Author: amiepetite

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Let’s Talk about the Alphabet Game

I once read a comment on a thread where a woman described a hookup. There are lots of those comments, but in this one, she said she was lying down, getting into the mood, receiving oral from someone she hadn’t had sex with before. Things were heating up, but then he abruptly stopped what he was doing, sat up, and announced “All done!”

Of course, she was confused, because she wasn’t done. Not done getting warmed up, or done orgasming. “Done what?”

“I finished the alphabet!” Came the satisfied answer.

Oh. Right. The alphabet game.

For those not familiar, the alphabet game is a bit of sexual advice sometimes given to people (usually men) who want to perform oral sex on people with vulvas (usually women). The reason they need this advice is because there’s a wide range of potential kinds of sensation, circles, lines up and down, side to side, and pressures, a firm pointed tongue, a soft flat one, presence then cessation of touch, that might make a pussy happy, and the right combination is not only a small target, but a moving one.

I get it. I have a lot of empathy for people getting into it with a new person whose arousal isn’t clearly visible through their pants. I have some limited experience with vulvas and vaginas, and thank fuck they’ve been pretty good at giving directions because you don’t know who wants an entire hand inside them versus gentle kisses outside until they tell you. I get nervous and in my own head sometimes, and I’m lucky to have one of my own so I’ve got an ok idea of where to start, at least.

The alphabet game, when used properly, can really help. Because it’s not a magic bullet, it’s not a technique in and of itself, it is only a useful tool.

The thing about the alphabet, is that the shapes are all different. Straight lines, circles up here and down there, angles, dots, crossed lines… if you start with A and make your way down to Z, you’re going to interact with the clit, the inner and outer labia, and the entrance to the vagina in different ways. The part of the alphabet game that people tend not to share, is that you have to pay attention to response as you go along.

We can start with ABC and we’ll default to the clit at the center of each letter. With A, you’re providing indirect pressure and movement to both sides and immediately below the clit. For some people, this will be nice, but not moving them towards orgasm. For others, being directly off the clit helps avoid overstimulation. You’ll know which is which for the person in front of you by their body language. Are they silent? Do they gasp? Do they moan a nice moan? If it’s the first, Try B. Now we’ve got movement next to the clit, above and below, and directly on. Again: gasps? Silence? Legs shaking? Try C. Now we’re moving in circles around the clit without getting really near it.

As you move through the alphabet, you might notice that T, L, M, N, and J all get a similar response. Or maybe O, Q, C, D, and U are sigh-inducing. That’s gold right there. Making your way through this variety of shapes while noticing your partner’s responses is feeding you information on what they like. The fact that it’s the alphabet is immaterial. You can do this with any variety of shapes, it’s just that most of us don’t have to think much about what’s next when running through our letters, so we can spend that mental energy on the noticing.

Because that’s the real technique behind the technique, and it’s a shame no one mentions it. Body language cues to look for are: first relaxing. At first, your partner’s breath rate might go down a bit. Their legs might fall open a bit more, and they might relax. Some people have trouble vocalizing what feels good, but they may still sigh or moan or softly swear (guilty). Those are all very good signs. After a little longer, you may notice quivering, or straining towards you, or a rhythmically rocking pelvis. All also very good signs. I have also noticed a change in taste. I can feel and taste arousal as a slicker, slightly saltier, almost tangy wetness that tells me I’m on the right track. And finally, you may hear your partner get louder in their vocalizations, their breath rate may speed up, and finally they may actually hold their breath or cry out. They may also put their hands on your head or shoulders and either push you farther in, or try to draw you away a bit.

If you watch for those early cues, relaxing, slowing breath, small moans and sighs, those are your signposts. When you notice them, notice what you were doing and log that. If when you try something else, the sighs stop, that also gets logged. You’re mapping a path and the alphabet is your vehicle, not the road. Sometimes you’ll go the wrong way, and that’s ok. You just come back and try again.

If nothing seems to be bringing those sighs out, try making your tongue soft and flat instead of pointy. Cat lapping cream versus hummingbird sipping nectar. You can also slow down, do calligraphy with your tongue instead of typeface. Add serifs, maybe move your entire face higher or lower, if your hands are clean (you haven’t touched food or your own genitals since washing your hands) you can try some gentle penetration.

Throughout it all, the real “trick” to it is noticing, paying attention, and occasionally checking in. I usually make eye contact and ask verbally “is this ok?” While slowly kissing my way down someone’s belly. It’s a pretty major transition and a good point to assess their comfort level. I make eye contact specifically to check whether their expression is uncertain. A lot of AFAB folks, and a lot of shy guys, don’t want to upset their partner by saying no, even if they want to, and a quick check of facial expressions can go a LONG way toward avoiding harm. I will also try to do that again before adding any penetration, even with hands. It’s another pretty major transition point and I like to make sure they know right at the outset they can say no without upsetting me.

I wanted to write about this because I’m fairly sure I noticed someone performing the alphabet game on me the other day. I felt a series of disconnected and non-repeating strokes, none of which seemed designed to assess where I was in my own building pleasure. There is zero shame in trying techniques, and I wasn’t unhappy at all. I am happy any time someone cares enough to try. But I am also here to help us all get better, in bed and in life, so here I am offering a deeper dimension for the technique.

My final bit of advice, or perspective, is that the next time you find yourself in a position to play the alphabet game, take time to notice your own reactions. Notice the different textures and tastes, the heat, the slick, the sounds, the sense of a breast or a thigh in your hand… take time to play and be in the moment a bit. It is a game changer.

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Atelier Crenn.

I recently had the delightful privilege of dining at Atelier Crenn in San Francisco.

