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I spend way too much time on the internet. Also I am getting older, wiser and losing my patience with most things.

I am also sick of my own shit, America is burning and I am babbling about Tinder, dick pics, my vagina and these boys I happen to meet.

I saw a psychic life coach yesterday, without knowing the life coach part.

I got coached.

She reorganized my life and priorities in 40 minutes or less, then we touched briefly on the boy thing.

If I look back at my history, since I became awake and aware human female with biological illogical wants and needs. I have had crushes forever. It is my natural state of being. And good god it is distracting. I was/am scared of my potential, easier to hide behind someone than be myself. Perpetually playing house when I should have been building my empire.

I mean I have been. 400K views on the blog, 183K followers upon the Facebook. All in 3 years.

I did this.

I wonder what I could have done if I hadn’t dated anyone for basically my whole fucking life.

I guess I wouldn’t have anything to write about. Past accepted.

At what point was I going to realize, okay this is a big deal. At what point was I going to start feeling good enough.

Yesterday I guess.

Giant said it ages ago and I pouted instead of listening “you are destined for greater things than this, than me, I am just some guy.”

He isn’t wrong. Doesn’t lessen my love for him, but he has a wife to find and yet unborn children to raise. I have already passed that point in my life and he is going to be a great father.

Our Sara of Lords said “loving you is not a punishment.”

She isn’t wrong either.

But maybe it was. Watching me waste my potential and do their laundry instead. Giving over my body as a playground and disregarding my mind. My body is a theme park really and the rides are awesome, but still. My mind is a library full of wonder.

But that isn’t exactly what this is about. I find myself typing these words often. I have my favorite phrases and verbs. Other words and terms I avoid like the plague.

Words that sound like nails on a chalkboard…including but not limited to

Vibe

Perfect

Soul mate

And the worst twin flame

Ugh.

Fuck that shit.

My sisters are my soulmates and boys are just for funsies and shit to write about.

I see beautiful couples all day long, I was raised by true love. I have felt immense and incredible amounts of unconditional love in my heart for men who have been in my vagina. But that twin flame soul mate shit, and the he’s so perfect crap always sounded like fertilizer on fake grass.

I wrote an article, several in fact about the Swain boy. Just trying to get it all down so when it was safe I could reread it and relive it. I posted it with the caveat that I myself was not ready but it was free for anyone else to see.

A girl read it.

She said “this is the most accurate description of a twin flame meeting I have ever read.”

Internal I screamed no. and outwardly I sighed.

Ya, it was.

I spent so long denying the existence of such things that I refused to see it. I refused to use the words.

I should know by now, when asked ‘how does it get better than this?’ the gods always reply ‘let me show you.’

The way my universe works. The gods saw this as a challenge.

What did she say?

Oh honey, buckle up we have somewhere to take you.

Now, in the time I call after, since I decided to be single and soul search and all that other happy horseshit… I have met me some magic men, I have taken gods to bed, I have been fucked in ways my tiny brain could not have dreamed of in the time called before. I have me all manner of delicious and vicious monsters and men and we connected on levels I hadn’t ever experienced before.

I thought I had seen and felt everything there was to see and feel.

Nope.

Nuh uh.

So it is like this.

When we are small we go to the playground. Slide down the slides, get lifted up and dropped on teeter totters, swing so high we feel like we are touching the sky with our toes.
Then later, the carnival comes to town and the rides are bigger, better, faster if not a little scary.
Then we hit up a theme park and go on rollercoasters that lift us up and drop us down and it seems like nothing is better than this.

You go on these rides and they are still good, but after a while they are just rollercoasters.

Then the engineers make a ride that launches you into a blind curve at 70/mph and you think, okay, this is really it this time. This is the best thing ever, I have never felt anything like this, it doesn’t get better. And you ride it until your legs shake and all you want is more.

And then…

Oh and then…

Some amazing nerd in a government lab of awesome somewhere comes up with the idea of a 4D interactive ride. Not one of the boring ones on a track where you shoot things no no. This one dangles you, whips you around all the while showing you this high tech 3D projection on a 360 degree screen and you realize, this is what it feels like when I fly in my dreams.

