Feel Yourself To Feel Better

This afternoon I was just finishing up a letter to someone that had been very triggering and difficult to write  It flooded all sorts of agitation around inside my body.  My face was tight with the uncomfortableness that arose from talking about things I would rather soon forget.  It wasn’t to anyone I even really know, or who knows me, which I suppose is what made it so easy to just flush all that buried emotion out of my system.

As I had stepped away from my computer, my cell pinged at me from across the room.

“Sitting here with my cock in hand looking at your pictures” the message from FRF read.  I smiled at the thought, but then banished my phone back to my nightstand without responding.

“That is the last place I can go right now”, I muttered to myself.

I was in another headspace from what I had just finished writing, and sexy was the least of things I was feeling.  I was so tense and agitated.  But then I thought to myself that maybe this sexy little escape was just what I needed after all.  I mean, seriously, what better way to get rid of bad tension than with an orgasm?

I went back in my mind to all the flirty text messages we had been sending to each other earlier in the day…about how I had been in class that morning and could barely concentrate because I kept daydreaming about his face buried between my thighs and his fingers deep inside my exploring…about how much I wanted to wrap my mouth around his cock…how he couldn’t wait to know what it was like for me to cum squirting all over him…and about the towels we’d need to keep from drowning.

My bad mood instantly vanished, and was instantly replaced with wetness between my legs.

“Let me send you something new”, I replied.  There had been 7 minutes that had passed since his message had first appeared.

I yanked off my jeans, discarded them in a pile on my bedroom floor, and climbed into my awaiting bedsheets.

I knew that my timing was off with his now, but who cared really because I knew the moment my fingers brushed up against my clit that I was going to come quickly.  Foreplay, even just in the form of sexy text messages, only adds to the power behind a great orgasm.

I rubbed my tingling clit in slow circles thinking about how he was stroking himself while thinking of me.  The other day I told him I felt like silk, and I did.  I was so warm and slick, so soft to the touch.  I could get lost in the feel of myself beneath my fingertips.  I watched my screen for another message and hoped our edges would cross one another.  Impatient with want, I  scrolled back into messages from weeks ago to find one of the photos of the head of his rigid cock glistening with pre-cum.  Thoughts of what he would feel like against my lips and tongue…what he would taste like as wrapped my mouth around his cock, rushed in.  They were quickly followed by what I wrote him next.

“Wish I was there to straddle your lap and slowly lower my cunt down onto you, and ride you slowly while exploring your mouth with mine”Blog

The flush of rising orgasm was spreading like a slow fire throughout every inch of my skin.

Sliding my fingers inside myself, I imagined they were his.  Deep inside I could feel this firm bump that I had not remembered being so pronounced before…my god my g-spot was even erect!  You know, I didn’t know g-spots could change size and shape with arousal, but here I was in the middle of the throws of lust, stroking away, and in complete awe of my new discovery.  It was round and ripe with my desire.

I pressed my fingertips even more firmly into it, drawing more circles, and my eyes opened wide with the wetness that grew.  Somehow I had brought myself to the edge of squirting all over myself with just a few small strokes.  What I really wanted was to be squirting all over his face, seeing his cheeks dripping with me, and sucking myself from his kiss.

My gaze was fixed on that photo of him, as I rubbed fingered, and stroked myself into a shaking crescendo of orgasmic bliss.  Afterwards, with moist fingers still resting against my clit, I lay there and just let those after shock tremors wash over me, being still.

And just like that, we were both up and going out into our respective worlds in a matter of minutes.

Sometimes I think I must be a saint for keeping my resolve all this time, and resisting the urge to just put the two of us together to allow us to combust.  Imaginations are a far safer playground though.












Orgasms: Batteries Not Included

Still coming down from one of the most intense orgasmic highs I have had in long, long, time.  As I sit here legs crossed and type this, I can still feel the aching sensitivity in my clit as it presses up against my panties, and it makes me want more.  It also makes me think I am far too lazy when it comes to self loving’, and that has to change.

True confession time…I am a lazy masturbator.  I touched on this (pun intended) awhile back when I wrote Flying Solo: Myths About Masturbation and Women.  Technology has made me, like most of us, yearn for instant gratification, and I have let that seep into my solo flying time.  For this reason, I envy you men out there because, although there are toys made for you too, I don’t think you rely on them nearly as much as we women do.

When I was 19 and living in NYC, I confessed to my roommate that although I had had sex before, I had never had an orgasm with a partner, nor when masturbating.  She exclaimed, “You need toys”, and quickly planned a field trip for us up to Eve’s Garden on W. 57th St, and there I discovered the world of sex toys for the first time.  I bought my very first vibrator who I later named Pink Pearl.  It was your basic hand-held “back massager” (winky winky, nudgy nudgy), which was really a super compact hand held vibrating clit lover.  The minute I got home I threw some Mazzy Star on my CD player, closed my bedroom curtain (no door to our bedroom, poor college dorm life), and had my first orgasm within 10 seconds!  Bang Zoom!

Pretty soon after that I began having orgasms with partners with ease, the talented ones at least.  In fact, I think my ex-husband was the first man I had an orgasm with, so I should give him credit where credit is due! <insert a round of applause for him here>  But I digress, this is about my solo loving adventures…

Not the same one, but similar to Pink Pearl

Not the same one, but similar to Pink PearBut I digress, this is really about my adventures in self loving…the five to ten fingered kind.

Still, even after enjoying many nights with my Pink Pearl wonder into my mid 20’s, I had never been able to, despite many attempts, been able to make myself com using only my hand.  I found it a little distressing.  I kind of wondered why I wasn’t able to, and truthfully, felt a little ashamed that i couldn’t…like I was broken compared to other women that seemed to be able to finger themselves into orgasm with ease.

One day I was talking with a female friend while we were on a camping trip, and somehow the topic of masturbation came up.  What can I say?  I have some pretty cool friends and some wild campfire stories because of it.  Anyway, I confessed that I had been unsuccessful at making myself cum by hand, and that I had to rely on toys. Lo and behold, I felt the greatest relief when a huge smile beamed from her face and she cried, “Me too!”  Suddenly, we were no longer solo in our touchy situations!  You could just see the weight of judgements we had made about ourselves silently lifted from our shoulders in this moment of female campfire bonding.