Dominique Crenn has been a foodie her entire life. I learned a great deal about her from her cookbook, Metamorphosis of taste, including how to make our first bite. But I am not here to talk about her extraordinary food journey, I am here to memorialize, and to share, my memories of this one glorious evening.

Dinner begins not with food but with poetry. Chef Crenn named her restaurant Atelier, which is French for studio, in memory of her father’s art den, a lifelong and beloved hobby tucked into a little shed behind their home. She believes that art and food are inseparable, and so the first peek at the “menu” is not a list of ingredients and arrangements, but a series of poetic impressions. Though I prefer my poetry in more traditional rhyming meters, it’s a stunning touch, a sign before even seeing the food that a tremendous amount of thought and love has gone into not only each dish, but each component of each dish.

First: a trio of small bites. The Kir Breton, a single bite and a nod to the signature cocktail of her homeland. Presented a perfect globe of creamy white chocolate and cocoa butter, with a dot of rich red cassis gel on top. Inside the sphere is reduced apple cider from Brittany. I let it sit on my tongue a moment, hoping the shell would melt and cider caress my tongue as it slipped out, but impatience won and I gave it the gentlest bite (some of you know the one I’m talking about). It shattered in a most delightful explosion, the cider lighter than I expected, and cool.

Then an acorn, made of a dozen ingredients, mushroom forward, soft, with a crisp oak leaf on top made of more mushroom. A single bite, delightful, but overshadowed by the next.

I have a soft spot for gougers. Little balls of cheesy eggy dough, crisp on the outside and filled with whatever you wish. Topped with three perfect slices of truffle and an edible flower, it wasn’t the prized fruits of the forest that wowed me, it was the popover itself. The kitchen had piped in a rich, creamy, cheesy mornay sauce, and a similarly creamy, but fruity and fresh, apple butter. Apples and cheese make an excellent pair, but they’re usually served as slices, crisp, cool, salty, and fresh. In this iteration, the two together played off each other more intimately. Instead of them blending together gradually as I chewed, they burst onto the scene in unison within the delicate, nutty, crisp shell; spurring my first “wow!’ Of the night.

Next: oysters. I know they can be a divisive food but I love them, and these gently poached little pearls of the sea were lovely, so lovely that they disappeared into my mouth before I remembered to take a photo!

Scallops can also be a divisive matter of taste, and of texture. Easy to overcook, and soft when raw, these had been sliced into short wide ribbons and arranged in concentric circles around a bright vinegar sauce, studded, as most dishes were, with micro greens and small flowers. Chamomile I remember, and nori chips for a bit of crunch. Each bite of scallop, dipped in the vinegar, gave a whisper of resistance to the tooth, and tasted both bright and creamy.

On to my next “WOW”: a brick of tuna. This perfect, miniature rectangle had been thinly sliced and then reassembled, interspersed with rectangles of kohlrabi cut wafer thin, abutting a generous dollop of black sesame paste, in a tiny lake of soy. Oddly enough, it was the chopsticks I marveled at the most. The tuna was buttery soft, melting in my mouth, the nutty sesame adding body and the kohlrabi crisp for contrast. But the chopsticks, with slender metal tips, surprised and impressed me. They clung to the tuna as it moved from plate to palate, but the sensory experience of them leaving my mouth is hard to describe. They offered no resistance whatsoever leaving my mouth, and their thinness evoked an incredibly delicacy.

A note on the dinnerware. Every dish is served with it’s own conveyance, whether that’s a three tined fork, a small wooden spoon, a hammered copper knife, or nothing at all, that choice is as much a part of the dish as the ingredients inside it. What made me mark this choice in particular was another recent experience with metal tipped chopsticks. Phryne and I, finished dress shopping for this very occasion, wanted a little bite. We chose Din Tai Fung and ordered bok choy with scallion oil, cucumber salad, and fried rice. The options for silverware were metal tipped chopsticks or a large ceramic spoon. I think I lasted through two instances of dropping the slippery greens before I shrugged and resorted to my hands. The chopsticks were large and bulky, designed for a commercial dishwasher, and Xiao long bao, not for oiled vegetables. They were comically bad for the food we ordered, and both of us laughed off our clumsiness.

So when my experience with these chopsticks was so wildly different, so soon after, I noticed, and I marveled, and I made my way through some of the most excellent tuna I’ve ever had with ease and grace and joy.

Moving on to the crab cakes. And oh dear lord were they good crab cakes. Touched with a light creamy dressing, each bite slightly acidic from capers, rich in a buttery sauce, salty with caviar, and garnished under a perfect ring of baby nasturtium leaves. Face over the bowl, I gathered in the aroma of nutty fried fish, the freshest, sweetest crab in California. But the real piece de resistance, for me, was the seafood broth, served alongside in a tiny ornate glass. It. Was. Amazing. I would have taken home a gallon of it just to sip as I read a book or took a walk. I love tea. I love meat. Broths are just meat tea, and so combine two of my favorite foods. Which means I’ve had a decent amount of broth just on its own, and this one blew my fucking mind. Hearty without being heavy, flavorful without being overpowering, dark, dark brown while staying crystal clear… and so came my third “WOW. Wow wow wow” of the night.

This was also one dish where I really noticed the wine pairing. I love pairings. Wine can really enrich the experience of eating, and I am in love with the fact that NA pairings are becoming more common, given that my two closest personal friends are sober. But wine doesn’t always add to the experience, so when it does in a meaningful way, I notice. The dry champagne in this pairing, sipped after each bite/broth circuit, did something marvelous. As it washed over my tongue, it picked up all the butter from the sauce and swept it up and away. From a creamy coating on my tongue, the sweet and savory flavors lifted and suddenly hit me in a different way. Volatiles in the dish rose to my soft palate and, for a single moment, I tasted it all again, but lighter and fresher. I love a pairing that dramatic!

