joys of MP3’s, YouTube and Facebook.

I still get a similar rush from finding new songs.

The night of the secret wedding, I heard Fleet Foxes, Kept Woman on the radio, scribbled “bound to be reconciled” on the back of my hand driving in the dark. All my playlists can be attributed to one random moment in time where I heard something new and I just followed the suggestions after and pulled out what sounded good and kept it safe on a list. Then played those on repeat until the next thing happens.

Fleet Foxes begat Ben Howard.

Promise.

And maybe, just maybe I’ll come home

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CVUOTzoVeZA

Copying and pasting lyrics doesn’t do much. 7 words that mean everything to me. It’s all in the cadence and how it relates to where I am in this moment.

And here is our segway.

I feel homeless.

For the record, I am not. I have a beautiful space that I pay a nice man to stay in and keep my stuff in. There’s a fireplace and bookshelves and my bed. Everyone thinks it’s beautiful and so do I. I made it that way. I always do. Home is literally wherever I lay my hats. For someone who rarely wears hats, I have a lot of the things.

I have a lot of things.

I keep thinking I am paring down, and I have, probably 50% since the move and 50% before that between Milton and Hamilton. More went out than went into the new house. Then I bought more shit and I have a blank space on two walls just waiting for the perfect things, I haven’t found them yet.

But, unlike other spaces I have occupied I have a feeling finding those 2 perfect things won’t satisfy me in the way I am accustomed to.

Once upon a time I left the farm for the last time. It was easy, all my shit was jammed into one beautiful room. MINE> MY THINGS< KEEP OUT.
Shit got left behind at the farm, a chair got smashed in anger and I mourned it.

Put everything remaining in a storage space that I visited 4 or 5 times in 5 years until that was empty and the ‘essentials’ in my jeep (now with a brand new steering column) and drove away into my future.

Which just so happened to be living with a dangerous, creep of a man for a few months until I got to live in a trailer and work on site at a lodge up north.

My bedroom had no lock, but it did hold all my most precious things. It was lovely, especially when creepazoid was away. Often, thankfully.

My room in the trailer was magnificent, super proud of that one. Look…

Then I was ousted from there too. Didn’t feel settled till I was alone in Milton, years later.

Even then, it felt too big, too much. I have long been confined (by choice and circumstance) to one room. 4 walls and a door containing my stash of what I consider treasure. I don’t like spreading out.

I used to have a cubby in my closet when I was a kid, small spaces suit me.

I have often been separated from my things, forcibly removed from where I called home, and made (beautiful) do with what I had with me. Notably, once in Toronto while all my shit was held hostage at the farm, and once at a cathouse above a strip club.

Again, just a trunkful of my shit and I managed to make hell into a home. Put up curtains, made my bed beautiful with vintage linens, laptop and my most favorite clothes. Burn some sage and I’m home.

When I knew I was going to leave Milton I bought a 27 foot tow-behind trailer that I intended to gut and turn into a home on wheels. Circumstances dictated the project never happened. Gift of the Magi situation wherein the vehicle I had needed an upgrade package to tow the thing which equaled the amount needed to renovate it and live for a bit. Then my son got sick and I abandoned the idea and he came home.

I am wanderlusty again, even though I should be settling into the new place.

I bought a HUGE suitcase to go east. Didn’t pack all that great and ended up having to buy warmer things. But a little lightbulb came on and memories of random temporary places to stay started tickling my brain, along with this giant suitcase.

When I packed for away again I decided to see how many of my favorite things I could fit. I have enough clothes to not wear the same thing for a month, and with the exception of a few dresses trapped in storage, all of my favorite things.

I have a holdover mindset from childhood about my ‘good’ clothes, like I have to wait for something special to wear them and try not to get them dirty. One of the ways I still play small. it isn’t serving me at all.

What if I had 2 such suitcases, how long could I fly for? Forever?

I have long missed my Jeeps, I could literally live out of the back of them. Like really, I have done and I’m getting to the point where I could do it again.

I kinda want to.

Blackbird fly, into the light of the dark black night

https://www.facebook.com/dark.and.twisted1/photos/a.229455077198024.1073741825.215084005301798/1237733096370212/?type=3&theater

There is a meme floating around, ya ya I know, how many times have I started one of these things by saying “there is a meme floating around”, or “something happened”, usually 2 things but in this case it is an amalgamation of memes and memories, both recent and long past. Of storage lockers, sleeping under a bridge, staying in cathouses and wanting to run.

Part of it is the repetition.

I am back at the ocean.