In the summer of 2006 I had taken a job that was out of town, and I ended up staying at my mother’s house during the week in order to make the commute shorter.  I was 30.  The nights were warm and humid, and because I love warm weather, I delighted in sleeping with the window next to my bed open so I could listen to the alluring sounds of night.  Now, that year was a lot like this past one for me.  That July it had been a long stretch of months that I hadn’t had sex, and much like now, that meant my libido was on overdrive.  I had forgotten to bring my vibrator with me, and even if I hadn’t, I would’ve been afraid I would have been overheard even in the middle of the night.

That day at work I had a client who was a doctor on vacation from Canada.  He was very tall (just how I like men to be), with short dark hair and hazel-ocean eyes.  I’m not sure what it was about him that made him stand out to me, maybe it was how he smiled at me that seemed to convey a more desirous subtext then what was actually spoken, but that night he became that focus of my fantasies.

By this point I had just succumbed to the idea that I couldn’t bring myself to orgasm with my fingers, but without my vibrator, I was going to have to make due.  I stroked my pussy while I thought of him…his eyes, his lips…and what I imagined the rest of his body looked like.  I slid my fingers inside myself and stroked my g-spot, making sure to brush the length of each finger against my clit each time I would pull them out.  I was lost in this fantasy fueled by fervid lust of a total stranger.

And then I came, so hard, that I was flying high on both orgasmic bliss and total disbelief!  It was well after midnight, but I couldn’t help it.  I was so excited to have brought myself to orgasm without anything else but my touch, that I immediately (once I could pull myself together enough to speak coherently), called the one person I knew who might be up, my long-time friend (and occasional lover) Emrys, and gleefully shared my glorious accomplishment.  You would have thought I had just won an Oscar for it with the excitement that poured out of me.

That was 8 years ago, and guess what?  Despite the fact that I now knew it was possible for me to make myself cum by only my touch, I fell back into my lazy mastrabatory love of technology, and have used a vibrator ever since.  Admittedly, a lot of the time it just comes down to that: sheer laziness on my part.  I know I can make myself cum this way with very little effort, and sometimes, a quickie is all I really want or have time for.  Sleep is precious man!

If there is one thing I know about the world we live in, it’s that everyone seems to want to find a faster, more efficient way to do things.  Sadly, my solo sexcapades have taken this same trend to heart…or part, should I say.  This afternoon was a lesson in why this is robbing me of some deliriously mind-blowing orgasmic fun time.

Flirty Running Friend to the rescue!  Yes, as always with our sexy little texts he made me instantly juicy.  There was that wanton desire again that was unrelenting, and most definitely required an afternoon tryst with myself.  This time I didn’t reach for the vibrator though.  I wanted to fantasize about what his lips and tongue would feel like on me, and there was no way I could do that any justice with some battery-operated toy.

I am get very wet, but I wanted my pussy even slicker.  Lucky Bloke sent me a wonderful gift package of lubes (so much lube, so little time), and it’s high time I make an effort to play around with them.  I used just a little, but oh, it made my pussy deliciously silky to touch.  I stroked the shaft of my clit from the top of the hood to the tip, and lost myself in pretending it was his tongue.  I  took my time.  I reveled in every blissful sensation of my touch.  It was like drawing with electricity on my skin.  I sent him little texts about what I was doing until I could no longer focus on anything else, but my touch and my fantasy of him.

I reached inside with one…two…three fingers, teased myself, pulled out, and went back to stroking my clit.  I slipped my clit between two fingers and lightly squeezed them together around it as I rubbed up and down.  I was trembling with such fierce electric pleasure from each stroke.  This was something new I discovered I liked.  I always like learning new things about my body, even now after I have been long acquainted with what brings it satisfaction.

When I came, it was more intense than I ever do with toys.  And I do love toys, I do (Lelo, you’re the one for me, baby), but this was in another whole realm completely.  It was so much closer to the intensity of orgasms that I have with partners. This totally blew solo sex with vibrators right out of the water!  As I lay there, still shuddering with tremors of pleasure even several minutes after the crescendo of my orgasmic peak had subsided, I couldn’t help but wonder why I don’t forgo toys more often.  I am more than convinced that I need to wean my solo flights off batteries and spend more time learning how to more artfully play the “sin”strument that is my body.  I want to break free from my 90’s “instant gratification” Generation X’er haze and take my time.  After all, why rush pleasure?  Save that shit for the DMV and the dentist office…aka “things we hate that never seem to go fast enough”, My Precious.

And now I leave you with this 90’s flashback, and a little tribute to Flirty Running friend.

Don’t let this go too much to your head, FRF…you’re not the only one I want. =)

A Hand In The Bush Is Worth More Than Two Fingers

When I was 18 I had sex with my step brother.  I had just moved to NYC for college, and now that I was “legal”, the opportunity to make something long-flirted around, a reality, was too tempting to pass up.

Even though I had lost my virginity a few years earlier, with two different partners, I really had no real understanding of what good sex was, let alone how to be any “good” at it.  My parents never really talked to me about sex (whose really do), so my sexual education really came from watching soap operas and guessing, watching one porn film and wondering “Why?”, and then filling in the blanks with anything else sexually stereotypical the pre-internet media wanted to share with me.  Like many teenagers, I was just fumbling my way through without the manual.

So here, after just turning 18 two days before, I called up my step brother who lived in Alphabet City at the time, and head over to his place with all sorts of nerves fluttering around in my belly for the long anticipated encounter.

It was horrible.

It was right out of a bad porn film, and I am not free from blame there.  It was a “legs over his shoulders, feet in the air, thrusting like a wayward jackhammer, bad porn girl noises” kind of awful.  No orgasm, not even close…for me at least.  I was so disappointed.  He was 9 years older than me, so I thought I might learn something, but instead as I was getting dressed, I realized I had more questions than answers.  Not wanting to keep feeling as naive and unexperienced, I went for shock value.  As I was buttoning up my shirt, I cocked my head to the side, smiled, and said, “Have you tried fisting?”

Needless to say, I really had no idea what fisting really was.  He was like, “Babe, you are way more hardcore than me”.  So, zing!  I left his apartment not feeling like a totally naieve  nymph.  Still, to this day, I have no clue where I came up with that.  I’m guessing I must have heard it mentioned in some book or movie that had crossed my recent path.

For years, my vision of vaginal fisting was just that: “way hardcore”.  I always envisioned it as something most likely painful, definitely uncomfortable, and not in the least bit pleasurable.  I just imagined some man with a fist up his lover’s pussy, just slamming away.  That was a total visual turn off for me.  And while I love rough sex and sensory play, getting off on pain has never been my thing.

