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I was just in the shower washing and shaving all my bits.

Extra-long shower because I decided to wash my hair before the situation became critical…

And I had an amazing revelation.

I have my body back.

As I realized this a grin pulled up the corners of my mouth and I haven’t stopped smiling since.

Today is the last ghostly pink hued day of shark week.
I am no longer mass producing snot in a way that I wonder where it all came from and how did it fit in there after a cold lasting 2 days but lingering for 10.
No annual cold sore making me feel like a monster of biblical proportions.
No crazy pimples to report.
Nothing hurts.
I look good and feel even better.
I just exfoliated, taking off layers and double-shampooed with a  fresh mani/pedi gloriously clean.

What a wonderful day.

I’m no longer dragging said body out of bed to go to a job I didn’t love, wearing a shirt that I hated like a straight jacket, limiting my movements and basically being stuck somewhere I didn’t belong for hours out of my day just to return with the life sucked out of me and too tired to do much of anything except have some wine about it.

I have my body back, after it was held hostage by all these things that make me feel not myself.

What to do, what to do?

Well, I am me so…

First thing I did was masturbate and give myself a mind boggling tantric orgasm that I can still feel in the lower part of my belly.

I wore clothes that I couldn’t wear while I was bleeding because I didn’t want to get blood on them.

Went the extra mile and put some make up on, because I can and it feels good.

And now I have to go do laundry and read 50 Shades of Grey for research purposes, and some motivation. Stuck on the book again. I want it done and over with. It is well past time to move on from that and them. And I have.

Amazing when I have my body, heart and mind all healthy and happy and working in conjunction.

Yesterday I prayed for today.

I had a small breakdown.

I’m a crier, in that I cry, a lot. Tear ducts are in a perpetual test pattern I guess. Usually I know why while I’m doing it, but yesterday I was vexed.

I think/know now that it was this hostage situation that was plaguing my corporeal self, and the soul I carry around in this skin I am in was really tired, like bone tired. Weary then teary.

I pulled myself out of it and had a candlelit bath about it. Felt all my sorrows swirling down the drain when I pulled the plug and simply decided today was going to be better. It has been, substantially.

I misplaced my logic yesterday and forgot the golden rule. This too shall pass. Worrying has never been scientifically proven to speed time up or change anything at all really but it can slow things down and drag them out.

Yesterday I prayed for today, then I pulled myself out of my funk and put myself to bed early with a little whiskey in my belly.

The last month has felt super crazy long because I let it. I allowed myself to worry and stress over things I had no control over. I didn’t rest when I should have. I smoked too much and fell into a pattern of ‘poor me’ instead of celebrating the good things I have.

Now I know I’ll get sick again. I have 21 days until shark week returneth. I will probably find something to cry over, drink too much or pull something.

But today?

Today I will enjoy the container my guts came in in all of its glory, tomorrow too and as many days as I can.

I write these words here, snap a selfie or two to remind me of how good I can be.

And by doing so, I know I can postpone feeling like shit again for a good long while.

“I’m famous now” Drogo said when I told him he had many posts over on Our Lady of Lust and Grace.

“You were famous when I met you, now you are immortal.” I replied.

This is what writer’s do. If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.

Not even if you want to.

I try to write about everyone I love and fuck with warmth, lust and grace. Emphasis on the latter two things. As childish as it is, this website also serves as a diary. Why would I want to remember the bad bits?

I lust often, love remains fairly elusive.

Truth be told, in retrospect, I thought I was in love a couple of times.
Still could be, I don’t have a hard line to God nor a functioning crystal ball.
Just a mantra that says ‘one more time’.

I didn’t even know then if I wanted to be loved, past experience dictated that there was pain in relationships, and the times I tried just backed up that theory.

Me: Um, awkward question…can I write about you? I asked, already having done so.

(I hadn’t hit publish and I wouldn’t have without permission.)

Him: You can write about me if it’s nice.