A yearly healing ritual.

5 years ago marked my first selfish Christmas since my son was born. The rush of power that came with gently saying ‘no, we are doing this because it’s what I want’ was…all.

I want.

Words I had never dared utter, unless it was (historically speaking) something colossally bad for me.

At some point in my life I had been told or convinced myself I didn’t deserve to be happy.

Probably both of those things.

The meme said

2016: caterpillar
2017: cocoon
2018: butterfly

I told you that sometimes I read something and it just tastes like truth.

And this does. Maybe it’s just hope, but hope tastes different, like gritted teeth, salty tears and coppery like a little bit of blood from biting my tongue. This is sweet like honey.

This will be my 5^th year for all intents and purposes, single. And if not single exactly, then this newer version of me.

The meme skipped 2 phases of metamorphosis. Egg and larvae.

The beginning.

For all intents and purposes…birth.
And 5 years ago, right around now, I was born. This me anyways.

Now, I would imagine, that in some point of an egg’s development that there is a certain amount of awareness inside the microcosm of shell. Not right away, but there has to be some compulsion to break the protective casing, that there is more than this, floating in safety and warm…some primordial urge to get out. That at some point what is comfortable and familiar becomes constrictive and itchy, like how snakes must feel when they shed skin.

And out I got. Recognizing there was something outside of myself, bigger than me and I wanted to be in it.

The larval stage consists of mostly eating, and then eating some more and eating more more more nom nom nom eat eat eat. Same as a caterpillar really, but small and vulnerable and still…becoming something. But a narrow minded life purpose, just consuming. The ego of a small child wherein they can’t really see the outside world beyond how it pertains to them, but with every bump and scrape and game of peek-a-boo things become more concrete and the self slowly dissolves the bigger they get.

And I did that. I ate and ate and ate. Some of it was poison and had to be spit out, but most of them were really really good food.

And I got bigger. Better at avoiding the things I shouldn’t eat, more self-aware and wary of predators and I settled into this life of munching discriminately now, moving with more fluidity, grace even, I was no longer green but had  my own patterns and colors, I felt much more myself.

But then the itch and urge returned, the same one I had when encapsulated, that there must be more.

I felt the need to attach myself to something safe and just wait, like something was coming and I had to be still.

I tucked myself into a relationship. Let’s call it a cocoon shall we? Artistic license perhaps, or the truth.

Now, when a caterpillar picks the branch or leaf it attaches itself to, the presumption is made that this is a tree and thereby stable. But sometimes it ain’t. Sometimes a lumberjack comes along with an axe and not even notice all the life in the tree and just start chopping away, bit by bit, hack by hack till the tree can’t stand and bam! No more home for a myriad of creatures and the chrysalis will be lucky to not be squished.

My tree fell down, it sucked, stupid lumberjack … I didn’t die though.

So that was good.

Not that I would have noticed. I was in goo phase. Chaos looking in, but I was numb to it. Just floating, liquefied, unencumbered. Remembering my time as a caterpillar but finding those memories fading and fleeting and ineffectual. It was nice. Everything on autopilot.

But the itch returned. That voice whispering ‘there is more than this’.

The urge to fly away. But in my gooey form I couldn’t grasp how. I was shown, my chrysalis becoming more transparent, had visits from the others urging to me emerge.

And slowly I found myself hardening, becoming something solid. Even though I didn’t want to be. I liked being tucked in wherever I was, comfortably numb.
I had a house fire when I was 9 months pregnant, I didn’t want to get out of bed then either. Seriously I tried rolling over and going back to sleep. I didn’t want to be on the sidewalk without pants on, belly protruding, covered in soot because I went back for the cats. The cats made it. We all did but I was launched out of my comfy house into a new life and I see it happening again.

Trauma

Destruction

Rebirth

Maybe this time I will be wearing pants when my house becomes uninhabitable.

I still don’t sleep naked, I can’t.

Except next to a few good men.

Speaking of, the universe is sliding me love notes in the form of people (unknown)

And my shell is cracking like stained glass, letting the light in, I see them peeking at me through the cracks.

I do want out. I want to stretch my wings.

Something is whispering ‘find the others’. Gets louder every day.

But first I have to emerge. Find my place in the sun.

I am still fragile I know this.

Stay safe long enough to unfurl and finish becoming whatever this is.

Not long now and I will be as solid and strong as gossamer wings can be.

Author’s Note

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

“Did I tell you the gang bang story?”

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

“No” he replied. “Not yet.”

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

This has become a litmus test.