At 27 all my misconceptions about fisting came crashing down in one earth-shattering, g-spot induced, orgasm.

I have always loved being fingered while having my pussy licked.  To be stroked inside, to be penetrated, to revel in the feeling of being filled, has always intensified my pleasure.  Oh, I can come without it, yes, but it just makes the orgasm that much more pleasureable.  It takes it to a whole other level.  It’s the best of both oral and penetrative lovemaking.

I was in a relationship with a lover during that time which was really based on mutually exploring our sexual boundaries.  In the course of talking one evening about things we wanted to try, he brought up fisting.  I had my image in my head, but he assured me it wasn’t what I had been long imagining.  A few weeks later he bought me the book A Hand In The Bush: The Fine Art of Vaginal Fisting, which I admit I only read a short bit from before I consented to trying it with him.  I highly recommend it if you haven’t read it yet.

One night, as he was nestled with his face deep between my thighs he slid a finger inside my pussy, and then a second…still encircling my clit with his tongue, along my hot slit, and I was on fire for him as usual.  He pushed in a third.  He had nice thick fingers.  I loved the way they felt filling me. He stroked me deep inside, traced his passion with each strong finger on my inner walls, and I tightened around him like a glove.  It was like he was making me his instrument, and my sighs and moans were our music.  My thighs were quivering with this intense pleasure that was racing though every inch of my skin. And when he inserted a 4th finger, it was such a insatiable desire flowing through me that I didn’t even realize we had reached that.

It was so primal, so deeply intense.  It was a feeling I had never experienced to that magnitude before. It’s a g-spot orgasm that is like a full-body earthquake that’s an 8.5 on the Richter Scale!   Imagine ladies (or gents) your most intense orgasm, and then multiply that by 100, maybe 1000.  Imagine that, and you might come close to the sensations I was experincing from being filled by his hand.

Photo courtesy COSMOS Magazine

Photo courtesy COSMOS Magazine

We got up to 4 that time before the intensity scared me, and I felt a twinge of pain which I feared was me tearing, but really was the unfortunate nick of a fingernail that wasn’t filed down well enough.  He pulled his hand out slowly, and I would have sworn he was wrist deep inside me.

Rule #1 of good fisting experiences – trim your nails down so no edges can be felt at all!

See, that’s just it.  Fisting isn’t about making a fist and shoving it into your partner’s vagina like a plow. If you Google images of it, that’s all you’ll see; a bunch of hands and forearms stuffed into vaginas, but it really gives a false impression to a seriously delightful experience.

Rule #2 – Slow and steady wins the race!

Be patient and take your time.  It’s slow, it’s sensual, it’s deeply intimate.  If done right, you’re not inserting a fist, but rather slowly making a fist inside your partner’s pussy.  That it what naturally will happen as the fingers  curl the more you progress, once you get past the hardest part, which is the wide part of the man’s hand near the lowest thumb knuckle.  The key to being able to get more fingers in, and inevitably the whole hand,  is that you’re relaxed, and the best way for you for us ladies to be relaxed is to not feel pressured.  Don’t be set on the end goal, enjoy every moment of the ride.

I have to tell you that even in the many times he and I explored this way, his hand was just too wide to fully get past that widened area of his hand.  We were very close one time, very, but then he started licking my asshole that I lost all control, and I came so hard and so fast that it merited a place on the calendar. It has been known since as “BOOML” December 23, 2008.  Otherwise known as “Best Orgasm Of My Life”.  Let it just be said that I am by no means a quiet lover, so I am pretty sure everyone within a 50 mile radius heard me that day too.  Everybody celebrate!  Sorry neighbors.

Rule #3 – No matter how wet you get, use lube!

I get very wet naturally, very, so we didn’t need extra lube (or so we thought), but if you’re going to try this for the first time with a lover, I suggest definitely using a good lube.  And even as juicy as I get, a little extra lube is never a bad thing.  Plus, vaginas are very delicate places, so this will help prevent anything unpleasant like tearing from happening.  Speaking from my first time experience, it really pulled me right off my pleasure high rather quickly.

Photo Courtesy Weheartit.com

Photo Courtesy Weheartit.com

And lastly, Rule #4 – Don’t be afraid to try something new

If I hadn’t have been open to trying this, I would have missed out on a height of sexual ecstasy that I would have not believed was possible.  Be open to pushing your own boundaries, safely that is, you never know what pleasures await you.

Men, I’ll use this moment to say that having a woman stroke your  prostrate with one, or more, fingers can be just as pleasurable for you.  Want to amplify that pleasure?  Have her suck your cock while she does it.  And I promise, it won’t make you gay (haha – Seriously, why are straight men still so fearful of some equal opportunity loving’ here?)  Personally, I find it very sexy to touch a lover this way, but as much as you guys love are asses, you play hard to get with us with your own  Unfair I tell you, unfair!

And it should be noted, it is ok to not enjoy something.  You may try fisting and not have the same experience as me.  It may just not butter your muffins like it does mine, but at least you will know because you gave yourself permission to explore and experience it.

I am still waiting to explore fisting again with a new lover, and hopefully, finally be able to experience the sensation of a whole hand inside me.  It’s not something I would do with every lover and it’s probably not something on every man’s sexual menu, but thanks to that one lover, it is forever on mine.

A Year Without Sex In My City

It’s been a long and quiet year for me as far as writing here goes, which has probably lead you all to believe that I was just another “pop and fizzle” blogger who was once passionate about writing, and writing about passion, only to have my effervescence go flat with either waning disinterest, or the laziness of allowing life to swallow my passion up and take my attentions elsewhere.

Well, neither of those could be further for the truth for me, and since the entire premise behind my blog here is unbridled truth, I’m breaking my silence.

One of the reasons I started this blog was help others feel less alone in their desires, to be a voice of sexual positivity, and a to be a champion of owning one’s sexuality and being proud of it.  And while there are many stigmas associated with being a woman who unapologetically and enthusiastically celebrates her love of sex, there are just as many stigmas around not having sex.

Ironically, in the first year of my decision to blog about my erotic life which has always been so vibrant, my recent erotic life has been anything but.