I wrote most of the above in June 2016. I had made a deal with God wherein I wanted something easy, stable and fun for the summer.

My wish was granted. Life was good.

I never finished this article. It was supposed to be about the Thai Fighter and he vanished shortly after.

Funny story really, I was lying in bed after we fucked and made a joke that I’d almost thrown pebbles at his window during a heat wave so I could sleepover in the AC.
His reply? “You could just text”.
He then pointed out that I hadn’t messaged him even once in the time we’d known each other.
I was fully content with being a booty call. In the literal definition. He’d call, I’d bring the booty.
I texted him, just to see, later that week.
We made plans, and I never heard from him again.

No hard feelings, pun intended.

I wish him well wherever he is.

Today my fortune cookie said “the best prediction of future is the past.”

Fuck.

I want a new cookie. Can that not be a thing please?

I remember making a wish way back when I was newly single. I wanted what I remembered as being the good parts of a long distance relationship. The time to know each other and miss each other. The luxury of being left to my own devices most of the time. The excitement of finally seeing them after a long absence. Making the most of your time together. Seemed pretty perfect.

It worked for me. Until it didn’t.

I kept getting my original wish. Poet was in LA, Jason was in Indiana, Illinois or Ohio depending. Hulk moved across the country, but that was after he disappeared into a deep chasm in his psyche where he could barely be reached. Giant and Gelfling were a thousand leagues away as far as emotional attachments went, I was kept at arm’s length and they had the longest of limbs. What I wanted and what they could provide me was light years apart.

I know if it happens again I will survive. I always do and I have some kind of selective amnesia like cocaine or childbirth that allows me to forget how much it hurts, and the nights spent awake and loathing myself and I’ll do it again. Except I don’t want to do either of those things again.
Nor do I want to start over with another person.

I don’t want to miss anyone anymore and for that I will gladly trade being missed.

Dear Gods that I pray to, and the ones I have not met yet;

I spend a lot of time, energy and thought on situations and people from my past (full stop)

I realized yesterday that without exception, remorse, angst or selfish intent, I wish them all well.

I want them to be loved and cared for in whatever way they desire, by whomever they desire.

And I ask humbly, with my soul on its knees. May I please have what I wish for them for myself as well.

I am done with that part of my life.

The girl I was needed it.

The girl I have become understands the difference between want and need.

I recant my wish for distance.

Airport kisses and booty calls don’t serve me anymore.

I want to go home and stay there.

Love,

Sarah

I keep coming across these people who confuse “narcissism” with “self-love”.

I think of self-love as a funny euphemism for jerking off. But we’ll get to that in a bit.

You can love yourself and still love others. It’s a really good jumping off point.
The love I feel for my people now is so much bigger, better and comes with a whole new level of understanding now that I have spent some time figuring out who I am and actually liking what I found.
Narcissists not so much.

Narcissism, in the simplest of definitions, is a pathological inability to see someone else’s worth beyond what can serve them personally.
They deny the very existence of any emotion that belongs to someone else because they don’t experience their own.
It’s a tangible disconnect from the rest of the human race.

Predatory, but with less gratitude than a lion shows for its kill. No quick, merciful death.

Like ants milk katydids. Or humans milk cows. Keep them captive, alive and use them until they are spent, then turn them to glue.

Yuck.

No thanks.

Been there, met him, dated him for a while. Then found his evil twin and dated him too, and another and another.

They’ll keep getting what they want by any means necessary and cast you aside after they are through with you.
Then they come back for more once you have built yourself up even the slightest bit.

Sounds like fuckboi behavior, and sometimes they are one in the same, but not always.

Sometimes fuckbois need love too, and they know not what they do. They can evolve.
Narcissists don’t think they need to change/evolve/improve. They are all ego all the time, and they are always right, even when twisting the definition of narcissism to make me feel bad about my selfies.

Narcissism isn’t those who strive to capture moments and share with the world. It isn’t those who have figured out how to love themselves in a world determined to make certain they don’t. I am tired of the selfie wars. If you feel good about yourself, celebrate it for fuck sakes. No judgements here.