Gaging reactions when I say those two words.

It’s not my gang bang story.

I haven’t had one.

Yet.

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

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

“What?” inquired Uptight Dude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I saw a pod of wild dolphins off the condo balcony this morning and my heart did that leaping and pounding thing she does when she gets excited.

I was torn between just watching and trying to capture the moment on my phone camera, which is notoriously not great at capturing moments, selfies and cute outfits…yes, big life moments, no.

I took a short video with my hands shaking, then I just stared in wonder.

4^th year here and I have never seen this. Tiny miracles.

A John Mayer song popped into my head 3X5, “Didn’t have a camera by my side this time, wanted to see the world through both my eyes.” So I did.

I left my good camera at home. On purpose. No regrets. I have taken the same shots of the same migratory pair of osprey for almost 4 years running. Of course one flew over the balcony at close range yesterday and all I could thing was ‘you fucker’.

I haven’t been up early enough to catch the sunrise, yet, and the full moon shining off the water was a sight to behold, but we all know what moon photos look like with mediocre lenses. Not great, like a light in the sky.

That being said I did get a cool shot with my phone wherein the moon had wings.

“All of us with wings.” Jane’s Addiction.

Giant had wings, but he is gone.

But this is about none of that.

You see dear readers, I am in Facebook jail. 23 hours left and counting. The first 48 were a bitch.

I feel naked and strange. Neutered and muted. Like I am wandering the halls of a high school I no longer go to and I can’t tell anyone why I am there.

My ban is due to an article I wrote 18 months ago and have probably reposted 18 times. Wherein I pontificate about wanting a gang bang.

In the days that have passed since my hand was cut off, I have taken to Instagram. I’ve realized yes, I am addicted to social media. I miss my people. Someone is having surgery and I cannot wish her luck. Girls have gone missing from my old town and I cannot post a warning. This fucking sucks.

And I saw dolphins.

Now, a few things have become clear.

My sexuality is a threat to some. I kinda knew that already. I am an articulate, out spoken stripper, not everyone’s cup of tea, I get that. So just look away of you don’t like it. No one asked you to walk into the strip club, or my head for that matter.

I have also accepted the fact that some people cannot just scroll on by when they don’t like something, ESPECIALLY if they have an opinion about it.

THERE IS NO OUR LADY OF LUST AND GRACE. I am mocking the catholic church, get a fucking clue.

People leave my page like rats on a sinking ship often. If I get to crass, too political, too sexy or too muchy much. Happens to all of us page runners at one time or another.

In speaking to another page runner she suggested I change the title, which I probably will if I can. And the picture has to go, I figured that already. But she said something else that struck me and fuck it HURT.

She said

I think some women equate a gang bang with rape. It is a stereotype from old movies in the 70’s. Many women are damaged and abused sexually and we have just hit the tip of the iceberg. They’re angry and it is now erupting. So it’s a hot topic. Women will start attacking each other and pointing fingers at each other. That is what they have been trained to do. There needs to be a revolution of women taking their power back and standing together.

The line in italics knocked me on my ass.

I grew up like that. I felt very little danger from men, but the women were poison.

We HAVE been trained to fight and compete with one another. There ARE women who like things the way they are, who think sexual harassment is the price we must pay for existing and the idea that it’s wrong wold mean they would have to first admit, then deal with how they have been treated and that is a much too big a burden to bear.

I’ve gotten to that point in my own evolution that I sometimes forget, some people don’t want change, and it’s not just the men who are afraid, (And they fucking should be) it’s the women too.

“Better never means better for everyone… It always means worse, for some.”

― Margaret Atwood, The Handmaid’s Tale

Whether that worse is a reality or not is their own perception. Case and point the Handmaid’s Tale. Women accepted and participated in the slavery of other women. Because, in my opinion, they felt they needed men to keep them safe.

I have felt that way. Luckily I am surrounded by a group of incredible men that I have chosen because of who they are and how they treat me, and if protection is needed I have it. I tend to these friendships and relationships like some would tend to a rose garden, with diligence and care.

I also can get laid whenever I please, which is a good thing because I do so love sex.

But not with ALL men though.

See what I did there.

I think therein lies another problem. Some men can’t seem to grasp the idea that it’s my body and I get to choose who I want in it. It is possible that some men fuck more indiscriminately than I and with ego comes ‘I want what I want so it must be the norm.’

Sorry honey. It ain’t.

For no other reason than my own, I am thinking that a gang bang is not in my future.

Maybe two good boys.

