June 2015

My girlfriend was warned against hiring this woman once, because said woman was a ‘slut’.
My girlfriend responded “I love the all the sluts”. I chuckled at the sentiment. I love them too, they are my people.

That particular slut turned out to be a bad hire, I don’t love her, she’s pretty creepy.
There is a difference between home-wrecking ravenous vaginas that consume everything in their path without morals or prejudice and a woman who simply, wantonly loves sex.

Addendum. I love sluts with soul.

The working title for this was “I have fucked more strippers than you”.

The One Guy who has fucked more strippers than I, pops into my inbox to protest.

I laughed, conceding immediately. This post was always about him.

You see dear readers, someone got me thinking recently on thanking my exes.
I missed a few.

Ahem (cough)

Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce the Stripper Whisperer (SW).

SW:  “I used to think I had a way with strippers, then I realized they had a way with me.”

(It was both beautiful boy, can’t play a violin without a bow)

I’m not saying he slept with hundreds of strippers, but it could have been hundreds.

He is also one of my 4 Horsemen.

I openly admit to my penchant for sluttiness in that blog post, he read it and responded…

“…some would say I was the slut, not you. The truth is unconditional passion, acceptance and friendship without conditions or judgments is what we shared…Moments can be shared with complete passion and not be hindered or darkened by conventional constructions…”

This one has soul.

He saved me you see. He held my hand and led me gently away from the shitty situation I was in. Fed me, loved me, wanted me. I remember being up all night fucking and talking. Gave me something safe and good, as much as he could. I am forever grateful.

There is a group of women aged 30-40 who have a very specific tattoo. Stripper Whisperer is named after the stars and these girls marked themselves with his constellation.
I am not one of them, I already had prominent freckles on my back that line up just so. I was laying on my stomach, sated, his fingers tracing the line of my spine, writing things there. I mentioned it, he jumped up and turned the light on and rewarded me with an extra wicked grin and of course more sex.

He hasn’t laid a hand on me since the year of our lord 1999. Oh those hands. Good god.

The problem with the way we communicate using mostly the written word is I cannot spell that noise I just made, it sounded quite like I had just tasted something wonderful. Mmmmmmmmm, ouf.

Where was I before my mind wandered? Oh yes, that man.

Friends 16 years later. To be remembered among the masses at all is incredible. I am #7 of 9 that made it. I am honoured, truly. That sentiment is mirrored back by me. As much as I adore other lovers. He is what I remember when I transport myself back to that apartment. He is a jumping off point for all of the sex I have had since, the bar is high…clear it.

He told me a story not long ago, he was at a club, one of his friends noticed a girl and thought she was hot, SW walks up to her, lifts her shirt a bit, his buddies think he is going to get slapped and there it is, the tattoo. She squealed and hugged him. We all still adore him, no one has a bad thing to say about him. He never lied. He never pretended he was going to stay. He made it very clear, his game and his rules. Thou shall not covet a Libra. Remember that and win the prize.

He was my 2^nd Libra. (Everyone gets 3.)
The Kings of ‘Come here, Go away’. It’s like Snakes and Ladders, but more confusing, sometimes they take the board and go home without warning.

All things considered, I did well. I had no delusions of locking him down, I think he may have been my first lesson in men meaning the words that are coming out of their mouths, he speaks without subtext.

He was the reason I was honest and continue to be, led by example. He made me brave.

I enjoyed his attention when I got it. And I got it, more than most.
Still do. He is a first responder when the bat signal (aka Sarah got her feeling hurt) lights up the sky/net.
I still find myself squirming happily under his praise, attention and affection.
And I still do not covet. I am so much smarter than that. I just answer the phone when he calls.

He said he would…

I could write novels about the things he said he would do to me and with me and for me.
But they were just words, there was no follow through, I’ll write my own ending.

I lost all the ground I was given until I was adrift on the ocean, again.
S’okay, I floated over to an island.

I float. I send out messages in bottles. They float too. We all float down here (s.k)

I pulled my panties out of my purse and thought of you.

They got lost in a tangle of sweaty sheets between round one and two. When the first hunt for them proved fruitless, I thought to check his pockets. Wondered for a moment if he kept trophies like you. Would have been 2 pairs gone in as many weeks, and I really liked those ones.