Ladies and gentlemen, it has been one year and  3 1/2 months since I have had sex, and to me, that’s embarrassing to admit.  This is the longest amount of time in all of my sexually-active life that I have gone without having sex with a partner, and let me tell you, I am like a powder keg of sexual tension ready to ignite.  The next man I fuck had better have a mighty healthy heart because I’m going to hit his shores like Hurricane Katrina, and there will be no Red Cross in sight.  Explosions

Now it started out as an intentional thing.  I needed to avoid intimate relationships of any level just so I could focus on me because unfortunately, I have a past of losing myself in people, and putting myself last.  That was also not an intentional modus operandi, but it was something I eventually became aware of about myself through much introspection.  Well, introspection, and pattern recognition.  I kind of touched on my inner questioning about that in a post from earlier this year aptly called Musings of a Gun Shy Heart.  I needed time alone to work on me, which sounds so much like canned psycho-babble, but is really the most honest way to say it.  I needed to put me first without distractions that might throw me back into a way of being that was not working for me.

Well, that was all well and good.  Expectedly, and in some ways unexpectedly, my libido went from high, to low, and then completely did a disappearing act on me to the point where I was really getting concerned about myself.  I have a very strong libido, and although it ebbs and flows like everyone else’s, it’s never been nonexistent.   Honestly, that was pretty scary.  I should be in my sexual prime!  I started to begin to have more questions than I originally started with.  I thought maybe that my self-imposed drought had brought on a biological one.

There were a couple of times that I thought to write about that, but how can I be a sex blogger who isn’t having sex, let alone one who has the libido of a blueberry muffin?  As much as there is a judgement around being a whore by society if you’re a woman having lots of sex, there is as heavy a judgement about you if you aren’t having any; you must be unattractive, unwanted, discarded, or frigid.  I am by far none of those things, and even if the choice to not be intimate sexually (or otherwise) was my own, it didn’t make me unafraid of those judgements being cast upon me from people who don’t know my inner story.  It’s funny, in some ways I feared those judgements more than being thought of as a slut for having my sexuality being such a large part of my identity.

NOSEXAfter about a full year without having sex I told myself it was now ok to be open to meeting someone.  That was the end of July.  Now that I’m totally open to meeting someone though, I still have these anxieties plaguing my psyche around my “picker” being broken.  One, I need to make sure to put me first (my schooling, my goals, my homelike, my running, i.e. things that are good for me), and 2) I need to be real about what I am looking for.  By “be real” I mean really know and be honest with myself about what it is I am looking for in the short term and long term, be clear about what I expect from both of those types of choices, and not compromise on things I know I shouldn’t compromise on.

Luckily for me, that hide and seek libido was only temporary.  And not only did my sexual appetite reappear with a vengence, but I’ve also discovered, through some frank discussions and fun flirtations, that my more kinky desires were not totally extinguished either as I had once thought they had been!  Who doesn’t like surprises like that?  (Read Coffee, Sleeping Beauty, and BD/SM to get the backstory)  

That all being said, as much as I am just dying for some really great sex with intimacy (real connection is an essential component of great sex) you who have been reading this blog know, it takes more than someone who just looks hot to get my panties wet.  Case in point, Towel Boy.  (Hmm, did I blog about him?  If not, you can look forward to that story coming…ahem…soon.)  I love men with strong sexual prowess that matches my own, but I also need something to intellectually spark my desire, otherwise everything else is lost on me.  On occasion this can get me into trouble, trouble which I will lovingly nickname the “Don Draper” effect; an intelligent, sexually confident man, who is really completely emotionally unavailable.  That being said, I’m cautious.  I’m doing my best to not allow my hormones to get me into trouble. 

So there you have it, my blogging hiatus fully explained.  If you too are out there not having sex as much as you would like, either by choice or by happenstance, you’re not alone, and it doesn’t make you anything less than who you are: human.







It Had To Be You. No, Seriously!

No, I was not being held captive for the past 4 months in a cave somewhere, or abducted by aliens to a distant planet where anal probing was actually a BAD thing.  No, I was just silenced by my own self doubt.  Self-doubt that crept in after I was told that I was going about getting my writing out there in all the wrong ways, and in short “all the wrong ways” really translated into, “you’ll never be successful doing things the way you’re doing them” and “you’re going about it all wrong”.

I don’t have a degree in writing,  I have a degree in art.  Yet, during my college art education and even beyond, I have been told by professors, friends, and strangers, “You should be a writer”.  The first time I was told that was by my freshmen writing instructor Loraine O’Grady.  She said, “You know, you should really be a writer”, and I was just so insulted.  I was like, “I’m an artist, not a writer.”  I’m not sure why I was insulted, but I was only 17 and still in that, “You can’t tell me what to do” phase.  Artists, rebels; one in the same.

Right now, I am making a long story, longer, so I am going to dial it back and in the words of Inigo Montoya, “Let me e’splain…no, let me sum up.”

I let my blog slide and essentially stopped blogging regularly altogether back in March when I allowed someone else’s pessimism about my choice of writing venue affect how I felt about my writing, and by hat I mean why I created erogenoUS in the first place, and not the actual quality of the writing.

I created erogenoUS when I decided that I was tired of waiting for someone else to give me an opportunity.  Instead, I decided I was going to make my own!  I wanted to write, but most importantly, I  wanted to be read!  I wanted to get my work out there in the quickest way I knew how: social media.  And, the essential ingredient, the intrinsic drive that birthed this blog was that I wanted to write about what I love: sexuality and my personal experience with it in a way that other people could relate to, and in some way hopefully feel less alone in their own experiences of how they view and experience that sexuality.  This is why the “US” in erogenoUS is capitalized, because while these are my personal, true life, experiences, I feel a lot of these core issues are universally relatable on some level, regardless of all the various categories that the world uses to box us into.

At least that is my hope.  Think of me as the beacon in the interwebs calling out to you, “You are not alone!”  erogenoUS is ALL of “US”

But, I allowed  a voice (that was well-meaning at the time) to shake my tree enough to fill me with uncertainty and fear.  I questioned if what I was doing really had any impact, or if it was just a waste of good data storage.shhhhhh

I went silent.

You didn’t!

You started following me on Twitter, “liked” me on Facebook, you read my posts even when it looked like I had abandoned ship.  You, my readers and fans, kept showing me support!  I was wondering how there was still momentum in silence.

And I know I owe that to the following seriously sexy bloggers:

  • Lady Cheeky, who tweeted me as a fave sex blogger every Friday even when I was total AWOL.  Thank you for all of your support of me and my blog, and for not forgetting me even when I was abandoning myself.
  • The Redhead Bedhead for all the re-tweets and for the amazing writing you are doing, your Super Hero Sex Shop Tour, and your commitment to sex geekery at it’s finest!