Dream love. Defying physics with visuals that have your brain believing you are flying.

Good god that it good.

And that is what happened.

Something that could only be described as a waking dream. Bliss, pure bliss and joy. Flight.

Twice.

A soul mate and a twin flame.

Ferfucksakes.

Not in the same body, not the same boy and definitely showed up in the wrong order.

But, in the way soulmates, the gods and the universe just know all the fucking things, I believe he stepped aside so I could experience the other before I came back. Among a million other things I have to do before I can disappear completely.

I think a twin flame is temporary. Eternal flames are hard to come by.

One also cannot live in a theme park. The magic wears off. And then you go home to your soulmate and make pancakes.

I know I am going to lose friends and followers and trust, I am okay with this.

I don’t need your consent.

Now before I started this article, I literally had to seek permission from a woman I have never met, nor spoken to but whom I respect for her drive, her intelligence and her outspokenness. I chose her because I knew she would have no trouble telling me if I was being an ass. She is black, from Barbados. An island that was integral to the slave trade and taken over by Britain when they were taking over everything and being assholes. They still are. Segregation is alive and well.

I see it and it breaks my heart but I literally have no way of knowing what it actually feels like.

And that’s the problem.

So I asked.

And I listened.

And no matter what her answers, I believe her.

People assume or follow old stereotypes because it’s easier than asking. All that does is breed ignorance.

I don’t want to be ignorant.

“It was hard for me to approach you and ask if I was offside or offensive.
But I think that’s the key.
Being willing to
a) ask
and more importantly
b) accept the answer given.”

Knowing that I might be wrong, and being okay with it. Changing if necessary.

With that in mind and her permission…

Dear White Women,

What in the actual fuck are you doing right now?

You are taking up space, voting for monsters and being racist cunts.

I think I lost my ‘white girl card’ when I admitted out loud that I do not like pumpkin spice lattes, I don’t like bubble baths, any color of wine, nor shopping and I do so very much love sex.

I may have gotten honorary status back when I successfully looked cute in a pair of Uggs (one time) and went to many, many, many brunches.

But I don’t want it.

This is not a collective nor a sham of a ‘culture’ that I wish to participate in or belong to.

I can be proud of myself as an individual and not proud of the group I was born into by having tits and light skin.
I am also a stripper with a MENSA IQ, so ya. Big fan of smashing stereotypes (and the patriarchy).

I am talking to the Mean Girls, the Paris Hilton ilk and clones, the privileged, the crazy Christians, especially the evangelical Stepford wives, and the equally offensive ones who wear native headdresses to Coachella not bothering to notice that that is NOT okay and love to say Namaste after yoga talk about vibes and have no idea what that actually means.

You are not a queen or a goddess, you’re an asshole.

You are not woke, you are in a bubble.

I got in an argument on the internet the other day. I do try to abstain from such things, but this ignorant piece of shit was relentless with his ‘white pride’ bullshit. I have many things to be proud of but the geographical location and skin color I was given at birth are not among them.
I was raised to be proud of accomplishments, knowledge, things you can control…WHO you are not what you are.

Old white men have been in charge for far too long and just look.

GESTURES BROADLY AT EVERYTHING.

Now, said argument was centered around this article, which showed statistics. A cold, hard and rather ugly FACT. This is for the 63% who decided a pedophile was better than a Democrat.
Fuck you sis, and the horse he rode in on.
This is for the enablers, Brock Turner’s mom and the girl who said “he’s not a bad guy”. Yes he fucking is. Every trigger happy cop with a gun and a god complex has a mother or a wife or a sister. You failed them. You are failing everyone. You are excess baggage and dead weight holding back the evolution of society for a fucking handbag made in Vietnam and a chance to be the top mom on the phone tree.

https://www.awesomelyluvvie.com/2017/12/white-women-shit-together-alabama.html

I read the article. And a few more things, also I have eyes and I can see what is happening here.

The solution?
And I mean this adamantly
“it is time to let black women run the world.”