The next dish was lovely: a brilliant orange flower on crisp squid ink tuile, over rich potato pudding and garnished with trout roe. Salty and sweet, creamy and crunchy, it was lovely, but it was as if Queen opened for Chapel Roan at a concert. Yes, it’s that good, but also…

Next: bread! Delicate brioche loaf, tear and share style, set beside a little log of herbed butter. It was spectacular bread. Crisp but melt in your mouth soft on the outside, buttery and pillowy on the inside, and enough to have a few bites unadorned, then sop up sauce from the next few courses. I love bread, and this iteration reminded me of the rice flour rolls from Eleven Madison Park. If I had access to bread like this on a regular basis, I think I’d need to do a lot more hiking!

The next dish was fascinating: deconstructed French onion soup, a nod to Chef Crenn’s Breton heritage. First: perched on an icy glass pillow, savory sorbet, with onion pearls (not pearl onions) arranged in a little necklace around it. They surprised me with their pop and potency, oniony and caramelized, pure without being raw or harsh at all. In the bowl: a cheesy dumpling under hot broth at the center of an onion flower, garnished with a profusion of bright yellow flowers. Instead the usual arrangement: cutting through a thick crust of bread and melty cheese to get to the dark onion broth, you had to go through the broth to get into the cheese. As a nod to Chef Crenn’s ocean muse, the “croutons” came on the side, a coral-shaped tuile, light brown and toasty. My dining companion, a tremendous fan of the late Thierry Rautureau’s French onion soup recipe, enjoyed it quite a lot, almost certainly more than I did. Sometimes food is like that: the dish can be ingenious, excellent, but the memories it evokes, or not, make the difference between “mmmm” and “WOW.” I think that’s part of what Chef Crenn hopes to inspire with her poetry menu, and what she offers each diner in turn.

Atelier Crenn is pescatarian these days, so instead of moving toward meatier dishes at this point in the meal, we stay light, with black cod: poached, served with foams made of broccoli and yogurt, and of course micro greens. Tarragon in this case, I think, and nasturtium. Of course it was cooked perfectly, tender and flaky without being dry in the least bit.

Next we enjoyed a turbot custard, firm on the tongue, decorated with a paper-thin, crisp wheel of squid ink tuile, and a mussel foam. To be honest I don’t remember this one as much. It was good, like everything else, but my fourth and final “WOW” came immediately next and cast a long shadow.

As an entre into dessert, they gave us salad. French cuisine often serves salad last, so it fits, and what a salad it was! Inside a spinach merengue bowl that fit easily in the palm of my hand, they piped olive oil jam and a vinegar cream, then topped it with a dense profusion of the ever-present micro greens. Served with no silverware, you just pick it up, pop it in your mouth, and try to mumble your WOW around it without being rude. Crisp, herbaceous, so slightly sweet, creamy, juicy… I would take a dozen of them home with me and find it nowhere near enough. I remember being surprised at how clearly I could detect the different flavor components. The spinach of the merengue, the herby-ness of the greens, the sweetness of the jam… all in perfect harmony, honed by a dozen repetitions a day for years. (There is a similar recipe in her book, for the curious.)

Next was olive sorbet, shaped and tinted to resemble it’s main ingredient, stuck with an olive twig as a handle. I found it a refreshing, almost savory bite, in fitting with the salad. Served alongside it was yuzu custard in an eggshell, like a soft boiled egg, but sprinkled with tiny puffed quinoa crunches and tiny bits of crystallized ginger. Sweet, but tangy and citrusy.

Their newest dessert, served that night for the first time, came inside a halved wine bottle. Cake, under a pear compote, with champagne foam and champagne pearls. This is an instance where I am sad these dinners are few and far between. As a new dish, it wasn’t fully formed yet. The cake could have had a lot more spices, and the other flavors hadn’t really come through. I think in two or three months, going back and trying it again would be marvelous. They asked for our impressions and feedback, and I got the strong sense that what we said mattered, and would influence it moving forward. Every diner that evening had a hand in shaping the future of the dish, and I would be fascinated to see where that leads them.

Finally, a few chocolate covered items: a wasabi pea coated in white chocolate, a hazelnut robed in milk chocolate, and a dark chocolate espresso bean. I do love a good chocolate covered espresso bean, but I’d never seen a wasabi pea in sweets before. I don’t generally like them much, and I think the pairing here was more interesting than delicious. But that’s part of the joy of a tasting menu! Let the chef expose you to things you wouldn’t normally try, and enjoy what comes.

That crab bouillon and the merengue salad will live next to the tomato from Eleven Madison Park and the Consommé from the French Laundry as some of my favorite dishes in my silly, passionate, and frivolous pursuit of Michelin stars. I have been incredibly fortunate to have these experiences, and I am looking forward to the next, and the next, and hopefully many more.

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Snow

Wet snow, plopping
Soft snow, drifting
Quiet snow, muffling
My corner of the world

We don’t get much snow in Seattle, but I’m not in Seattle as I write this. I’m tucked away, a little stay-cation, in a cabin in the woods, by a lake, and this morning I woke to snow.

Growing up, snow was a fact of winter. Every winter. Multiple times. The plows were hard at work, piling burms down the center of each street from well before dawn til after dark. One winter, the snow from our driveway alone became an entire season’s entertainment. Digging out the center of a densely packed pile, we made a fort, massive in my memory, the inside iced over by hours of patient breathing, close and hot.

Making snow forts was a common pass-time for little me. As a kid I spent hours sneaking snacks, staying up late reading fantasy novels, and playing in the snow. We spent hours sledding the big hill by the school, skiing with bus loads of other kids, and hollowing out every mound and pile that presented itself.