I want to send out a big THANK YOU to Venice and Ryan @ Fuckblogging.com for making me #9 on your “Quarter 2 2013 Top Ten Sex Blogs”!  Your  review of erogenoUS made my heart jump with happy, and reminded me of just why I write here!  It was the final nudge from the universe that I needed to know my original direction was where I still needed to be embarking on.  You guys ROCK!

noshhSo, ladies and gents, I’m back and here to stay!!!

However right now, I need to go get some much-needed sleep.










Musings Of A Gun Shy Heart

In follow-up to my latest post “Reminders of An August Afternoon“, I sat down tonight to watch Take This Waltz, and was left with the following questions chasing each other around in my mind:  In no particular order…

Do I choose people who I know will leave me?

Do I choose people I know I will eventually leave?

Is every relationship, no matter how filled with fireworks and rainbows in the beginning, doomed to fall into the familiar slumber of boredom, leaving us/me/them to feel like something is missing?brokenheart

Is having multiple lovers really the answer to this, or the cause of more of these feelings of something missing?

What kind of relationships will my daughter have as she begins to grow up and out into the world?

What does lasting love look like?

Have I set a bad example for my daughter in that I have yet to find someone with whom I can find and sustain a loving partnership with?

Things I know about what I want for myself

I really don’t want to share or be shared

I don’t want to be with someone controlling

I don’t want a relationship without passion

I need intimacy and emotional connection

I enjoy sex often

The more I love someone, the more sexual I want to be with them

Physical affection is important to me

Intelligence turns me on and its important to me  (it’s always the first or second thing I say when I am asked to tell someone why/how I find someone attractive)

I like someone who can walk in both worlds; someone who likes the finer things in life, but also is down to earth

I want a man who is a man, and not a boy living in the body of a 40-year-old.  I do not want to be a grown man’s mother.

Honesty and integrity are valued highly by me, and I need them from anyone who would be a potential long-term partner.  I give it and expect to receive it.

My health is very important to me.  I want someone who values their physical health and their emotional one

What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.  If you think it’s good for you, and only you, and expect something different for me, you are sadly mistaken.

Does any of this even exist?

Dreams, Tragedy, and The Holiday Hiatus

Poof!  I’m back!  I bet you thought I disappeared for good from blogging land, didn’t you!  Perhaps abducted by aliens never to be seen again, or traveling cross-country with the band of circus misfits that might have convinced me to be their new acrobatic horseriding lady, but alas, I was just lost and awash in the world of work and the normal holiday chaos that ensues sometime after Thanksgiving Day, and doesn’t stop until after New Years Day. Both of those other options might sound more interesting to me too, depending on which day you ask me.

The honest answer, in addition to the much-loved holiday chaos (and no that was not tongue in cheek, I really do love the craziness that comes with holiday preparation), was that the terrible tragedy of the Sandy Hook massacre, where some suburban nutcase annihilated innocence from an entire community, truly shook me to the core, and left me feeling inside like a house of cards in the wind.  I couldn’t write.  How could I write about sex and joy in the wake of that?  I felt inadequately trivial for even considering it.

I’m still not quite right.  I worry a lot more…about everything.  But, as all good healing processes progress, so do we find ourselves more willing to be comfortable once again with the world we were once accustomed to before everything came crashing down, and I am in that place where I feel ok to be back and living without feeling like a cloud of doom is hovering over me.

I was not immediately effected by the loss at Sandy Hook, but something I experienced made it touch me more intimately.  Up until this point, I had only shared it with those closet to me.

On the Wednesday night into Thursday morning, one day before Sandy Hook, I had a dream.  It was a dream that wasn’t even really a dream, as it came without any images at all.  I was finishing up a dream.  You know that point in the dream when you realize that it’s coming to an end, and a new dream is now waiting to begin trickling in?  I was in that space.  The first dream fading out had me in a warehouse assembling mannequins with other people.  There was nothing scary about this dream.  No mood of ill-affect, or any hint of foreboding.  It simply was a normal, weird,  everyday dream.

And then there were no images.


There was nothing but a simple and solemn male voice that spoke in my ear.

It was all on the right side, as if someone had leaned down and whispered in my ear.

He said, “I”m sorry I have to tell you, Fran was murdered today.”

What happened in the next few seconds after hearing this was pure horror and panic that raced through me as I tried to make sense of what I had just heard, and I flung myself straight up in bed, heart pounding in my chest, mind reeling, grasping for some bit of the waking world to hold onto.

She could not be dead.  This was not true.  Did my Dad just tell me this?  I think it was his voice.  It sounded like him.  Was I on the phone?

These were the thoughts flashing through me.

(Two pieces of background, so you can understand this situation better.  One, Fran is one of my closest and dearest friends.  We ere roommates in college beginning sophomore year, and we have been tight ever since.  We have goofy pet names for each other, have held conversations with each other about the day while one of us was in the bathroom with the door open and peeing, have been to each others major life events like marriages and births of our children, and know each others inner most joys and sorrows.  Friends for life.  Two, my father calls me every workday morning at 6:15 to help me get my lazy ass out of bed, because sometimes I like to sleep through my alarm. )

I checked my cell phone which sits on my bedside table on my right side, and it read 4:14am.  It’s a dream, it’s a dream, it has to be a dream.  It was not my Dad.  It’s not even close to wake-up call time.  Everyone’s asleep.  This is not really happening.

I started to cry.

I was completely and utterly sure it was a dream, then real, and now knew it was indeed a dream.

I laid back down, my heart still leaping out of my chest with panic, and I spent the next five minutes consoling myself that it was not real.  I wanted to call Fran, but she lives in Houston, so it was only 3am there.

When I finally got back to sleep, my alarm, and then my father rang at 6:15am, normal time.  I told him about my dream, and he asked me if I called Fran to check on her, but I reminded him about he time difference.  My Dad is in her same time zone, and said “Well she’s probably up with the baby, so call her.”, but I couldn’t risk waking her.

Finally after I got to work I sent her both text messages and a Facebook message urging her to let me know she was ok.  At around 9:30am (HOLY SHIT – JUST MAKING THIS CONNECTION NOW!!! – 9:30am the next day would be Sandy Hook), she let me know she was ok.  I never did tell Fran what the voice said.  I just told her that it told me something very scary had happened.  I did’t want to scare her, and still don’t, so no worries because she doesn’t read my blog on a regular basis.