The implications of who my thoughts ran to of their own volition is immense.

You said you wanted to round up everyone who ever ignored me and beat the shit out of them so I would know I was worth listening to. Less than a week later you disappeared. Don’t put yourself on that list, you have endured enough beatings and I don’t wish you any more, by your hand or anyone else’s. Your bruises don’t heal.

You said you wanted to collect all of the men who had taught me things and then let me go so you could shake their hands, the hands that molded me, sculpted me into what I am (or did you just want to write Thank You cards, I can’t remember, oh poets and their love of words).
Just don’t.  Don’t write them, don’t sign anything, don’t put a return address, don’t do anything at all. You didn’t stick around long enough to have a full appreciation for what I am, the creature they helped me become.
And besides, it would come off as a written admission of guilt of the pain you caused me, those exes are the law around here. I serve, they protect.

Thank you Teacher* for showing me that sex is a consensual sensual act. That my skin and his are meant to be explored, thoroughly. I am fluent in body language. I have no shame, only lost in lust, passion and play. Bodies are instruments and when played properly makes such sounds choirs of angels cannot match it.

Thank you Saint Anthony for teaching me what it means to love someone exactly as you found them and the importance of coming forward completely. For showing me what is like to be cherished above all things. For providing examples and avenues for exploring sabotage, the importance of being chosen over and over. Lesson learned.

Thank you Ninja for explaining emotional monogamy in a way that I internalized it because I felt it. For showing me that sex doesn’t equal love, I had the hardest time untangling that one on my own. For his strong and patient hands that were so good with all of my knots and stumbling among other things.

Thank you Jesus for showing me it was possible to burst into proverbial flames just by being in the same room with someone. I always knew he was there before I laid eyes on him. He has my gratitude for sticking around after the fire went out. I am the sum of all of my parts, not just the ones that he touched.

Thank you G____ for being so boring that I cannot even conjure a nickname. Thank you Budget George for being so selfish and passionless and blaming the world for everything. Both of them and their Freudian mommy issues are prime examples of things to run from. I see red flags.

You? Oh baby boy, I am grateful. I will keep the things you changed in me that suit me and discard the rest, but I cannot figure out what to toss. Everything washed up on shore with me in a tangle of flotsam and there is terrible confusion.

See? I got this thank you thing down.

Yes, they all hurt me. No knowledge I have gleaned has come without some damage. Moth throwing herself against lightbulbs while hungering for the moon.

I don’t carry pain around. It’s too heavy and besides, I refuse to blame the next one for the ones that came before.
You have built a fortress from your baggage. All must pay for the sins of those who came before. I had fistfuls of gold coins to pay Charon, but the boat never came. I knew exactly where it was headed.
I could have taught you, my palace is built with love, forgiveness and acceptance.
My drawbridge is always open.

I don’t need you to write thank you cards. No, no.

What would be a kindness? A stack of sympathy cards, all signed by you.

Dear ________,

I am sorry.
That woman who just left your bed wasn’t really with you.
She was a thousand miles away, with me.
It was my face she saw between her legs.
My body on top of her/under her/behind her/wrapped around her.
My mouth she was kissing, that is why she didn’t bite.
My voice she heard.
My name she was moaning into the sheets.

She. Is. Mine.
My condolences.
Sincerely,
The Man who mind-fucked Her.

This is what you wanted, for me to be yours, in all ways, no matter where I was, what you did or who I was with.

You are not the ghost of some lover past, rattling chains hoping I will notice, this is full on possession.

You fucking won, and yes I meant that emphatically and yes, I know I owe you a dollar. Fuck you.

*Teacher, was not an actual teacher. He was a 22 year old who found me at 16. Saw me for what I was, this overtly sexual, fragile slip of a nymph girl who ached to try everything. He took me into his bed and taught me things, forged me armor I still wear to this day. He protected me from myself and the world for one glorious summer. The only authority he had over me was what I gave him, willingly.

No one is beneath me. If I could just extrapolate and realize no one is above me either, especially when it comes to men… I might just attain enlightenment.

He even said that in a conversation, “I am not better than you”. Felt like he reached through the internet and lightly tapped my face with his open palm. I put him on a pedestal, the fact that he reached down to speak to me? Equal? Mind boggling.