I know plenty of people with low self-esteem who have an Instagram account full of the moments they did feel good. Like an archive you can scroll back through on the bad days. I am one of them.

Whatever gets you through the day.

Do no harm, and take some selfies.

So, there is another thing that climbs on my nerves.

No one will know how to love you until you love yourself.

It’s a narcissist anthem.
They make sure you can’t possibly love yourself and then tell you it’s your own fault.

Gaslight much?

Get fucked. Shut up and stop telling people that.

That is like punishing someone and setting them waaaaaaay back for a very sad yet really natural state of existence.

Being comfortable in your own body is a hard won war. But if you can win, it makes being touched/loved/fucked ever so much better.

I’ve found so much comfort and joy in my brave moments wherein I share who I really am and acceptance comes rushing in from outside.
Some of the sweetest words I have ever heard are ‘me too’ coming from the right mouth in the right moment.

However…that being said …

No one will know how to make you cum until you have figured it out yourself.

Mildly over-stated, and possibly just a personal phenomenon but I have found the more I accept my body and figure out what it is capable of on my own, the easier it is to achieve orgasm with someone else.

Once upon a time I realized how magic my pussy is, and despite a few attempts from men who wouldn’t know magic if it squirted in their face, I kept this belief as the truth. Or I thought I did.

I should have called this blog Our Lady of Playing with Herself or Our Lady of Perpetual Orgasms.

I talk about my vagina a lot, and I play with her even more.

And yet, I found myself humbled and I fumbled when someone took an active interest in what makes me cum.

I was afraid of being judged by this man, losing him even, over the things I want in bed. Or hearing the dreaded “ew’.

Luckily, I’ve met a creature very similar to myself in that he revels in getting me off.
The more noises I make, the wetter I get, the happier he is, the harder he gets etc etc.

And the happier he, is the wetter I get.

If we don’t explode, we might just work.

It had been so long since someone asked me that, I had no idea how to answer.
See above where I dated narcissists for a long time and resigned myself to being a vehicle for someone else’s orgasm.
I am naturally submissive and that got taken advantage of on a grand scale.

I stumbled over the words. Me, the woman who writes about sex daily.

But I write about my exes and I knew exactly what they wanted, because I learned them.

How do I confess my deepest darkest wants that only really serve me and my body, to an audience of one?

A little bit at a time.

Some of my kinks have been so buried under misplaced shame, I don’t even know what they are anymore.

Part of my struggle is trying to remember, separate what is mine from what has been planted in my brain.

I want to feel safe enough to say ‘please sir can I have some more.’

I have these insane tantric orgasms that reach my fingertips and last for an hour when I fuck myself.

What if I could do that with someone I trust implicitly? Who gets me slippy-slide wet just by being himself, who not only tolerates my post-orgasm giggles but encourages them?

I’ve reverted back to my natural state of “am I allowed to __________ (fill in the want).”
And the answer is always yes.

Everything that has managed to squeak past my lips has been met with acceptance.
Even the weird things I haven’t told my girlfriends (and they know A LOT) have elicited the coveted response of ‘good girl’.

That’s the difference between being conquered and being explored.
The difference between being used and being enjoyed.
I enjoy being used, I truly do, but by someone who gathers me up in his arms after, kisses my forehead and calls me ‘his girl’. And means it.

Follow your bliss and doors will open where before there were only walls.
~Joseph Campbell

I walked in the door of this place, at my neighbor’s behest, and was quite literally handed a job, on what appeared to be a silver platter.

I scrubbed it and cleaned it till my hands bled, literally and…

It was pewter.

6 weeks in, after being mildly misused and treated like a slow child I said, with hope and optimism, “maybe you should look at my resume so you can see what I am capable of, I can do a lot more than you think I can.”

His response? “I don’t need to see your resume, God sent you to me.”

Oh shit.

This can’t be good.