But again…it’s my body, my blog, my business.

Two things happened, as they often do.

I was sitting on the balcony (we no longer have what I would call a porch) and I looked up, I smiled a hello to MamaMoon and went inside.

When I came back out she was shining bright in her half-moon state, illuminating the clouds in a fairy ring. The kind that denotes sexy times ahead, not a storm comin’.

Although I suppose it’s gonna get wet either way.

And suddenly, after a bout of the sads, I kinda wanted sexy time.

I jerked off a couple of times, for the first time since before we moved. So unlike me. But my heart and my vagina have a covenant, and we miss the Last One something fierce, still do.

I found creature comfort with the Giant and honestly, that was enough to keep me sated for a bit. Just something familiar, now with extra lightning.

The second thing that happened is the one I called “Coach” posted and Instagram video of his new fuckboy haircut. He called it that, not I. But if the fuckboy moniker and lovely fade fits, wear it.

I messaged a compliment and voila. It’s a date. Except it isn’t a date. It’s a bootycall and we both know it.

Observe

Me: Are we going to eat and watch a movie or should I just be naked when you get here?

Him: Whatever you want babe

(well played sweetness)

Me: Honestly I just want to get laid and cuddle before I go away

Him: Okay beauty, let’s just fuck a couple times

Me: Hope that doesn’t sound like I am using you
I mean I am, but I don’t want it to sound like that.

Him: lol. We’re on the same page

And we are. We both keep trying to date and we both keep coming up empty.

Then he gets a haircut on a day I feel like getting laid and ta da. Definitely same page.

It’s a really good haircut.

I answered the door in panties and stockings, we did not pass go, he did not say hi to my roommate, we just went straight to bed.

Fuck. Spoon. Leave.

He has earned himself a new nickname. Once upon a time he would have been Bad Fuck, but that was taken years ago, by a guy who ended up being a crack dealer. Not a good time in my life, I was at my lowest. I didn’t stay long, but ya…he was a bad fuck, like the worst. I make better choices now.

He was also formerly known as Coach, but it didn’t really suit him even though that is what he is. We were internet ‘friends’ for a year prior, bitching and moaning and asking questions about the other’s gender as in “why in god’s name did he or she do that?”

He asked me out gently for the bulk of that year, I always declined as he was affiliated with someone else I had been with, and again, he is young, like 22 young (Lord where do you keep finding them and why do you keep sending them to me). But you knew all this, then we had a perfect date, and a week later had pretty shitty sex. Months passed, we discussed the elephant in the room and here we are.

His new nickname is Big Spoon. He earned it. Right after, and I mean immediately after, he pulls me close and holds onto me. It is the sweetest fucking thing. And strange, he is also, for all intents and purposes and asshole jock/jerk. We bicker, I would never speak to him of magical things, just the weather and whether or not he likes that thing I do with my tongue, and he does.

Almost too much

Oh Big Spoon, you little shit.

I heard that hope in your voice when you mentioned not bringing condoms.

I was hovering over him, about 3 inches or so, close enough to feel his body heat radiating towards mine. Biting, teasing and throbbing if I am going to tell the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me, “god have you been working out?’

The ‘allergy’ to latex seems to have died out with the last generation, these young un’s don’t try that shit, or I am just picking better young un’s.

He didn’t want raw, no no, not that. He wanted me to keep blowing him. Who wouldn’t? I have a talented tongue and no gag reflex.

Poor dear has come up wanting every time his cock ends up in a girls’ mouth.

He thought if he ‘forgot’ to bring condoms, my accommodating personality and mouth would just get him off out of…pity, obligation? Dunno.

No

I will blow you again, after I eat.

Always do. He knows this.

So I reached into my bedside table and grabbed a condom.

I learned a million years ago, bring your own.

He fed me.

“You spoil me” he said, right after, as he was holding onto me like the grail.

I know he meant it as a compliment but it torn through me like a knife. Echoes of that Swain boy.

I dug my fingers into him, trying to keep my grip on this reality and just stay in it for a minute.

I had to take a deep breath, I know my voice waivered a little, he kissed my forehead and I said…

“I worry about that. Sleeping with men half my age and then letting them back out into the mediocre world. I know what it’s like to have the best piece of cake you are ever going to eat when you’re young and the yearning that comes with it. But I want you to remain optimistic. If I exist, and I do, there must be others.”

Find the others.

I was soothing him and myself at the same time.

He is not lightning sex, he is not magic in any way.