But that is not what this is about.

I spent the first ¾ of my life not being the best person. I cheated, I stole, I lied.

The theft was the first to fall away. I had my son at 21, I didn’t want to end up in jail for a lipstick when I had a child depending on me to be with him.

The cheating stopped when I got cheated on within an inch of my life, and my reaction was to…cheat back? Survey says…Wrong answer.

The well from which I draw my kindness is filled with the shitty shit people have done to me, and the gut wrenching feelings I got from practicing acts of cruelty. Empathy is the filter. If it is within my power to save someone else from feeling that way, I will.

The lying stopped when I got caught. I spent a year forcing myself to make amends if I lied. Forced myself to accept the consequences. It worked, if I even feel a lie forming on my tongue I choke on it.

The result of spending 30 years being a rather crap-tastic human being?

I never felt worthy of trust. Worthy being the operative word. Truth be told, there is a part of me that balks when someone shows me trust…”don’t you know what I have done?”. They do. They also know I am no longer that girl. Internally I am still doing penance.

My trust for others however, has always been given freely, even after it’s been abused. I can never seem to remember the stove is hot, and I cannot imagine being any other way.

I started this by saying no one is beneath me. They are not.

I get my nails done a few times a month. I enjoy the hour or two listening to top 40 and the chatter of other women while getting fussed over. What I find odd though is how the other patrons treat the nail ladies. Like servants, barking orders, when did we all forget please and thank you? I am respectful to these women. They are doing me a kindness.

Yesterday I walked into my nail salon, it was packed. One of the women came running up to me, “oh good, you are here” she said, handed me her 6 month old son. There was a great shuffle and I ended up at the head of the line getting my toes done with this sweet baby boy cooing and drooling in my lap. The other customers staring at me, some random tattooed girl in a sundress…why did she get the baby?

I’m trustworthy.

A truth I never deserved nor held to be self-evident, but now that I see it and have it…there is nothing more sacred to me.

I was helping my girl move. She pulled a cake plate out of the cupboard, backstory being it is 200 years old, came over from Ireland on a boat with her ancestors, and she handed it to me? Aye, she did. She also trusts me with her 4 year old daughter and her husband.

My magic mama has never left her children with ANYONE not related by blood, except me.

He told me things he has never uttered to another soul. Said I could ruin him, and I could in theory, if I was anyone but who I am. He left me too, with this power, this evidence of what he is. He gave me things he does not take lightly, address, phone number and other secrets, I see them as the keys to his kingdom.
But he shut the door.
I can’t even knock, I will just wait for him to open up again.
So in awe of this trust he gave me, I cannot even breathe his name out loud.  I try to imagine being angry about this but I know, even if he splattered everything I ever said all over the internet, I couldn’t retaliate. I am not that girl.

I am the girl that holds these acts of trust, these children, the cake plate, everyone’s secrets and fears and protects them with her life.

drunkensandwich.deviantart.com

There is a scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom wherein an ancient Indian man says over and over in a quivering voice “bring back to us”.

That is my heart right now. Broken record, over and over. With that same accent oddly, vulnerable. She is sitting cross legged, rocking back and forth, wrapped in a dirty sheet. Her words echoing inside my chest.

Usually she speaks in gibberish, music, whale noises, but this is soft and clear.

“Bring back to us”.

I might go insane from it.

Ha.

Might?

I am already insane. Einstein defined insanity as “doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results”. I come forward over and over again, looking to be loved and accepted, I leave myself open, hope to the point of blind faith. I could be dramatic and say it’s getting harder every time. But it isn’t, this is who I am. This rawness is innate. I can’t help it. I don’t want to take it back. Not a word. I would throw myself back into it without hesitation, open wider.

I wrote a post a while ago called The Royal We, wherein I divided myself into 4 parts.
Logic, Heart, Ego and Vagina.
Said I knew why things had never worked with anyone before, we were never all appeased at the same time.
And then he came…bearing 4 Sankara stones, his attention, words, truth and affection bringing life and love to the village.

Heart, all in, glowing and showing herself, shining as bright as she could. Basking in the warmth he gave back. She is a clumsy thing, but every time she fell he picked her up and brushed her off and let her run around some more. Good girl.