As a teenager, there was a little less playing, but it stayed a feature of every year. Snow days came few and far between in a land with that many plows, but the chance to stay in bed and binge a new series (of books. Netflix still only served a few discs at a time) was always welcome.

And the winter sun. My God do I miss the winter sun.

Seattle is great in many ways, and it being a city of hills, it’s good that it only ices over once or twice a year, and not for long. But I miss the dazzle of crisp cold sunshine off white snow. That a time of year with such little feeling of sun had the power to amplify it helped us all stay a little brighter when days were short.

Seattle doesn’t have it, so I had to range a bit farther a field to find it. I’ve got a long weekend of deliberate rest, a chance to read and write and relax in a way that I can’t in the city. I almost always have something I need to do on any given day. Laundry, a meeting with a patron, networking, advertising, exercising… it’s hard for me to feel truly leisurely.

Out here, away, there are still things to do. But none are time-bound, and that offers an emotional and intellectual rest, unlike the many but broken hours of free time scattered into my usual routine.

And so to wake up when my body felt like it, and find snow gently veiling the window, was a treat.

It’ll be short lived. It’s already melting. I can hear the pitter-patter-thump of soggy clumps hitting the roof every time a tree sneezes. But for now the world is clean. The lake is a crisp expanse in the near distance. The only sounds are the ticking of the clock, which I ignore, and of my keyboard, which I enjoy. Later there will be a fire in the fireplace. S’mores. Perhaps a game or two.

Later

Now? Let it snow.

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I just read a book that has shaken the foundations of my worldview.

I grew up christian, believing that a personal relationship with god was the key to spending eternity in loving harmony. I was told over and over that by studying the Bible, memorizing versus and meditating on the words, I would develop that relationship, and find all sorts of things. Solace. Meaning. Joy. Answers to whatever small moral questions came up for me throughout my life.

I did not find that to be true. I never developed a “sense” of god, or Jesus, or any spiritual presence. Perhaps that was my own impatience. I have little time for things I’m not good at right away, or things that aren’t immediately pleasurable. As an adult I’ve made efforts to change that, but as a child I was never going to become a real prayer warrior, much less meditate on the wisdom of the psalms.

I maintained a belief in god according to my parents’ religion, but halfway through my bachelor’s degree, I was presented with simply too much evidence. The idea that the Bible is a true document, written by man but spoken by capital G God, and that the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Joseph is a real entity, distinct from all the other gods, and the only one that truly exists, just didn’t hold up. Biblical literalism simply doesn’t make sense, and when one pillar of your faith falls, the rest are close behind.

I, like many of my friends, went hard atheist. Christopher Hitchens was our prophet and Bill Hicks our pastor. The scientific method was our god and no one could unseat it.

Since then, I have tasted the edges of a few spiritual disciplines, exposure to a variety of what I call “woo-woo” drifting by with unpredictable degrees of intensity. In massage school, we were at least exposed to, if not really encouraged at, the disciplines of reiki and energy work, cranio-sacral work, acupuncture, and acupressure. In my professional life, I have encountered a variety of belief systems around sex work and its role in our spiritual health. Whether that’s Jungian or Freudian interpretations of the world around us, Christian upwellings of love (and also often judgement), pagan beliefs and ritual, and a variety of self-help doctrines, I’ve never really been convinced. I have maintained for near a decade now an agnostic outlook: there may be some kind of overarching spiritual world, but it is unknowable and seeking it is less important than seeking health and goodness in the current life.

That’s when Allie Ward interviewed Bruce Greyson on her podcast “Ologies”.

The episode ended and I said out loud to my empty car: “welp. I guess ghosts are real, then. I wonder who I’ll haunt.”

Some weeks later I read his book, After, and it expanded on the revelation I gleaned from that interview: our consciousness, the WE of who we are, is likely only temporarily tethered to our bodies.

Dr. Greyson has been studying near death experiences since the seventies (maybe earlier?) and has compiled thousands of first hand accounts. He brought the scientific method to bear as much as is possible where controlled, double blind studies are impossible. I am not going to try to convince you here, though I desperately want to, that there is an afterlife. You can read the book and do with it as you will, or not. The main takeaway of this post is that I was convinced, and reeling.

Our consciousness is likely only tethered to our physical bodies for the length of our lives, at most. After our bodies die, we are freed from the confines of a chemical brain and a material form. That is the limit of what the evidence suggests is objectively true.

Everything from here on out is based on unprovable first hand reports and my own imagining, conjecture, and fledgling hope.

Because once I accept that, when people are having a near death experience, the experience is true, that means the things they consistently report are also almost certainly true. Like, capital T Truth, not “your subjective experience is real and meaningful.” Which means the things people report, about meeting a being comprised entirely of love, about being greeted by their deceased loved ones, about having a choice between continuing on or going back, about suddenly understanding there is a purpose to their lives, about feeling at peace with death, about physical death not being the end…. Are true.

The collected data is too consistent, even in the absence of outside influence, to not have the thread of truth. Children report the same phenomena that adults do. Reports are consistent across cultures and through time. People know things that are impossible to know…. Here I go again trying to convince you.

Or perhaps to convince myself.

I wrote the first part of this post immediately after finishing the book, and part of what’s happening on the page is processing. I spoke to several friends after drafting this essay about the book, the research, and my conclusions. It turns out there are people who have used his research to support their claims and beliefs, the same as other religious fanatics, and justify harmful behaviors. Which is awful, because I still think that what he has to say has the weight of truth.

But in the process of having those conversations, I made a realization.

My mother will never be proud of me. She will never truly know me, or my work, or what my life is like, and be proud of it. She’s proud of my life as I present it, and I am proud of many of my accomplishments, but if she knew how I lived a good third of my life, that pride would wither and turn to disappointment.