And on the 7^th week, I was fired. And I rested.

I caught him in 7/7 of the deadlies.
He needs to get right with God.

So do I.

Once upon a massive crush ago I had the not-so-original idea to have my exes write me a dating resume.

Exactly what it sounds like. Listing my strengths and weaknesses, try to keep it PG etc…

I cannot rightly remember who I was crushing on at the time, and since I’ve taken an oath not to lie, I do so solemnly swear, it doesn’t matter.

On that note, I didn’t come up with idea on my own. I stole it, from Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. A 23 episode Aaron Sorkin series that I love inexplicably. Everything about it makes me happy.

Danny falls in love with Jordan and has a range of famous people send her reference letters.

She says it’s embarrassing and tells him to stop…I won’t spoil the ending, watch the show. Its 23 45 minute episodes, what else you gotta do tonight?

What would my dating resume say?

I cook like angels fuck.
I fuck like monsters fuck.
I make a bed better than Martha Stewart, potentially fuck better than her too, but I dunno, I feel like she’s tricksy.
I don’t talk during football.
Probably blow you at halftime, or grab snacks or both.
I know what tools are what and I won’t leave you alone to change your brake pads in the rain.
I can change my own tires (brakes too)
I squirt.
I swallow.
I clean up nice, in under half an hour usually.
I can hold my own in a room full of your friends and they’ll know without asking who I belong to.
I hate shopping.
I’ll always reach over and unlock your car door.
And I’m loyal.

*References available on request?

I pitched the idea to the Stripper Whisperer, he said yes.

But then I felt a little odd and ill about it.

Once upon a time I left home at age 20, and traveled really fucking far north of the tiny town I grew up in. Reason being, I wanted to escape the rumor mill before it did what mills do, which is crush things into fine powder for easier consumption.

I made it a week or two maybe before my future baby daddy told this nice man named Kevin that I was dateable because “She is smart, funny, nice and she fucks.”

This was on the list of things that have broken me. I am currently exhuming them one by one.

That really fucked me up. I have always wanted to be more than a life support system for my vagina.

I know I gotten jobs and boyfriends because of how I look, I kept them because of how I am. Except I get fired and dumped a lot lately. Probably because I am not suffering fools, or because of Becky with the good hair. I wish I knew.

Now? That moniker/phrasing/accolade doesn’t bother me in the least.
I am smart, funny, nice and I fuck, as often as I can and very well I might add.

I felt strange about the resume idea because…

1.I am not comfortable with compliments.
I hand them out like confetti on New Year’s Eve, with abandon and vigor.
But they make me squirm a bit.

Would I really be comfortable hearing from these men I adore, and shower with praise as regularly as I can, the good things they see in me?

I don’t rightly know.

Things I hadn’t realized or noticed in my insecurity slip past their lips from time to time. And in my way, it takes me a while to really digest what was just said, and I promptly talk myself out of it.

2.If I am so great, where they at? Why are you just in my phone and not at my house for snuggles and pancakes?

If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it…or so sayeth Beyonce, and she has been right lately.

Meh, I have my own rings.

Postal Service wrote a song and one line was one of my worst mantras ever.

I am finally seeing why I was the one worth leaving.

Anyone else just throw up in their mouth a bit? Just me?

They had to leave, I wouldn’t have. I am stubborn like that.
I have logic-ed most of them out. I get it and wish them well.
We have the occasional hiccup where they come outta nowhere and say they love me and I was the best and stuff.
Nice to hear, but it’s just echoes.

I have to know these things about myself without being told.

(See above where I get told and I can’t believe it anyways.)

I realized something…just today

If the man I am with can’t see these things in me that are good, and soft and wonderful on his own…no one telling him is going to make a bit of difference.

Yes, I have sinned and make mistakes, but I am a good girl, I know this.
I am a generous and loving partner. I am sweet and smart and funny and I really love to fuck.

I don’t need to get right with God. I am okay being me.

And the one I want, just called me his girl.