Ego, appeased. Someone I admire, keen sharp wit, equally sharp tongue, unparalleled integrity, chivalrous, brave, strong and wise. He chose me? Sighing and sated.

Vagina. Fuck. I have a bad feeling about this. He never laid a hand on me, but I already know I’ll never be satisfied with ordinary men again. Truth be told, I never was. I just made due, not knowing he existed.

Logic? Not behaving overly logical at the moment. ‘Maybe this is a test’ she says. To see if we learned his lessons. Maybe he wants to test our loyalty by being absent. Sounds a lot like hope. Like I am Short Round, pleading for him to wake up from the Black Sleep of Kali Ma. Hoping he remembers who he is before he destroys me.

So strong is my desire to hold onto him, I can’t even cry. A few have slipped past the gates but I don’t want this out of me. Tears feel like pissing on what was, like I could shed it somehow. Just like showering after we talked felt like betrayal.

My heart is on fire, outside my body, he said all of the magic words when he pulled it from my chest.

Truth? I handed it to him.

Om Namha Shivaye.

“If I could I would round up everyone who ever ignored you and beat them up, so you’d know I am listening.”

That was a few days ago. My heart swelled. I didn’t get a chance to tell him how much this meant to me.

He unfriended me yesterday. Ignoring me, without a word or reason. Yep, that happened.

‘How many times are we going to do this Sarah?’

Once more into the breach.

5 guys.

5 guys in as many months.

1. 22 year old Italian kid. Went out for dinner, sat in his car at the beach watching the sun go down. Making out like high school kids, listening to music, laughing, talking, touching, exploring.
   “I really like you Sarah, you are amazing. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He called, we talked for 4 more days until it was time to go out again. Haven’t heard from him since.

I lost my shit.

2. Another 22 year old. An artist this time. Came at me strong and confident. Wanted to draw me. We went for dinner. Walked through the park. Talked about everything and anything. There were fireworks, literal fireworks, it was a holiday Monday. He didn’t touch me. I drove him home, quick brotherly kiss goodnight.
   I pulled my truck over on the way home and messaged “I kinda wanted to pull the car around, come back and try that kiss again”, this opened the floodgates. We talked for 12 more days until he disappeared. The last thing he said is that we would go on roller coasters.

I lost my shit even harder, panic attacks and crying jags. Melt-down.

3. He was 27, a waiter. I had met him out for dinner one night at a little southern fusion place. Went back a month later and he reiterated verbatim everything I ate and said and did (see first sentence about how I feel unnoticed and ignored). He had delicious freckles and a psychology degree. We talked for 2 days. I had to break the first date, so this one I can wrap my head around.

I shrugged it off.

4. 40-something, owned a construction company. Technically he could be listed as 1. I met him last year and we kept missing the boat. Never made it on one date. I wasn’t terribly bothered. It was nice enough that he remembered me and asked me out one more time.

I actually forgot about him until it was time to write this.

No great losses here.

There is a phrase that makes its rounds on memes over and over.
“One day someone will come into your life and you will see why it never worked with anyone else.”

Which brings us to the 5^th.

Before I realized he had cut me off I said this…

“We have talked about a lot of things over the last week. I am savoring them, turning them over and over.

You have mentioned a few times wanting to take things slow, yesterday you went into more detail.

Yes. This. Please.

Last Friday night at around 3am you and I came at each other full force.

There was an earth shattering kaboom.

The ground stopped shaking, the dust cleared and we were both still standing.

A little shaken, breathing heavy, but we stayed.

This time you are taking with me and giving me makes me feel wanted.

I like the waiting, learning and building.

Even if it never goes any further. You have cracked me open, wider than I have ever been and you have my gratitude for that.

I suppose this is just a long way of saying I appreciate you.”

I had a moment where I felt foolish, but it passed quickly. I meant what I said. I had every intention of staying and building.

He was my first attempt at something long distance, online.

Truth be told, it felt surreal the whole time, like dreaming.

There was safety hiding behind phone calls and typed messages.

He made it even safer with who and how he was.

He did crack me wide open, went exploring in my messy guts, my even messier past, came back smiling every time. Except the last one.

I’m grateful to him.

I am still open, I have no intentions of closing.