… I was listening to a black woman on the radio this morning, she explained it better than I could. She said we, white people don’t listen when black people say we don’t have the right to say and do certain things to and about them. Terminology we use for each other, is not ok to use for black people because it what we used when they were slaves. When someone says no, I have to listen.
She talked about Roy Moore riding that horse to vote too. She said how everything racist white people do in the south is calculated to intimate black people and remind them of slavery. The overseer on the horse.
And how she knew, just bringing it up, there would be people rolling their eyes saying she was exaggerating. But that this is their experience, every day.

I was speaking to another (white) woman about all this.
She heard someone else’s point of view and BELIEVED her.

 […] talking about Roy Moore’s wife. How she gathered together a large group of these so called Christian white women to defend her husband and hold a public fund raiser for him with the press there. I was so angry. I couldn’t understand why anyone, let alone a woman, a mother would vote for him. A pedophile, someone who hurts children. […] these women aren’t voting for a pedophile, they’re voting against black people, in particular against black women. […] this goes back to plantation days. Doug Jones fought against the KKK, he jailed men who hurt four little girls, little black girls. These white women are sending a message. Racist white women in the south still see black women as a threat. Back in plantation days they could beat them, whip them, and have them sold if their husbands or sons took an “interest” in them, now they have to pretend to be civil. But this is how they do it. They continue to put their racist husbands, sons, brothers in power.

I believe she is right. Both racial and sexual equality is a threat to a ‘way of life’ that should have died out years ago, but they cling to their old ideals. It defies logic.

The #metoo movement was started by a woman of color but a bunch of famous white women had to say something years later then it caught like wildfire. Glad it happened, but credit where credit is due.

And yet, there are roving groups of white women trying to shut that down too. It’s almost as if they like being oppressed and owned by men even though they have NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THAT ACTUALLY MEANS.
It’s Stockholm Syndrome on a massive scale.
They actually believe they are safe in the white castle, no honey, you aren’t.
Those are not princes, or kings or even knights. They are fools in tinfoil with olde timey blood money. Slavery never ended, it just became the prison system.

I refuse to ever say all lives matter because that is a fucking given and no one is threatening my life because of my color. A cop pulls me over and I don’t even get a ticket, that is not the grace of god that is unfair and I see it.

There’s the difference. Just because something doesn’t happen to me does not give me the right to ignore it or deny it.

That is your privilege showing yet again, please tuck that back in and shut up.

We have had the floor and the voice long enough. It is time to let others speak and for fuck sakes listen.

And I expect to hear a rousing chorus of “not all white people” and just like the “not all men” I am not listening. I know this already. I am done.

I also know there is a certain breed of men who only listen when other men talk, so as a woman, a white one at that, here goes…

Dear White Women,

If the picture I have painted here does not resemble you beyond melanin levels or the occasional mimosa, please feel free to go about your day, maybe do something nice for someone for no reason. Just keep being awesome, read more books, you know…empowered women things.

If the picture I have painted here does resemble you it is because I know you. I have dared to be different, to speak up and out and you have been the worst of my tormentors. I am more scared of you than I am of strange men and that is saying something. You are bullshit bullies and if there is to be a fight against you and your kind, I know what side I am going to be on.

Time to eat some humble pie and I hope to god it’s as full of shit as y’all are.

Step out of your comfort zone or be forced out.

Wake up, be better, or die off.

Things are changing and your ignorance isn’t welcome here anymore.

Tomorrow I will go back to talking about love and horoscopes, but today, I am angry.

I made my annual pilgrimage south.

2 days in the car driving, through mountains and tunnels and Georgia straight to the ocean.

To the condo of pastel hues and life sized wooden pelicans.

It isn’t exactly mecca. It’s a retirement community in the middle of Florida, on the Atlantic side.

But for me it is time spent bird watching, ocean swimming, rollercoaster riding and regrouping in the sun. When the air at home hurts my face.  I still do not know why I live where the air hurts my face. This is a welcomed reprieve from it. Something to look forward to.

The first night, upon arriving, the moon was FULL and the tide was HIGH.

I didn’t wait for daylight. I walked down to the beach, said hello to Mama Moon and Mama Ocean.
Paid my respects, made my wishes, did some witchy shit and then fell into a peaceful sleep.