The next night I stayed up as long as I could.  I was afraid to go to sleep.  I don’t have nightmares very often, hardly at all, and when I do they are about things less emotionally devitstaing like being swallowed by a tidal wave, or losing my teeth.  Both of which are indeed very scary to me, but those kind of dreams are easier to spot as being only dreams.  I was able o chat with Fran via Facebook before I finally gave in and let myself go to sleep. Just getting that time chatting with her made me feel comforted.

Sandy Hook occurred he next morning.  I didn’t hear about what had happened, except mild inklings, until around 9pm that night.  I was working overtime, and was in the office late.  I sat at my desk reading the reports, but it wouldn’t be until the next day when I would be sitting here where I sit now, at my desk in my bedroom, when I would read all the articles and be rendered paralyzed with sadness.

I cannot imagine a world in which that could happen.  I cannot fathom the kind of heartless and desolate soul that it would call for to be able to harm anyone, let alone tiny innocent children, in the way that man tore those lives from this earth.  I cannot, without rendering myself into tears and a throat that suffocates itself closed with tension, imagine what it is like to be the parent of one of those children, left behind on earth to live a life without the sound of their voice filling their home, or the look of their smile that following Christmas morning.  I wanted to take down my own Christmas tree because it didn’t feel right to celebrate joy when others so close were in such despair.  And I wanted to knock the heads together of those who took it upon themselves to use the threshold of the aftermath of Sandy Hook as a political pulpit for either more gun control, or less gun control.  I just wanted those fragile people to have their time to breathe, to feel, to be comforted, and not to be used as a soapbox issues.  I wanted people to respect that space, and imagine for a moment, just what it would be like to be one of those parents or surviving children.

I was a teetering house of cards.  I felt like if someone pushed me even the slightest, I would topple over, fluttering in all directions.

Slowly I am coming back, but I am still worry more than before, about everything: my daughter’s safety, my parents safety, car accidents, shootings, anything and everything.  It just feels like any illusion of safety in the world has been ripped from the very lining of my soul.

I’m crying even writing this down.  I have to realize that nothing has changed, and yet, everything has changed, and the two concepts are one in the same.

My cousin Mike posted this single comment on one of my Facebook statuses regarding my fear surrounding the days after the shooting:

“Fear is the mind killer”

So true.  If I allow terrorists of any kind, brutal soulless monsters, to steal away my joy and life by freezing me with fear, than they have won.  And that was how Dune became one of the book gifts I gave my daughter this Christmas, and ended up being the first one of the 4 books given her, that she chose to read.

I will not allow fear to wither my spirit.

Welcome 2013!

And now onto cultivating life with caution, but without fear, and unrestrained joy…one baby step at a time.



The Uh-Oh: Orgasm During Sleep and Dreams That Disturb

I’m not sure what’s going on with me lately.  This is the second weekend in a row in which I had an orgasm, or an almost-gasm, during sleep.  I’ve had this happen before, but it’s fairly uncommon for me.  It maybe happens once or twice a year, if that, not once or twice a week.

This year has been about focussing on me.  Define “focussing on me” as not allowing myself to get distracted with men, and to spend that time and energy doing things/achieving goals for myself.  This blog and the freelance writing gigs that have come from it are part of that.  My new career another, and my distance running, another.  I needed to date “me” for a change.  For awhile I told people I was dating running when they asked if I was seeing anyone.

After my FWB Norris and I stopped being intimate in April, I’ve been limiting myself on lovers.  I have one other FWBs who is long distance.  We see each other, at best, once a year, and we are not always physical lovers when we do see one another.  It usually depended on if I was seeing someone or not.  This year we got to see one another twice (one weekend in May, and a week in late July), and were intimate sexually on both occasions.  Other than that, though I have had offers, I have not taken any other lovers.  I’m at the point now where I feel I am at a place where I can possibly start dating.

Clearly this lack of feeding my sexual appetite has its side effects.

What follows is the dream I was having…

This morning I was dreaming about a man who came to pick something up from me, a sofa or something. In my dream world he was supposedly the brother of my ex-boyfriend “P’s”  current girlfriend/life partner.  The guy was being an ass to me, and so I refused to give him what he came for. He back pedaled and started to make nice.  To punish him I lashed out by telling him that I have been having sex with “P” all the while he has been dating his (the mean guy’s) sister.  He gets pissed off.  He insists I’m lying, and I staunchly state that this has been going on for years between us, and how “P” just can’t give up having sex with me.

(Reality: While it is not true that I have been having sex with my ex, we did have a sexually explicit conversation on several occasions, always with him initiating, where he told me how much he missed our sex life together.  He also suggested we have webcam sex sometime.  I was surprised because this guy has always proclaimed himself a very monogamous creature.  We still have not gone forward with the webcam sex, and all sexual exchanges in words have ceased.)

Continuing in the dream…

We are now traveling in this guy’s truck together to bring whatever it is that he has picked up from me to someplace unknown.  He has morphed into someone else now, though I still believe him to be the same person as before.  Neither version of this dream person I know in real life. I tell him that “P” will never marry his sister.  That he will always just be her “boyfriend”, but will never commit to her.  He agrees that he knows/feels this as well.  Time passes and somehow I am talking about fellatio with this guy, and describing in glorious Technicolor detail how much I enjoy giving head, and how I feel it should be done. This guy is on the hook now, he’s hanging on every word I say.  I can feel the energy of his want filling the air between us.  I tell him I will show him.

We wind up in a house I do not know, and I suspect it is this man’s house.  I don’t know him at all.  I never have.  He is just the supposed brother of  “P’s” girlfriend.

I am so turned on.  I can feel every inch of my skin buzzing with the pulsating electricity of arousal.  It’s very real.  I become aware that it is real outside of dreamland too.  It’s unmistakable.  I’m not attracted to this dream man, not in the least, and still I pull his awaiting erection from his pants, and lower my head between his legs as he sits on the edge of the bed before me.  The room is half in shadows born of closed curtains on a cloudy afternoon turning to dusk.

His cock is perfect, and I lower my mouth to take him inside.  I admire the curve of his sleek erection, the veins taut and pulsing beneath his latte colored skin, and how perfect he fits inside my mouth.  I make a circle with the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, and clasp them around the base of his shaft.  He’s just the right size; long enough that the slow way I suck him is a journey that I can savor as I admire the look and feel of him between the moist grasp of my lips, but not so much that I cannot take all of him in, if I desire.  If I had to measure, maybe he’s 7 inches, maybe 8.  I’ve never measured such things, so who is really to say.  And he’s thick, the way I like cock to be, so that if I were to ease my pussy down onto him, I would revel in the feeling of being completely filled.  I love the feeling of being filled.  They say size doesn’t matter, but it does.  I never thought it did until I had an experience that taught me otherwise.  Anyway, back to the dream at hand…or should I say, mouth.