I got a tattoo the other day. A quote by one of my favorite authors

“love not shown is love wasted” (Michael Xavier)

I believe this to be the truth.

This last one? The 5^th element? I loved him harder than I knew I could in the time I was given.
I did my best, I came as far forward as I have ever been and I have no angst or regret.
Yes. There is an empty space where his words and his voice were. Yes it hurts.

I refuse to taint it with a tantrum. He deserves more than that.

I am the common denominator here. I see this.

“Your life collided with mine and you simply failed to survive the wreckage”. Poppy Z Brite.

There must be some sharp edge to me that keeps cutting these men off, severing the ties that bound.

I’ve put down my sword. I don’t want to keep cutting the head off the hydra and have another head appear. I love that last monster as is.

‘How many times are we going to do this Sarah?’

Negative one.

If chivalry is dead, I am a necromancer.

I find myself on the safe side of the sidewalk.

It has nothing to do with my magic vagina. (okay, maybe a little)
I understand, appreciate and acknowledge men.

I posted this meme on my page, anticipating nuclear fall-out. I was not disappointed, except I really was.

So much ‘well if I do this he better blah blah blah’. I could hear the voices, like nails on a chalkboard.
Ladies, I was talking to YOU, not him. Just you.

Or… “well I did all this and he still treated me like shit.”
One of two things, either he doesn’t understand what it means to be a man or you are lying.

The old adage ‘why go out for a burger when you have steak at home’. Oh honey, you aren’t steak anymore you ain’t even a burger. You are politically correct, lactose/gluten/carb free quinoa salad with fair trade seaweed sprinkles and tofu chunks, gack. No substance. No one can live on that.

I love my man, I also love giving head and making sandwiches. He’ll smile, this makes me happy. Please don’t shame me for what I enjoy. I didn’t ask you to suck his dick or feed him,  that is my job. Society didn’t tell me to do this. I did. Trial and error. I tried things. Some I like, some I don’t. Head and sammiches, all good in my book. MY book, I wrote it.

And yes, I fully understand, some men don’t deserve this. I dated them too, in the time called before.
Leave them. Show some strength and self-worth and walk. Love yourself before attempting to love someone else.

A few hours later, I posted this meme and there was a grand celebration, a rousing chorus of ‘fuck yes’.

Fuck you guys.

Seriously?

How are you so blind you cannot see we cannot have one without the other?

I come from a line of strong women. Women who worked, hard. Women who created these beautiful homes out of rooms, windows and doors. Places of safety and love for our family.
If you were hungry you were fed, if you were hurt you were mended, if you were dirty you were made clean, if you were cold you were warmed. Without question or exception. These women who share my DNA also share a motto carved into our bones STAND BY YOUR MAN.

Think about that for a minute. The term ‘stand by’. Something prepared, at the ready, why is this a bad place to be?
He is on the front line, fighting everyday, you are behind him at the ready. Have you been on the front lines? I have, it’s not a good place to be.

The pendulum is swinging way too far. Back in the day, men tried to lord over women and we revolted.
What do you think is going to happen when we try to lord over them? Seen any Amazons running around lately?

I am not bashing women. I celebrate and support all women.  I am one. I have slept with many. I loved it for the same reasons I love my own body. Soft, sweet, yielding flesh in this aesthetically pleasing package. We cooked together, cleaned together, cried over movies together. But women are like the weather, always changing. Emotionally I felt carelessly tossed in the wind, rained on, tempests raging and occasionally like I was basking in the sun.

Men are like trees strong, sturdy, rooted, providing shelter and shade.

I enjoy my moods, my emotions, my inner 50’s housewife that feels so satisfied anticipating the needs of the man I love. Keeping him warm, fed, emotionally safe, sexually satisfied, having the occasional debate neither one of us will win because we are different and good god that is GLORIOUS.
Yes, sometimes I storm and rage and knock leaves off of him, but then my sun shines and my rain falls and I am nurturing him.
Sometimes he is so unrelenting and unmoving and stable I find it maddening.
Then I see clearly again and love him for the way he keeps me tethered and grounded.
Give me 5 minutes.

This is the dynamic we are losing.