Which is one reason, I came to realize after it was too late to prevent it, I had given so much power away to my former colleague. She wasn’t much older than me, but she’d been in the industry a great deal longer, and she took on a motherly role. She knew me, and she loved me, and she was proud of me. Until I did something she didn’t like, and she used what she knew to tear me down. She had the power to do that because, though I was sure I’d come to terms with that maternal relationship and it’s painful limits, I had actually replaced my mom with my mentor.

Hindsight is 20/20 I suppose, and I’ve learned from the experience quite a bit. I know that I’ve learned, because what I realized as I searched my credulity for what lies underneath is that if what most experiencers report is true… Someday my mommy will love me.

Now that’s a wild oversimplification, but it’s the heart of it. One thing experiencers consistently report is that they meet with loved ones who have predeceased them, and the loved ones not only love them, they understand them. I can never, ever hope for my mother to understand why I love my work. Even to tolerate it. It’s simply not possible in this life. But this worldview offered a chance that in the hereafter, I can expect it.

And that is why I feel like I’ve learned and gown so much recently. In the past, I might have tried harder to convince others. I might have stayed on the surface of the idea without ever reaching inward, gotten attached to it, defensive of it. For the first few days, this idea wasn’t just a possibility and something to incorporate into my worldview, it was an answer to a need we all have. The need for love and belonging. As long as it stayed unexamined, a word said against the concept was a message to my heart saying “you don’t deserve love and belonging.”

That’s some pretty powerful stuff. It meant that I was open to being convinced in a way that others might not be, and attached to it, and defensive of it. I still think the evidence is unusually convincing for what it is. I still think it’s a possible truth. But it’s no longer as emotionally compelling to me, because I uncovered the underlying fear, and the hope at the center of it.

And it does’t have to be compelling or convincing. As a belief “system” all it asks of you is that you care for one another and be kind. There are no rules, no gods, no proscriptions, and not even really advice on how to be good. Just, try your best to be good, and love people, and things will all work themselves out. It’s honestly fairly freeing. If you don’t fear death, you can actually love life, which many of us struggle to do.

And so, now that I’ve had a chance to sit with it a while, examine it from a distance as well as up close, I feel I’ve gotten tremendous value from his work. I try to call my elders more often, and visit. I’m more tolerant of people’s whacko stuff (provided it’s not actively doing harm). Like ok. Eventually we’ll all have perfect understanding, and one of us will be wrong, and it’ll probably be them. For now I can do my best to ask questions, listen to the answers, do the work of being present and showing up, and try to take care of myself and my people in the here and now. Knowing that, though I’m reeeeeally not looking forward to the pain involved in dying, the rest of it doesn’t really scare me. It could happen soon, it could happen in fifty years, and either way all I need to do to be ready is my best. It’s helped me let go of things I can’t change, and change the things I can.

As far as belief systems go, it’s not a bad one. Plus it offers several interesting short story prompts. Maybe I’ll even write one someday.

Until then, I’ll be here, enjoying the summer, enjoying my healthy, strong body while I have it, enjoying the wisdom and foolishness of my elders and my peers, enjoying the pleasure of my work, and using my skills to make other lives a little fuller, a little more silly and joyful. And taking notes on who to haunt when my consciousness is free to observe without limits 😉

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And Ode to Lunch

As teeth sink into that first bite, hunger enhances sensation.

Delicate bun, perfectly browned on top, the tenderest crumb, and yet it doesn’t fall apart. How? I can taste the malt powder they use in the bake. Helps it get that perfect tan, and gives it a sweet, nutty flavor.

The patties are firm, almost tough, heavy with beef flavor and fat. They break apart into smaller and smaller pieces, blending, mellowing, but never disappearing.

Bright yellow cheese product, an American single, that slice directly out of childhood. It is the only cheese appropriate for this kind of burger. The only thing that will melt, and yet not split. It glues the paper to the sandwich, and the sandwich to itself.

Lettuce that used to be crisp, still more crisp than the foods it accompanies, comes dressed in the fast food melange: yellow mustard and generic bulk mayo. It likes to slip out the sides, no gods, no masters, ruled only by a quick mouth that sips fallen leaves from that cheesy paper wrapping.

And pickles. Those tangy sweet nuggets that bring it all together. They somehow hold their own against the salt and the fat and the sugar, staying crunchy despite their minute mince. There are spices in the vinegar, permeating the cucumbers, coriander and bay and sweet green summertime.

Creaminess, sweetness, nuttiness, meatiness, crispness, firmness, sourness, all in one overwhelming and yet humdrum familiar bite, the bite that is the Dick’s Deluxe.

Happy summer, my friends.

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Oh my god, the weather!!!

A couple of weeks ago, I went hiking, and it was miserable. I have my tried and true favorites, but I like to mix it up regularly with new hikes. Once summer is here and I can range farther afield, I’ll start doing overnight trips and camping more, and I know there are dozens of stunning places to visit. Unfortunately on this hike I re-learned a valuable lesson about instagram: it very poorly reflects reality.

To be fair, I learned about the Wonderland Trail on instagram, and everything I hear about it says it will be incredible. Franklin Falls, on the other hand, was a vague, wet, crowded disappointment. 

First, the weather. I’ve gone hiking in cold, wet snow before. Most of the time I’m under tree cover so it evens out, and I’ve got lots of layers so as long as I stay moving, I can keep warm. This was not the case this time. I walked in slush for an hour before encountering any good tree cover, and even then it was more wet than snowy. Waterproof boots helped, but it’s just no fun.

Then, the road. Because federal employees have been fired en masse, there aren’t enough rangers to maintain roads, camp sites, or bathrooms, so they’ve closed them. Instead of driving up to a snow park and ranging the network of trails, it’s two miles on slushy pavement, paralleling the freeway the whole time, before you get to the scenery.