The waves of orgasm are building.  I know I am going to come any moment just from sucking this most perfect dream cock.  I know this orgasm will happen in my real body too, I know for SURE.  The intensity is overwhelming.  My clit is on sweet fire, teetering on the perilous edge of full “shark eyes” (That one’s for you, Fern), orgasm.

But then my “waking reality self” taps my “dream self”, and does a “What the fuck?”

You are not even attracted to this guy!  You don’t know this person!  You don’t like this person, because again, you don’t know who they are!  You are sucking the cock of a dream stranger whom you don’t even find sexually appealing. Not in the least!  You would never like this person in real life.

So, I pull my mouth off of perfect dream cock.  I pull myself down off the shuddering pleasure of my edge.

I don’t want to be with someone I do not like.

Standing up, I pull his head to rest against my stomach.  This dream man doesn’t seem confused, but he seems sullen.  His head is tilted so his eyes look downward.  The way I hold it against me is if I am comforting him.  No words between us are spoken.

I think for fear of, not sure of what, I take his cock in my hand and stroke him to orgasm.  I guess I feel like I owe him this much.  It’s a strange feeling to feel like I “owe” another person sexual pleasure.  I’d like to say I have never felt that way, but on occasion, I have.  It is uncomfortable to say the least.  When he comes, his cock doesn’t feel like it does when I do this with a real cock.  I can still feel the tension in his erection, like an orgasm that never happened, but did.

This is the end of the dream.

I woke up feeling confused, feeling uncertain, feeling disturbed.

I think my body is telling me that it needs to have its desires met, but to be cautious about who I choose.

It’s easy to look back and chose to flirt with lovers from our past.  They are “safe”, but like my college literature professor told our class, “You should never go back and have a relationship with someone from your past.  They suited you for who you were at that time, but you’ll have grown past who you were then, and they will not meet the present you’s needs”.  Smart words.  I laughed at the time because I was married to the guy who was my high school romance.  I wish he had said that about a year earlier than he did, but I digress.

Don’t look back to be “safe”, and don’t choose idly with those I meet now.

Smart dream world.

**Footnote: It is true that “P” will never marry his current girlfriend, although they have been together now since 2006/7.  I have asked him why not, but he never has an answer.  I guess it’s commitment issues.  Who is to say for sure.  He declines to answer, though once he said she asked the same thing.

Things I Would Say to My (ex) FWBs

Sometime back in September I had to walk away from a long-standing friendship with someone I love deeply.

Yes, love, not loved.  I have not stopped loving him.  If you believe in the existence of soul mates like I do, then you know what the kind of connection I share(d) is like.  I don’t believe we have just one single soul mate, rather that we have multiple, and hopefully we meet them over the course of our lifetime if we are lucky.  It doesn’t mean that everything that follows is like a fairy tale with a “happily ever after” ending.  In fact, I think the heartbreak we sometimes suffer is the dragon in our storyline.  Sometimes we win against the dragon, and sometimes, we lose.

In case you missed reading about what happened, you can read about it here.

This time last year was probably the closest we had ever been, and it’s stirring his memory in my heart now.

Here are the things I would say to him if I could.

  • Tonight I am thinking about you because this is our weather; the early dark nights of fall turning to winter, the scent of earthen leaves at the end of their life drifts in the air, and the sting of November’s chill blowing crisp and cool against my cheeks.
  • We should be sitting on the sofa in my living room decompressing from our days with a bottle of that Indian Wells Merlot we both love, and relaxing into some episode of Mad Men.
  • I started my new job today.  I know you would be proud of me.  We both had quite the year of change career wise.  We should be proud.  I wonder how your new job is going.  You could sell ice to an Eskimo.  I’m sure you have already sold your first house.
  • I left my husband last year, and I haven’t missed him for a day. Not a single minute.  But I miss you.  I even teared up just now writing that.
  • I wish you had loved me enough to never have told me how you loved me.  It makes me angry that you couldn’t just leave us the way we were.  I could have stayed in the dark.
  • It was selfish
  • I saw this Bob Marley quote and thought of you: “The biggest coward of a man is to ignite the love of a woman he has no intention of loving”
  • It was even more selfish to tell me it was “timing”, and then only really deeply hold me, truly hold me and whisper your love to me only when you thought I was sleeping.  I woke up every time.  I used to think of those moments as secret presents.
  • What hurt the most is that you were the one who always said “You won’t be happy with them.  They will never love you the way you need them to, the way you should be loved”  And then you betrayed me too.  I was supposed to be safe with you.  I trusted you always to be my friend first.
  • I hate you for taking my friend away from me, and for the boys and my daughter missing one another.
  • I wonder what the woman you picked as “safe” for you is like.  I’m not even jealous of her because I know how you keep your heart locked away.
  • Secretly, I hope she is good to you because you deserve it, but I know you wouldn’t choose someone who would be.
  • I miss Cherry Wheat Sam Adams, talking for 6 hours straight non-stop, and still having not finished all our trains of thought, and fucking on the sofa, in the bathroom, and your kisses.  You knew how to kiss better than you knew how to be free.
  • It’s too bad we couldn’t be back in that lifetime where we were on Cape Cod in our white center hall colonial.
  • The sad truth is, even if we had ended up together, if you had loved me empty like that, kept me outside while inside, I would have left you too.
  • Did you know you couldn’t really let me in even if you tried?
  • Was it not being with me that was really you loving me?  Sometimes I believe it was your way.
  • I really didn’t like A Room With A View, and that feeling you had when you watched Ghosts of Girlfriends Past? I know you feel it now in some corner of our heart.
  • I know it hurt you when I said goodbye.  I know you well enough to know that.
  • I question all my feelings, and all the things you ever said.
  • I’m glad I realized what was true before yours actions really damaged me.
  • All of this sounds far away, foreign.
  • Maybe it was me finding the shoe for myself all along.
  • Day to day, I am not sad or missing you.

Truth is, of all of it, I just miss my friend.  I wish I could have just kept my friend, but if you can’t trust someone, then the friendship is only an illusion.  It would only be like holding on to the reflection in a mirror, like that one from Harry Potter that shows you your deepest desire.  It wouldn’t be true.