I have been guilty of this false sense of independence and equality. Stuck on the idea of changing my own tires, paying for dinner as well as keeping up a home. It’s exhausting. I was accidentally emasculating this man I was supposed to care about and killing myself in the process. And I broke a fucking nail dammit.
The fact that I can do it, just means I am not helpless and needy.
He works on my car, I bring him a beer and hand him tools, the RIGHT tools.
This doesn’t make me less of a woman, it makes me more comfortable in my skin and he in his.

I don’t think any human should be used, or ruled over.
I simply remember and rejoice in the undeniable psychologically proven scientific fact that I am not the same as him, I am not equal to him nor is he equal to me. I don’t want to be.
My body and mind are amazing in their own right and so are his (oh my god his body and his mind).

We were made this way to complement each other, not compete.

There are wars raging outside, our home is SANCTUARY. He builds, I maintain.

Let him be a man and just love him already. If we go back to nurturing they will go back to protecting. This is not rocket science. It’s anthropology, it’s how we made it this far as a species. They went of hunting and doing man shit, we stayed home and made sure they had a home to come back to. They are bigger and stronger because we feed them. Simple as that.

They made the wheel, let them change the tire.

I am anticipating some nuclear fall-out from this as well.
I am not worried. I like who and what I am.

Each snowflake in an avalanche pleads not guilty. (Stanislaw J. Lec)

So there is this boy. Several time zones away in California, adorable, evolved, sweet and interesting.
Let’s call him Kyle.

We message at random intervals, out of the blue one day, he says he loves me.

What do I do?

I get up-fucking-set.
He cannot possibly.
I question his behaviour, what does he want from me? (nothing, he lives in California)
I get defensive, question my behaviour.
Did I lead him on, is he high, he doesn’t know me, this is not possible.

But he said it, and he meant it.

Why did that freak me out so bad?
Am I not out here adrift on the internet ocean on display?
Sequestered out in the country I’ve ended up living a Facebook life. (I want a real life again please)
Heart is on sleeve at all times, mouth runs rampant, everybody knows when I am having a feeling, and I can’t make this shit up.

So, by default, if he has been paying any attention, and he has…Kyle knows me. (A lot of people do, thanks internet.) His opinion was weighed and measured and came up valid. How odd.

This has me wondering how good I am at hide and seek. I worry people can see me gritting my teeth through my virtual smile.
Maybe I am not invisible, but crystal clear through what I say and do here.

Do these people actually see me and like me? Or even love me. This is freaking me out.

So I was hanging out with my girl and her daughter. I love her daughter all up. She’s this brave, sassy perfect little pixie person of awesome. For her my purse is a tickle trunk, I am always pulling out toys, crayons and paper so she has something to do while we are waiting for whatever. I remember being 4 and trying to exist in the world of grown-ups. Knowing I shouldn’t twitch and I should be waiting patiently but inside I was on fire with the need to be doing something, anything but this awful nothing.

Little Miss Pixie Pants meets two other little girls. They are shy for a minute and then do as children do, go play without prejudice. 5 minutes, when you are 4, gets you the same level of trust as us adults knowing each other for a year. Time is relative. Trust is easy. Adding these to the list of things I need to remember.

When they parted ways they hugged and smiled, the Wee Pixie watched them walk down the sidewalk and spontaneously called out after each one, “I love you”, and not just once. I am tearing up right now thinking about it. It was amazing.

Every time I see her I tell her she is brave, smart, and wonderful and that she is important to me and that I love her.

I never did/got that when I was a kid, or even much until recently. ‘I love you’ was some magical rare sacred thing that couldn’t be given or said lightly. Oh, I love, I loved my friends, especially one in particular. I idolized her and adored her and felt protective of her and I was happy when I was with her.
This is one, clear definition of love is it not? Yes, yes it is.
I know now that I never told her I loved her because I was afraid she didn’t love me back.
The fear of not being loved in return is a big deal for me, or it was. She did, she told me a few months ago. Among some other truths from when I was little. Hearing this 20 some odd years later was life altering.
My childhood perceptions on how I was viewed and valued were so skewed. They followed me around until recently, even now I have a hard time feeling loved by those who see me when I am messy. It’s easier to accept losing ‘friends’ who liked me better when I was reigning Queen of Sarahisabrokenbirdland, than it is to feel worthy of being loved by those who are happy I am finally happy I abdicated my throne. How fucked up is that?