And the people. I am glad that people have the opportunity to get out and about, but I wish they’d get about somewhere else. Even with the road closure and the bad weather, the trail was well traveled. Off-leash dogs, loud talking, and tromped down snow at the falls just made the wilderness feel not wild at all.

Finally, and this is entirely on me, the freeway is right there. I reached the end of the trail, this frozen falls supposedly tucked away in a stunning glade, and stood observing the dropped packs, the dogs, and what I consider an actual crowd when out hiking. As I stood, nonplussed and rapidly cooling, a loud roar went by overhead, followed by a cascade of dirty brown snow. It arced over the edge of the I90 bridge and floated, a slushy spray of dirt and grease and rubber particulate, into the valley.

Also I found a definitely human poo on the trail.

Not a great hike.

But I try to go once a week regardless and so I rallied and, with not a lot of time to spare, I snuck out to good old Mount Si the very next one. With only four hours to work with, I decided to race to the top, pause briefly for a snack and a hot cup of broth, and then race back down again.

A mile and a half in, it became clear that without fuel, I wasn’t going anywhere fast, so I stopped for my snacks early.

Then, waiting for water to boil, I stopped.

Often when I hike, I have a constant mental monologue going. I think about what’s wrong with the world and my friends and myself, and get a lot of my kvetching done silently (and sometimes out loud) while my body runs on autopilot. If the hike is really good, I’ll get focused on the trail and other concerns fall to the background. But background doesn’t mean stopped. I rarely just stop and meditate, but for some reason, this time, I did. I enjoyed my warm cup of coffee, and my hot broth, and I looked at the blowdowns and the green and the sunshine filtering through the trees.

And for a moment I stopped.

When I started again, I had vastly readjusted my expectations for the day. No peaks for me. I didn’t have time after my pause, for one, and the weather was nice for the first time in months. Like, really nice. Balmy, mostly sunny, with no real wind, and a pleasant scent of fresh air. I got back on the trail and headed for my second favorite spot in that trail network: the overlook on talus loop trail.

If you’ve been up there, you’ll know what I’m talking about. It’s the only place outside of Teneriffe falls trail that crosses boulder fields, and trail crews put in a little bench when they built it. You can sit and look out over North Bend and have a snack and sometimes see mountain goats making their way from there to here.

And if you were there this week, right around noon, and you were veeeeeery very quiet, you might have seen something fun.

Topless Sunbathing Hike

I must have spent a solid half hour soaking in some of the early spring sunshine. I wasn’t flashing the mountain the entire time, but I did get a little vitamin D on my DD’s.

Sitting, lounging, sometimes downright lying around on a stone slab on a mountainside, I relaxed for the first time in a while. I can do it in a sauna, which I get to do on occasion, and in the bath, but there is just nothing like feeling the warmth of steady sunshine soaking in. It starts at the most superficial layer and melts into you, slowly warming skin, muscle, until finally your very bones loosen.

At one point, listening to the faraway calls of songbirds, the gentlest whisper of wind through the trees, I thought to myself “I am so happy, I think I could cry.”

I’ve been hiking weekly for well over a year, getting into shape, and planning several very long trips for this summer. And I’m finally ready to start offering hiking dates. Urban hikes of up to three hours (800USD) might involve doing the Queen Anne stairs or an extra long loop at Greenlake. Woodland hikes of around five hours (1200USD) would include me bringing along all the snacks and water we need, and planning for a short stop to picnic. These are social dates only, and of limited availability. They are intended to help me help you get outdoors, to create opportunities for us to deepen our connection, and to help me worry less about being enough as I continue my fitness journey. Still have questions? Ask me at our next appointment and we can make plans!

I am so excited for this summer. I expect it will be full of camping, hiking, swimming, kayaking, sunbathing, and fooling around with my sponsors and patrons. You all are fabulous humans and I am so fortunate to have you in my corner. Things are getting scary out there and being ok has become a radical act of protest. I would not be ok without you, and without the freedom and affection and support you offer.

Thank you.

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I am in love with my planner.

Two years ago, a friend of mine mentioned how much she adored her custom daily planner. The only millennial I’d ever met who still uses a physical appointment book is Danielle, so I was surprised to find that my tech babe friend deliberately took herself offline every day to plan and record it. I was intrigued enough to try it so I ordered a semi-customizable planner for myself. Fifty-two weeks of doodles to fill in, stickers to place, half hours to schedule, habits to track, and notes to make arrived a few weeks into 2023.

As with most new projects, I was religious about filling it in at first.

Unlike most new projects, I kept filling it in. Then I filled in some more.

Before I knew it, the year was nearly over and I had filled in every day. I tracked how many glasses of water I drank, how many hours I worked, I wrote down what I had for dinner and even filled in evenings with large blocks labeled “Hyrule” or “nature shows” and even, sometimes, “dick all the way around.” At the end of the year, I went back and thumbed through it. It was revelatory.

You see, I struggle with feelings of inadequacy. I should work more, do more admin and marketing, exercise more, read more, socialize more, be… more… somehow. And without a good sense of what I was doing, all I could think about was how much I wasn’t. Learning French (faster). Learning to draw. Learning to play an instrument. Joining a choir. Volunteering. Building. Exercising.

Being able to look back and see how much I actually did, how often I worked on a project or got some middling task finished, how often I achieved the simple tasks of existence, and, crucially, how much farther along on larger goals I was than I had been months back, was a huge, freeing experience.

Every evening, I sit down and check off the tasks I completed. Then I fill in my mood and habit trackers. I look forward to the days ahead and try to plan how to use my time. Finally I add a line to my self-care journal, and if I’m feeling fancy I add stickers to celebrate or laugh at anything special or unusual. The planner came with several sheets and why not go through them? They’re fun!