On no less than 3 mornings I watched dolphins swim by from our 3^rd floor balcony. Yesterday they were close enough to touch. But I didn’t run down. I wouldn’t interfere. I sat with a Cheshire cat grin and just watched them with awe and joy.

Yesterday a rocket launched from Cape Canaveral and I stood on the beach with a thousand other people all facing the same way, hands in the salute/sun shielding position and watched an orange ball moving impossibly fast into the sky. 45 seconds after it left sight a low, beautiful rumble swept down the beach, hitting us all square in the chest and reverberating. First building then ebbing like the tides do every day, twice a day. I felt elated. Man-made miracles are miracles regardless.

In between days spent soaking up the sun, there are pilgrimages within the pilgrimage.

I go to Universal Studios and ride the Hulk until my legs shake. Wander through the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. The Last One and I talked at length about coming here together, he wanted to see it. And there were moments where I could actually see him beside me, watching the joy register on his face. I saw the whole thing again through different eyes and it was bitter, but fucking sweet. Maybe one day. I learned a few tricks this time around to avoid crowds and lines.

The second is meeting Our Sara of Lords in Cassadaga, it’s a psychic camp near Lake Helen about a half hour drive inland.

Doesn’t look like much really. Just a sleepy community. A hotel, brightly painted houses and a statue of Jesus in a park, his arms open and head tilted in a way that says ‘let me give you a hug dork’. I did not hug tiny Jesus, but I put my hand on the love tree growing behind him and that felt good.

On the second floor of the hotel are long white hallways with silver mirrors and dark wooden doors.

You can make an appointment with a psychic in the lobby and she or he will take you upstairs to the room they use and you get any variation of a reading you can think of.

I have had cards and palms read. My aura, my future told and a lot of sunshine blown up my ass about how unique and wonderful I am. That may be true, and so may be the myth of fingerprints.

The one area of my life that continues to vex me is romantic relationships. I don’t know how to girlfriend. The process of becoming one is, unknown to me. I can love all day long and it is a good love devoid of ego and claws. But I guess I don’t know how to be loved.

It was with this question I picked a woman who reminded me simultaneously of my paternal grandmother and the Oracle from the Matrix.

I told her before even sitting down that I had no idea what her process was, that I liked to just wing it. She chuckled. Told me she was interactive, that the more we talked, the more I would get out of it and asked if that was alright. Still functioning purely on gut instinct I said yes. Even though, I prefer to sit in silence and see what comes.

You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need. Rolling Stones

This blog got brought up early and I was thinking to myself “I do not want to pay to sit here for half an hour to talk about the damned blog. “

Her first question after discussing numbers was ‘are you monetized’.

No, no I am not.

She laughed again and launched into 20 minutes of what I needed to do to make money doing this thing I am really good at. The roadblocks I use to stop myself were no match for the steamroller of truth she was driving over them.

This 60-something woman smiling at me, she runs her website, is a life coach, takes pole dancing, is working on her core.
I have ZERO excuses.

I needed her to show me this.

The rest is personal.

I know what I have to do.

I have to stop being afraid of succeeding. I know how good it feels to get things done.

I also know that somewhere deep down in me is a girl who wants to succeed and cannot afford to get lost in loving a man.
And that is the only kind of love that will do for me so…

If I build it, he will come.

Happiness will find you if you stop hiding.

The Oracle: No, you’ve already made the choice. Now you have to understand it.

I walked in there already knowing what I had to do. Just took a beautiful no bullshit woman to pull it out of me and make me see it.

I have 2 weeks between getting home and leaving again. I have all the tools. Time to finish building my empire.

Here is the link to hers.

Boomer Woman Your Time is Now!

It seems to me that my hair doesn’t grow, for these extended periods of time, then suddenly and all at once, I wake up with half inch roots.

I know it doesn’t actually work that way, but it feels like it. So does my life. Nothing, nothing, nothing, wait for it… earth shattering kaboom.

½ inch roots are not earth shattering.

I have noticed, in the past few years I have gone from 50% grey/white/silver to (on the top anyways) about 80%.