There is an exercise that goes around on the internet often, the one that asks what two words would you tell yourself as a child.

My two have always been ‘be brave’, I may amend that to ’you’re loved, or ‘you’ll see’ (with a knowing smile).

I can now love like a 4 year old, 37 years later.

As lovely as it is to hear(and it is lovely), it is equally wonderful and liberating to say it out loud, knowing that I mean it.
This is what an avalanche must feel, like a burden lifted, falling with reckless abandonment.

Sophie-Anne: [musing] Well, think about it. Imagine that you’re a wild young girl who’s married to some jerk who treats you like property and is also fucking some 14-year-old boy. And along comes this religion which encourages you to get hammered, run naked through the woods, have sex with whoever, whatever, and it’s all part of getting closer to God?

Bill Compton: I can see how that would have it’s appeal, especially to humans with their tendencies towards puritanism.

Sophie-Anne: Exactly! So you’re fucking everybody in the dirt, why not kill something and eat it raw? Hey, you’re super pious. There’s nothing you can’t do and each time you do, it brings you one step closer to the divine.

Bill Compton: Isn’t that delusional?

Sophie-Anne: Never under-estimate the power of blind faith. It manifests in ways that bend the laws of physics or breaks them entirely.

(True Blood Season Two)

I can’t be a Mae Nad. Sounds too much like Kae Mad, the nickname sisterwife gave herself. Just, no.

This article could now go two ways, Dionysus or blind faith. Firm believer in both.

Three ways, I could bash sisterwife, but I won’t. She saved me in her way, I have to thank her for it.

Dionysus it is.

Just like every other God and corresponding school of thought, Dionysus has been so very twisted. Hammered and bent until he is barely recognizable.

I like my sex, food, thoughts, soul and body raw.

I crave raw meat more than anyone I know (except Sunday, whose Greek name just so happens to be Dionysus).

My skin and soul remain bare as often as possible.

The days I start naked on the porch, walking barefoot through the grass, spend hours dancing,  fill my belly with whiskey and tartar, delectable morsels of good food and end that day with a man in my bed, someone with whom I can get completely lost in fucking, braiding limbs, consuming each other, full, free energy exchange.
Those days, I have attained Nirvana. I am closer to god. I am, by all rights, immortal.

If I am living breathing fucking enjoying alive this moment, then am I not immortal?
Yes.
By definition, in this moment I am, and so shall I be in all of the moments that follow until I am not.
Time is a man made concept, so is heaven and hell.
Scientifically my body will return to the earth.
My soul knows I have walked on this earth before, in other bodies living other lives, sounds immortal to me.
So why would I not enjoy this body I have chosen, to the fullest.
How could I not be grateful and show it at every possible opportunity.

This doesn’t mean drink and fuck all day every day. We have shit to do.

Everyone needs an escape from the tediousness of merely existing.
Religion, drinking, drugs and sex are all meant to be Disneyland for adults. You can’t live in Disneyland.

Humans have a bad habit of taking everything too far. Picking through these really good ideas until the original thought is lost. To worship Dionysus is to accept the parts of you that are human. Acknowledge your basic desires, not bury them. To commune with nature, to allow ourselves brief periods of complete freedom drawing energy from each other and the earth.

We covet that feeling of wantonness and freedom, it becomes addictive.

I found my bliss and visit it regularly. This is the one place my pendulum sits beautifully on the fulcrum.

This is my church, this is how I pray.

I have aligned my life so I am pious, I eat when I am hungry, I drink when I am thirsty, I am naked often, I dance daily and I fuck as often as I can.
My bending and twisting has incorporated my religion into my life, not the other way around.

I am a daughter of Dionysus.

No, that’s not right either.

I am Ariadne. Abandoned on an island a few years back.

I willingly admit, I threw some epic tantrums, I wish they’d been witnessed only by the seagulls.

In my isolation I found peace and acceptance. With every passing day my appreciation for this body and life I have been given grows. I am becoming the eye in a storm, everything can rage around me and I will stay calm…
until it’s time to pray again, then the sky will explode in unison and the stars will look down in envy.

With my body I thee worship.