I guess he figured it out on his own too.

“I don’t know why I do that.” I said to Habibi.

We were talking about how I have realized it is easier to let men go after My Sunshine has met them.

She’s met Giant, the Hulk, Hot Neighbor, Khal Drogo and even Habibi, by proxy. I’d be curled up in bed talking to him on the phone and she’d wander in and join us. She is also the only other human who has seen any messages between me and the Poet.

Gelfling, Wolfling and Football? No, but I wasn’t stuck on them.

Maybe it’s the same reason that it’s easier to accept death after seeing the corpse. A formal goodbye…

That would be a nice tidy explanation, but I am afraid its way worse than that.

I distilled it down to two things.

I had imaginary friends as a kid. Not like Snuffleupagus. I pretended the kids at school actually liked me and played with me when really I was always fighting for a position at the bottom of the popular girl’s totem pole and was snubbed and left alone often. I told stories to the contrary.

I lied a lot as a kid. Not for any gain or manipulation, but because I didn’t really like my life that much and I figured if I could convince others that it was better than it was, then maybe somehow it would be.

It was a bad habit I carried into adulthood, but instead of lying about things that hadn’t happened, I started lying about things I had done when I was afraid I would be judged or left because of my lack of impulse control and the stupid shit I would get myself into.

In the year of our Lord 2011, I stopped.

I made myself confess. I would get so sick with worry that I was going to be abandoned now the thought of even beginning to tell a lie makes me sick to my stomach. So I just don’t.

My life is full, fabulous and weird as fuck. I find myself often saying “I can’t make this shit up.” Truth is, I don’t have to.

I said to my therapist “Why did you believe me when I sat in this chair and told you the story of Mister Almost Famous Poet? It didn’t seem plausible, even to me as I said it out loud.”

I know my truth. I have screenshots and archives. His voice echoes in my ear from time to time. I know what happened. Still doesn’t seem real. Probably because it wasn’t viable, but it happened nonetheless.

She responded “Why would you pay me to sit here and lie.”

Good point.

So maybe that’s it.

Leftover shame of when I did have to pretend that someone/anyone liked me.

I am still shocked when people who have known me forever treat me like I am worth something.

Scratch that, when anyone does. Even now.

But it helps to have a witness.

Sunshine sees how they look at me, how we interact, their hotness, their actual existence in my life.

So when they go, I let them.

Second thing. My marriage. The other thing I quit in the year of our Lord 2011, not a coincidence.

For 7 years if I wasn’t being seen with him, or in photographs with him, or on social media with him. I wasn’t with him.
It meant he had traded me in for his mistress again and she got a turn with her being seen with him and photos and social media recognition. Facebook came into existence the year we met. He stopped living a real life and just created a persona on social media and lived there, still lives there really.
So, by proxy, I lived there too.
I would feel extra validated when friends would make the trek up to the farm and see me there. It was an excuse to take pictures of how “wonderful” our life was.
Lie detector determines, that was a lie. I’d crop out the fields of junked cars and dogwood. Photoshop out the bags from under my eyes from how fucking tired I was. I had albums upon albums full of fake smiles. Like those pictures of the pyramids taken from exactly the right angle, so it looks like they are sitting pristine in the desert, when really there is a McDonalds a block away.

If it’s not on Facebook, it didn’t happen.

What a shit philosophy that was.

If it’s on Facebook it’s probably smoke and mirrors, with a bit of Photoshop for good measure.

Exception to that rule was when the mistress would post their dealings on Facebook when it was MY turn to be with him. I would get called crazy and told “Those are old photos”. But honey, I bought you that hat a week ago and it’s on her fucking head.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons I still hold onto the idea that someone else has to see it for it to be real.

Years of her and I playing show and tell with him to feel validated by the other’s loss.

Now I know I don’t lie. My friends do too, both new and old. I even confessed to my folks years ago that I’d candy coated the shit out of the truth to keep them from worrying about me and I promised to stop. And I have.