I’m a few weeks into my third now, and, though I’m not quite as religious about it as I was, I still go in and fill the spaces with my daily minutia. It’s done the work of helping me feel less inadequate, so I’m not as religious about planning my days and checking things off, but I am happy to have the data, because one of my favorite things at the back is the year in review.

There is room at the end of the planner for a variety of optional pages. Daily gratitude journal, mood and habit tracker, workout tracker, doodles, sudoku, class schedule, maps, places to make lists of books, movies, or TV to watch, all kinds of things, including two pages full of prompts to review the past year and set intentions for the new one. As an acknowledgment that the future is impossible to predict, I only ever use pencil in my planner… except on these two pages.

Before I fill in the page, I write a long entry in my journal. I try to be as honest as possible, even when it’s not flattering. I roll the prompts around in my head and let the words spill onto the page. Sometimes where I land is far from where I started. I like it as an exercise, and by the time I’m done, I have good, comfortable, short answers to pen in.

Then I get to make plans. Something I want to do, things I want to learn, things I want to spend more, or less time or money on… things like that. I still journal about them, but it’s a more hopeful sort of journaling. Lots of plans and hopes, fewer mistakes. I don’t often spend as much time on it, because I’l be revisiting as the year churns by.

So far I’ve only had one opportunity to compare the coming year forecast to the past year retrospective. I didn’t opt for those pages in my first planner, so 2023 only got a reflection, not a prediction. But 2024 I got to start with Growth, Ease, and Power as my three words to describe my expectations and then end with Comfortable, Tough Talks, and Obstacle Course Racing! As my three words (generously defined) to describe the previous year. To see how my expectations were met in unexpected ways was one of many pleasures.

I think my favorite example of reassessing my strategies was my intention to bust my yarn stash. I know how to knit, and have completed some really cool projects. A huge, gorgeous fluffy blanket scarf, a variety of hats, some of which are still regularly worn, gloves (difficult, badly fitting, but lovely), half of a pillowcase for a sofa cushion… And I’ve always wanted to knit myself a cardigan. There’s a yarn store in my neighborhood and some of the fibers are irresistible. Simply stunning. Why buy a cashmere sweater when I can make one!?!

Well, because it’s hard, it takes forever, and it makes your hands hurt. Halfway through last year I realized that I simply wasn’t going to bust my stash in the traditional way. So I decided to shift tactics and bust it by gifting it to a friend who actually does fiber craft. Not often, not quickly, but consistently. I saved a few skeins back to maybe someday finish that pillowcase, but I gave up the part of my identity that said “knitter” and softened it to “knows how to knit.”

And that’s ok. Someday I’ll table the label “hiker” too, probably, in favor of “has really good boots.” It’ll make room for a different interest, which in turn will probably also make room for the next.

But that’s what the year end reflection is about! It’s to see how far I landed from where I thought I’d be, a reminder to redouble my efforts in some areas, a chance to abandon my plans in others. An opportunity to set lofty goals, knowing that sometimes close is close enough, and sometimes I’ll reach them through unconventional means.

So what did I write for 2025? Achievement, settling in, and experimentation. I’m excited. Optimistic, like I’m close enough to understanding myself to hack life. I want to hike the Wonderland Trail and do some end-of-life financial planning. I’ll be challenged to safely complete the Trail, and all the other hikes I’ve got planned before and after. I’ll also be challenged supporting my best friend as her partner struggles with a chronic, and worsening, illness.  I want to learn to draw, to use a map and compass, to hammock camp, and to play the guitar. I look forward to lingering on my hikes, drinking in the views, and to Dragon Con in September. I want to spend more time meditating, drawing, practicing doing things with my left hand more, and reading. I want to spend both less and more money saving. I want to begin surrogate partner training, and I want to stop being tied to my phone so closely.

These are the results of hours of thought, and will be the subject of more as the year goes by. It’s only been nine weeks so far and I’m already making small progress. Added a few bits to a costume. Got an ultralight stove to camp with. Helped with a big move. And had not one but three “perfect weeks” where I did at least one each of a run, a weight lifting session, yoga, a hike, and a pull-ups drill.

I had a big weekend last week and got to fill in my days with “birthday dinner” and “cat sitting” and “naps”. This week it’ll be “Pilates” and “hike” and “work (DUO!)” and “Grocery Shopping”. And in six months I’ll wonder how I stayed busy when work was so slow, and I’ll flip back to see that I spent time with my friends, my books, my colleagues, and my self, all of which move me towards my goals.

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Three out of five spicy

When I began in this world, over ten years ago now, I really dove in. Not deeply, necessarily, but with broad interest that covered anything remotely sexual. Most of what I thought of when I imagined kink didn’t appeal to me. Giving up control, being struck with objects or hands, being tied… But I did find it fascinating. And I met people who did like it. I learned about what they liked and wanted and found pleasure or safety in. I watched, with excited fascination, a lot of people doing a lot of things to a lot of other people that I didn’t at all want done to me.

Over time, I gathered knowledge. Bits and bobs here and there, accumulating in the corners of my mind at the same time toys accumulated in drawers, whims and requests and gifts relegated to storage. I didn’t use them much. One or two favorites saw the light of day, but the rest sat, organized and gathering dust.

Until now.

I have been asked before, more than once, whether I would offer sensual domination. I’ve always demurred. Between the genuine risk of injury, my own lack of training, and my aversion to pain or discomfort, I’ve never been sure I could do a good job. But I’ve been feeling stagnant of late, looking to add to my repertoire, so this time, when a trusted friend made a gentle inquiry, I said what the hell and went for it.