But he is really good food, and I am full. Ani Difranco

It is a little early for a retrospective, but I don’t care. Nostalgia hit me like a freight train today and I let it.

Hold onto nothing
As fast as you can
Well still pretty good year

Maybe a bright sandy beach
Is going to bring you back
May not so now you’re off
You’re gonna see America

Tori Amos ~ Pretty Good Year

I do hold onto nothing. Scraps, memories, t shirts in Ziplocs, screenshots and echoes.

But I am getting better at letting go. Better than nothing is still something.

I am on my way back to the ocean, but far enough south that I can touch it without freezing.

I am going to see America, the Motherland. It’s on fire and I don’t even care, I just want to be warm again.

I need in the water. I have to remember how to float. Been sinking for a week now. Longer really.

I have been sleeping under the blanket we took to the beach and quarry  all summer.

One would think this would be a good thing. That it somehow absorbed the sunshine and happiness I experienced this year.

But in this new house, this new room, in my old bed. I can’t sleep right. Something isn’t right.

Stumbled on an old post I wrote last year. Random suggestion, of course I peeked. I always do. These are my archives after all. My pushpins on a map to show me I have been here.

https://www.ourladyoflustandgrace.com/sleeping-sickness.html

It’s been a year right about now. My new bedroom looks an awful lot like this picture I randomly pulled off the internet to go with this thing I wrote, and now I am thinking about how much has changed in a year.

A fucking lot.

Still miss this one, hope he is well wherever he is.
He was a good boy. My Moonface, my Black 19.

It’s been 12ish months since we met and 10 since he left, give or take.

He was 19 years old and he lied about it, by the time he did tell me the truth, I pretended to be offended but really, I didn’t mind. I am beginning to actually believe age doesn’t matter and everyone who comes into our lives is supposed to be there, in whatever way for as long as they stay.

Ya, I fucked a 19 year old. Aaaaaaand I kept doing it after I found out. The lineup for the lynch mob is over there, plenty of pitchforks and torches for all. Or you could just let me be happy, in these little stolen moments where I am.

That ain’t even the worst of it.

I was still ‘with’ Lumberjack at the time. But I was starting to atrophy from the lack of actually seeing him. As far as I can tell he and his actual girlfriend had a lovely Christmas together, when he wasn’t sending me selfies and dirty memes/messages from the basement he was posing in front of the tree with her while I was begging to see him for 5 minutes before I left.

He didn’t acquiesce to my request and I left him when I got home.

Then he came back and was nice for a time.

Until it turned back into the thing it never stopped being and I left again.

Then I dated a boy, like a real boy/boyfriend. That was nice too, until it wasn’t.

Had to stop myself from calling him just to get laid last night. I am hungry. But that dog is sleeping and I must let it lie.

I am packing for Florida on the heels of just unpacking from Newfoundland. I feel better with this suitcase at the end of my bed. Packed my favorite things, all of them almost. And I realized, I can do without almost everything I own. I could, in reality pack a couple big suitcases and be happy where I land.

I did a righteous purge of everything I had been carrying since the farm. I sent the poet’s ‘gifts’ to a witch and she burned them and buried the ashes by a stream, I can feel that flowing away from me with every minute, every drop of rain. Away away away.

I have visited islands and realized how good I feel completely surrounded by water.

Must get back to the water.

This trip, this pilgrimage to the ocean I have done almost 5 years running is early this year, and honestly, my brain doesn’t have a clue as to what time it is or where we are or what in the actual fuck is happening. I am scattered right now, but this weather and countdown to ocean has me reminiscing about last year something fierce.

Not this fall but the one before I was dealing with chronic, cystic ingrown hairs on my most holiest of holies. I had been burnt and scarred by a woman during a routine wax. I was gunning to get stateside where this magical cream was supposed to fix me, but it didn’t. Spent 500 bucks on varying creams and medications, specialist appointments and nothing really worked.

I think that is why I stayed in the nothing of Lumberjack. I felt like a monster. He always fucked me in the dark. I didn’t want to present my fucked up self to anyone new. Lest I be judged.

It has been a calendar year since the worst of it and I am better now, still have 2 scars to remind me wax is bad.

And the only real cure was time.

It always is. Everything spirals in and out, wounds heal and eventually everything is alright.

I can tell you that things changed after the eclipse.

I reunited with the Giant, fell in love with someone that wasn’t him but was kindred, same kind. And I now know that lightning can strike in the same place twice.

It’s been a calendar year since I heard the Lumineers Angela, and my ears have finally began to hear it the way it was meant to be Home at last, not Hope it lasts.