Every word I write on here is true, sometimes painful, sometimes magical but always literal literature.

I have to forgive myself for the things I did before. I have to stop apologizing for how I survived. I have to tell the little girl who used to be me that there would come a day when she would be loved in all of her weird glory and that it was okay to pretend if that is what got us through the days and nights spent alone.

I could even go so far to give her credit for manifesting this weird wonderful life I have now.

Everything you can imagine is real. Picasso

Tell you what.
Truth is, sometimes I miss you so much I can hardly stand it.

See also

You don’t know how bad it gets.
I wish I knew how to quit you.

(Brokeback Mountain)

See also

You have been assigned this mountain to show others it can be moved.

&

When sleeping women wake, mountains move.

(Twitter and Buddha, respectively)

I have likened men to many things on here…superheroes, soldiers and saints.

And wolves
No shit random Facebook thingee….

I’ve made monsters of men and mountains out of memories. I’ve been torn apart.

The Hulk flew in from the west and we had wings. He had wings, I had a grilled cheese.

We were talking about me getting emotional (I had warned him I might cry when I saw him, like he needed to be told) and he said ‘I almost lost you there for a second, but you pulled yourself out of it.’

I totally did that. Came right back to the moment, the memory of what hurt me gone in a sip of cider, whispering Pogues and good company.

I just messaged him, said that I miss hanging out him (as opposed to talking online) because of how he listens. He is intent to the point that if I am telling a story about some boy being untoward, he frowns on my behalf. Smiles if I am happy.

So, last night I sat next to my past, I walked beside him on the right side of the street so he could hear me and he walked into my house and sat with me some more.

And it was good amen.

No tears, regrets or remorse.

I also realized in a blindingpowersurgetungstenilluminatinglightbulb moment staring at him in all of his good man glory that there is no point in looking back. As lovely as he is, I am not going that way.

I don’t have to move the mountains. I just have to get over them. They’re behind me now anyways. All the failures, the almosts, the stubbornness I showed staying in one place…it’s done.

I do know how to quit.

All I have to do is stop looking and keep moving.

Once upon a farm so dreary I would creep my hubby’s mistress’s Facebook looking for clues and finding them every damned time. I was obsessed, I looked every day, a few times a day.
One day I stopped. I didn’t do it in the morning when I got up. Fell off the wagon mid-afternoon and just did what Jane Says and tried again tomorrow. It’s been years and I could care less what she is doing, what they are doing. That part of my life is long gone. I am not even that girl anymore.

I did the same with the Poet’s page, looking for clues that I still existed to him. Sometimes I found them. Creeped Gelfling too. Answered the phone when Giant messaged.

If any of them were supposed to be here they would be and I am missing so much of my life walking backwards carrying mountains of memories.

Lessons have been learned in triplicate. Everything is archived here just in case it becomes important again. But I don’t think it will.

Those were all lessons on how to survive in the mountains. Climbing, falling, losing ground, avalanches and thin air. Nothing grows up there.

I realized two things yesterday.

1. I’ve actually been coming down the mountain slowly. I can see trees and lakes and valleys all lush and green. A cabin in the woods, a puff of smoke from the chimney.
2. I haven’t been walking alone lately either. My Sunshine has been with me.

She was home when the Hulk came by, she knows Hot Neighbor and Giant came to our house, she met the Thai Fighter too.
It makes a world of difference this, I am always so scared of forgetting that I carry all of them with me. But there is another person living who saw them, with me. They not just words on a page or memories of mine. They existed.

I made it down the mountain far enough that I can breathe again. I can feel the rush of oxygen to my brain.

Walking downhill is so much easier than climbing up.

Oh for a moment, what a moment this is. For a moment of forgetting is a moment of bliss.
~ Peter Gabriel

I sent Lumberjack a pic today with the caption “just in case you forgot what I look like” its been a while since we’ve seen each other.

His response? “Oh I’ll never forget.”

I smiled, I know exactly who I want to climb.