I realllly want to grow it out.

I’ve tried, a few years ago, to get white streaks, lighten my hair from the box black it is, and I don’t like it. I feel washed out.

I want to try that silver/white wax stuff, see if I can ease my transition. Cutting it is not optional and I have a small head, so hats and scarves are a no.

Also, I’m kinda afraid I will look older.

Or… (scary drum roll) my age.

I will try the wax, or a wig (ew) or perhaps get some extensions, but those seem like such a pain.

I will have to relearn how to do my makeup. Or learn. I’ve been doing the same thing for 20+ years, both with my face and my hair.

I am breaking out.

Not in a metaphorical way, like I have pimples right now, lots of them.

Weather has dictated I haven’t been outside as much as I’d like, although I have gotten some sun and I am glowing sorta, under the pimples.

My eating habits are fairly deplorable on a good day and that hasn’t changed. So that ain’t it.

I bought some new make-up. I am actually considering learning how to apply it like the fancy girls on YouTube and Instagram.

That is probably it.

Also I feel like I am ready to shed my skin again.

I have gone through my closet and gotten rid of old things that don’t serve me. Went through the filing cabinets in my mind too, and let go of a lot.

But that doesn’t usually denote a break out like this. That’s just a Tuesday every few months or so.

I got carded at a bar the other day. The waiter was high as a kite, with squinty pothead eyes.

He wasn’t really carding me I don’t think. But still. Flattering. I will take it and say thanks.

I also have a tan right now and the bags under my eyes seem to be permanent, I have had enough sleep 3 or 4 times in the last 2 years since they appeared. I am soul tired and bone weary. It’s been a long journey and I am only halfway there.

I don’t know why I look young, maybe I’s the acne.

I would rather pimples than wrinkles to be totally honest.

I drink, I smoke, I sit in the sun. I wash my face with whatever soap is closest to the sink, whenever I remember to do so.

If you were to look at pics of me from my farm life, I look older then and we are heading into the 7^th year since my liberation from perdition.

Maybe I am a walking Roald Dahl quote “A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.”

I am notably more attractive when I am happy. But I think that is normal.

Joan Crawford directly attributed a clear complexion to regular and good sex…oh there it is. Haven’t gotten laid lately.

For the record the last two were 22.

Maybe I am feeding off their youth.

General consensus is I don’t look 43.

And in no way do I feel 43.

Some days, post car crash, my body says we are 80. It has become time to return to yoga, I know this. My bones and muscles arguing with my nervous system at every movement. I have good days too.

My heart is a toddler, we have established this. Vagina a greedy teenager and my brain either a hamster spinning out or some mystic mage who has been here a thousand years.

I’m changing again, I can feel it. Breaking out could be metaphorical as well.

But it’s retrograde so I resemble a caged tiger who knows how to unlock the gate but is biding her time, just pacing and resting and getting ready.

Or the rocket that was supposed to launch 20 miles away yesterday. It has been postponed.

I have no doubt it will get where it’s going and that there is a tiger in me somewhere that will be unleashed. I never lock her cage.

When that Swain Boy asked me to remind him how old I was, he asked 34 or 43. I answered truthfully. Shortly thereafter, I stopped hearing from him.

I get it.

Doesn’t make it less ouchy. But in his defense, there was a lot of drinking involved the first 2 times we met, so I understand why that particular fact didn’t stick. Also, we usually only hear what we want to hear. Like, I specifically remember telling him and I definitely remember him saying he didn’t care, it’s just a number. But when you take the closeness out of the equation and are functioning solely on memories, sometimes it’s easier to find fault so you can walk away and stop the yearning.

In actuality when spun right, I can find the silver lining.

I usually do.

Maybe, just maybe, he actually was looking to see if some kind of future was possible.

Maybe I am full of shit, maybe he was full of shit.

Seems to be the norm. But I don’t know. The idea that he was just a fuckboy doesn’t taste like truth.

It was something else.

Who knows?

It might be a mystery that never gets solved.

Same with my face/life/everything, it just is what it is.

I will take it and say thanks.

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.”