It’s been a calendar year since I said to Moonface/Black 19 “I promise to come back from the ocean happy” and a year less a day since I decided I could just decide to be happy on my own, without waiting.

I am waiting though.

I don’t know what’s coming. This year has been a lot of coasting, maddening build, mediocre lovers, let downs. I think every year is.

But this year I had cosmic love.

Vacancy, hotel room, lost in me, lost in you
Angela, on my knees, I belong, I believe

Home at last

Still, pretty good year.

I am in Facebook jail.

For 5 more days and 20 more hours.

But what happens if I have a cute outfit, or I hear a song lyric that must be shared, or like yesterday I was eating a mediocre chicken sandwich and they were playing old batman episodes and I found it odd.

I laughed at the absurdity that anything that happens to me matters enough that it just has to be posted.

There will be a 7 day gap in my memory.

Doesn’t really matter.

I am a broken record girl. This boy did a thing and I am sad. Recipes for things I will never cook and other peoples words, peppered with my own.

I was put here by some woman or man who thought that me owning my own sexuality by admitting anecdotally that given the right circumstances with the right men, I would like to have a gang bang.

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

There is no violence here. No nudity. Just a banned perfume ad, or maybe it was jeans.

The idea of being touched by many hands, filled by many men appealed to me.

Had they read the caveat I don’t know if that is what I want anymore, but I posted it because someone else might.

I already know I am not the only one. A rousing chorus of the good kind of ‘me too’ followed every time I posted said article. 338 shares. I am not alone. 40 positive comments, and 2 negative. The ayes have it.

But that report button, so appealing to those who have their opinions and nothing else of substance.

I wonder what happened in their lives that this offended them so deeply, that they felt the need to shut me up.

Then I realize, they didn’t read the article. And that some people are dumb enough to still believe after 3 years, there really is an incarnation of Mary called Lust and Grace.

I suppose I am. We are all incarnates of Eve, or one of the Mary’s. Lilith maybe if you dig deep enough. The bible laid out stereotypes and enforced them by force until we swallowed them and the good Mary’s held the Mary Magdalenes down just like the men.

The goodwives screaming witch in Salem because they didn’t like the curve of her lip or her skin or her smile? What did any woman have to smile about back then unless it was a gentle man. So they cried witch and even as their sisters burned, they weren’t happy.

I think that is what it is.

I expressed my wantonness, to all eyes and ears I appear to be free.
And I am.
I went from thinking, believing and participating in relationships I thought were necessary, that I had no value outside of a man that single mother was the worst thing you could be. To realizing no, the wrong relationship is a lie, and the worst. So I shook my keys and stayed out of jail. The idea of permanence a prison.

And now I don’t know.

I don’t know because I am comfortable in not knowing. It is the only way to learn.

I have kissed mouths that tasted like home and found them sweet. Maybe just a summer home, but home nonetheless.

And maybe this woman who sought to silence me only did so because she saw my grass is greener. Because it is, I planted it myself surrounding this home I built myself. No words like divorce or separation can take it from me. But only because they already have and I chose not to return to any land where anything can be taken from me. I have already lost everything so many times. I paid for this.

And maybe my grass is greener because sometimes I just let it grow wild, because I can, because it should and because I don’t care what the neighbors think.

But it took a long life of living in fear of the neighbors to get here.

And here is alright. Here I am mine.

I wonder if she knows that some days I envy her. Not enough to block or report her for living a life I can only assume resembles oatmeal, bland, yet full of iron and filling.

That some days I do wish a man would come along and open that jar, or cut the lawn, or fix the showerhead, because as strong as I am, it still leaks.

I have a son for that, I know. I raised him strong, stronger than I was. It’s just a matter of remembering when he visits, and I don’t. We have more important things to discuss.

And speaking of, I wonder if this woman who reported me realizes how often I discuss things on Facebook, how it is my mainline of communication with the outside world and by removing it, when my cell network went down, I couldn’t speak to anyone.

I am a ghost haunting Facebook. One would think I could just walk away and find other things to do, I have other things to do. But I find myself just scrolling, wanting to hit like and I cannot.

Inbox full of messages I cannot answer.

And I wonder if she realizes, even me, the girl who writes about gang bangs, is painfully shy. Scared of people, hates leaving the house and this is all I’ve got.

The report option is almost easier than the like button.

Everyone has an opinion, and I am no better.

I am assuming here that it was a woman, but there was a man who was vocal about his dislike of my post.

Probably because I wouldn’t let him come to my gang bang.