You’re my deepest desire, but you are not real.

Striptease…No Vaseline Required

A few years back I took a weekend workshop on love, sexuality, and intimacy.  Go figure, right?  I’m sure this comes as a total surprise to you that I would be interested in such a thing.  *places her tongue firmly in cheek*

It started on a Friday night, and ended on a Sunday afternoon, with most people showing up earlier in the afternoon on Friday, and staying later on Sunday to socialize.  It was a pretty intense weekend considering that, for the most part, I really knew absolutely no one there, save for my friend who convinced me to go.

On the Saturday night of the workshop they held a talent show.  You were not required to, but were encouraged to participate.  You could do anything you wanted, but you only had 3 minutes for your performance.  Some people sang, some danced, some played the guitar, and some recited poetry.  It was actually quite a good array of various talents, and quite enjoyable.  We were all aware prior to the workshop about the talent show, so we could come prepared accordingly if we chose to perform.

I love to dance, but I have not had any real formal training, save for a few years of dance lessons of various styles as a kid; ballet, modern, and jazz.  My father tells me that although I went to college for art, I really majored in “dance club”, and seeing as it was NYC and I did frequent an awful lot of clubs, I suppose you could say he was right.  Still, dancing to techno music isn’t exactly the kind of dance that requires much technical “training”.  It does, however, require good rhythm and stamina.  Oh Tunnel NYC, how I miss you!

Dancing is when I feel most free, and most myself in purest form.  Once I let go, all shreds of self-consciousness slip away, and I just flow effortlessly.  I can get myself lost in a song; in its rhythm, in its words, until it consumes me and I become it.  This past February at my cousin’s wife’s 50th birthday party they had a DJ, and I spent most of the night dancing away.  My cousin Dave at one point in the evening caught my attention and asked me “How old are you again?”, and I smiled and replied, “36, why?”.  He then told me that he kept having friends ask who that amazing dancer was,  and they asked him how old I was.  He said he thought I was in my mid 30’s, and when he told them that, they all thought that I was, in fact, a teenager!  Awwww.  This is what every 36 yr old woman wants to hear!  I told Dave o tell them they were my new best friends.  Dancing makes me feel like a force of nature; uninhibited by anything, anyone, anywhere.

Unencumbered. Free.

But, I digress…

For the Saturday night talent show I had decided I was going to do a strip tease to Peggy Lee’s “Fever”.  I didn’t really practice, and I had no routine planned.  I had maybe run through a few practice dances moves in my living room, but that was it.  Like the way I do a lot of things in my life, I was going to make it up as I went along.

I wore a deep cool-toned red crimson dress, which was made of that drapey lycra material.  The halter style neckline drapes in rolling cascades of thin fabric i a curved “V” between my small breasts, and the back plunges,  open and inviting, to just above the cleavage of my perfectly round bottom.  Every inch of the dress hugs the body, until it begins to fan out somewhere around the knees like a fishtail.  Very easy to move in, and might I add, very slinky, like me.  Underneath the dress I wore a pair of black lace-topped thigh high silk stockings, the kind that stay up on their own, no garters needed, and a thin chiffon thong trimmed in black lace.  I was barefoot.  I can dance in heels, but I didn’t pack any somehow.

I was surprisingly nervous as I waited behind the room divider that was supposed to be our “backstage”.   I was having second thoughts about stepping out there.  I knew there were people in attendance that were actual trained dancers.  All my self-doubt and fear rushed in, and I kept vacillating over whether I was going to bolt or not.  The person who went on before me wasn’t super awesome, so somehow their lack-luster performance gave me courage to suck it up and go for it.  This is sometimes a point of humor for people who know me because they don’t see me as being nervous or self-conscious.  They see me as loving the performance, with an exhibitionist side that loves to play. And I am somewhat exhibitionistic, though really it’s just that I am very comfortable in my own skin.  I am also, despite notions to the contrary, shy.

Finally they introduced me, and started my music as I walked anxiously out into view. I told myself to imagine being Aphrodite, the Goddess of love, and bring her from the firmament, to manifest in an earthly body.  Beginning in the center of the stage, I pulled up a chair to use as a prop.  I faced the wall, and got courage by dancing with it as first.  Dancing is one thing, being aware that a roomful of 90 people had all their 180 eyes on me is a different story.  When I turned around, I slithered down the wall and back up, and then strut straight forward toward the audience.  I decided I now could own that stage I was on, and the audience watching.  That energy propelled me, fed me, and I fed them back like the smooth flow of an electric circuit.

I couldn’t even tell you now as I recall it all, just what moves I did or didn’t do, or what it all ended up looking like.  From that point on I was on autopilot, riding the energy exchange between myself and those watching.  I focused on a few people in the front row, and drew from those connections.

I removed only one item of clothing: my red dress.

The music faded down around the 3 minute mark, and the room exploded in applause.  I was so relieved, and joyous too.  Three minutes is a long time to do a strip tease where you only end up removing one item of clothing. *smiles*  That takes a real effort!  After everyone was finished performing, we milled about congratulating one another on our performances.  The couple who I knew were professional dancers came up to me, told  me that me choreography was amazing, and asked where I trained.  I was surprised, in shock, and flattered.  I told them I hadn’t taken dance since I was a little girl, that I honestly was scared shitless out there, and had made the whole thing up as I went along!  They were taken aback, and encouraged me to keep dancing!  That felt so good to hear, because I was afraid in the beginning that I looked like I had no clue what I was doing.

Peter, one of the two workshop facilitators, came up and said to me, “That was the sexiest strip tease I ever saw where only one piece of clothing was removed!”  You know, I don’t think it was until that very moment that I had actually realized that I only removed the dress alone.  *laughs*  Honestly though, you have to eave a little mystery.

If there is one thing I have learned as I have grown older, it’s that there is power in a mystery.  While I have no issues with being naked and enjoy it very much, despite the fact that I have a normal, un-airbrushed-looking body that is far from the magazine image of perfection, I have learned that being totally naked leaves nothing to the imagination.  It leaves nothing to hunger for discovering, and honestly, there is something really sexy about discovering the nuances of a body; each rise, dip, and curve, one morsel at a time.

I could have taken off everything, but then what would be left to explore?  What would be left unknown?  What would be left for me to keep, and gift to those I felt worthy of more, if they had already seen what everyone else had seen?

I wanted to leave them wanting.

Now that, is a gift.