Turns out I’m kind of into it.

I spent my early FBSM years learning it. First in official, actual massage school to learn how to do it properly, then in constant practice to get good at it. My style evolved as I mastered first one skill set, then another, and another. Now I get to master another still!

I’m opting out of the formal education route this time. Several years ago, I spoke seriously to a bondassage instructor to have them fly to Seattle and spend a weekend instructing myself and a friend. Ultimately, the price tag put me off it, but it wasn’t just that. Bondassage is a trademarked protocol and, while it comes with certification and certainty, it’s also confining. It’s someone else’s way of doing things, which is fine and lovely and not really for me.

Instead, I am experimenting. I cut a hole in my old massage table and played around with it. I LOVE having a milking table, but I didn’t find them ready made to order from anywhere I trusted, and my hack job, while functional, doesn’t meet my standards. I hope to get something custom designed in the future, but for now, it will make the occasional appearance.

Other long forgotten toys have come out of the closet. A series of insertables, some vibrating friends, things that prickle and tickle and sting… For someone who finds sensations of interest, a collection of items that deliver such a variety of them is of interest indeed.

Since that first “fuck it, why not” I have entertained a small cadre of familiar gentleman callers. Some were expected, others a surprise. I’ve learned from everyone, and some have learned a thing or two from me.

Because I come from a sensual massage background instead of a BDSM background, my personal style is still very sensation oriented versus domination oriented. I don’t ask for special titles, and I am not inclined to humiliate my darlings. I don’t dress any differently than I usually do; no spiked heels or latex for me. I default to my hands and my teeth as my primary tools, and we will almost certainly reach my limits before we reach yours. For now.

For those seeking a little spice in their massages, I will be a good fit. For those who wish to do a little experimenting, you are welcome here. And for the adventurous folks who can’t get enough, I have a few friends who would be very happy to join us. They’d like to remain anonymous to the general public so for the purposes of this post they are known as the sprite, with an impish spirit and a boisterous laugh, the goddess, firm but kind, and the demon, harmless to the flesh but evil to the mind. Each of my special friends brings their own flavor to the session: like trying a different dish from the same restaurant. The curious are welcome to reach out with questions.

If you’ve been curious, but shy to take part, I encourage you to try me. I’m not going to spit on you, or degrade you, I won’t call you names or leave mysterious bruises anywhere. For that there are many more capable and willing than I. All we will do is explore a little, see what works and what doesn’t, and maybe open some doors you didn’t know you had.

Or maybe some of mine 😉

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Tomorrow is my birthday!

I turn 36 tomorrow. Valentine’s day. I rarely go out on my actual birthday. I don’t like fixed menus, people who don’t usually go out, trying to impress their girlfriends, crowds… so you can almost always find me enjoying my lovely birthday evening a day or two before or after.

Tomorrow will be much like any other day, for me. I’ll be up around seven, get myself some coffee, check my emails, maybe stare out the window a while. Be bleary-eyed and greet the morning slowly.

I’ll go for a walk, maybe a hike, talk to a friend or family member, play some puzzle games, look at too much internet, entertain a guest at work…

And yet it’s not like every other day.

I’m not young anymore. And that’s not me saying I’m old. I’m not old yet by any stretch.

But some of my wide eyed innocence and optimism has cooled. I’m still painfully optimistic in many ways, but my expectations have been tempered. Realism seeps through, the way the damp seeps through the walls of my tent. I’m still glad I’m camping, but I know it’ll be brisk once I leave my sleeping bag and I’ll have to move around a bit before I can get comfortable.

In someways it’s a bummer. I don’t get fired up the way I used to. The wonder of discovery comes to me less often now; I have to seek it out where before it fell at my feet. My standards for words and food and people are higher, so I enjoy fewer of them than I once did. I’ve seen so many iterations of my own faulty behavioral patterns that they irritate me when I don’t stop them in time.

And yet…

I’m able to discover things more obscure than before. The joy of understanding comes to me more often. The words and people and food that I do enjoy, I spend more time with. I am slowly growing closer and closer to being the kind of person I want to be.

I’m not as slender as I was in my twenties, but my strength and stamina are far greater. The looming specter of old age has made me determined to stay moving and functional as much and as long as possible.

I’m not as passionate as I was in my twenties, but I’m more composed now.

I’m not as firm and pert as I was in my twenties, but the sex I have now is so much more satisfying.

I don’t think younger me could have imagined the life I lead. A younger me had more paths available. More energy. But I do think younger me would be very happy with me now, and I’m looking forward to finding out what’s next.

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This is for you.

If you’re wondering if you are the you I I mean, the answer is yes.

You are the shy one. The nerd. The writer. The florist. You are the book pimp. the games designer. The immigrant. The hobby farmer. The movie buff. You are living the health journey. The dating game. This newly discovered world of hired companions. You just turned thirty. Forty. Fifty. You hike. You search. You run. You sail. You raft. You write.

You have found, in my presence, joy. Pleasure. Meaning. Confidence. Inspiration. Collaboration. An invitation.

I have found, in yours, also joy. Also pleasure. Different meaning. More confidence. Inspiration. Awe. Fear. Confusion. Helplessness. Irritation. Astonishment. Disappointment. Love. Gratitude.

And, inevitably, repeatedly: the reignition of joy.

Every year, today, I give thanks. And every year, I feel it more. As I learn and grow, adapt and change, I return over and over to the truth, the inevitable conclusion, that I am lucky as God damned fuck.

Somehow, at the end of twisting Corridor of un-unmakeable choices, you are here, with me, and, somehow, by some unfathomable fate, it is good. Still. Somehow.

And for that I give thanks on a day that, for many, is not a day of gratitude. I thank you for your part in making it good for me.