Comfortable Discomfort

It’s been difficult to find inspiration lately. I started writing in 2013 because I was inspired. Life was so full and beautiful and because of what it was full of, I didn’t have may places to share. Many novelists write best when they’re depressed, drawing inspiration from pain. I don’t do that well. I draw inspiration from beauty and luscious life.

Life hasn’t been terribly luscious lately.

Through the window seeps a sepia light, the modern world driven by smoke back into the forties. My throat stings. I’m hungry but dislike the thought of venturing out to solve the problem. (I ordered a pizza. Gift cards to Tutabella are going over well right now.) Thank modern technology for climate control.

People are my coping mechanism. The pressure to show up somewhere and focus 100% of my attention on the interaction. It’s a hurdle to vault but rarely a difficult one and it has always helped me keep moving forward. Appointments, friend trips, family gatherings… these things both large and small break my inertia. Without them, I can become so settled into place that the effort to move is close to overwhelming.

Fortunately, because I’m an energetic extrovert, that’s never been a problem before. Unfortunately, because it’s never been a problem before, when it did become a problem, when my most effective coping mechanism to battle my procrastination tendencies evaporated into thick and literally choking air, I didn’t really know what to do.

At first I enjoyed the slow down. I had been burned out for a while and an outside reason to slack was welcome.

Then I reacted with my characteristic need to do something to prove that my self identity as a productive person was still true. I made a beautiful artistic offering to offset my guilt at accepting aid.

Then I reacted with anger that life wasn’t moving forward and that there was very little I could do about it.

Once, a few years ago, I was at the Frye with some friends and one room was set aside for the works of Tschabalala Self (https://tschabalalaself.com/current). They were exaggerated black figures, some grotesque in proportion, others in their media. Designed to force the viewer to confront feelings around and stereotypes in black sexuality, they made me uncomfortable. Fortunately, there was a docent available to talk about the artist and her works. We spent a half hour or so discussing and sitting with the art, letting the discomfort do its job. By the time we left, I hadn’t necessarily become comfortable with the images, but I had become comfortable with my discomfort.

That’s how I feel about the current state of the world. The air is poison, our government has lost all credibility in the world, my clients are afraid to see me… I’m not ok with those things. They suck and there’s very little I can do about that.

This morning, a pinched fingertip turned into a primal scream therapy session and it felt so, so, incredibly normal. Like… yes. This is the correct way to handle the shit that surrounds us and the ensuing frustration at one’s complete and utter inability to get things done.

I’m comfortable with my discomfort. I do not feel shame for my fear. I do not worry about whether I’m ‘a productive person’. My anger is perfectly reasonable. This shit sucks, guys.

Not to turn every blog post I write ever into an advertisement, but the only times anything has felt normal this summer are times when we’re here, in my air conditioned apartment, with the curtains drawn to block out the world, music playing, hearts beating, orgasms and laughter echoing off the chandelier. For a moment, the world feels normal. For a bit, things feel clean and safe and mutually supportive. 2020 has robbed me of my illusions of control. When you’re here, for a moment, I have it back.

Thanks to those who have shared these moments with me, and for those who are coming soon. I fucking miss you.

COVID rants

I’ve spent a TON of time lately thinking and talking about precautions around viral transmission. Yes, I’m the one who wrote the big scary STD post ages ago and I STILL think about cross contamination, viral load, exposure risks, etc.

Every breath you exhale carries thousands of micro droplets. Sneezes and coughs carry many more, and larger, droplets as well. Speaking falls somewhere in the middle. Normally we cover coughs and sneezes because those droplets can get, like, visibly and ickily large, and it’s not hard to tuck your face into a sleeve or hankie for a few seconds. We don’t cover our breathing because it’s too uncomfortable to be worth it and we don’t cover our speaking because it’s even more uncomfortable, and makes it much harder for said speaking to be understood.

This virus has changed those priorities because the risks have shifted. It lives longer outside the body and, when contracted, kills more than other airborne viruses we’ve encountered in a very long time. Now we cover our mouths when speaking or breathing in the general vicinity of other people, and limit the chance of any stray droplets reaching our loved ones by staying far enough away that said droplets are unlikely to reach their eyes, noses, or mouths in high enough concentration to establish infection.

Cool. So wearing a cloth face covering, surgical mask, or N95 respirator inside buildings or small spaces makes a huge amount of sense. Droplets are more likely to hang in the air inside a building than outside where air moves much more freely so minimizing them coming out of us is great. Standing six or more feet away from your friends while outside speaking to each other is super helpful in managing the risks of droplet contamination. Also, this virus is highly vulnerable to simple soap and water. Any time you re-enter your home, it’s a good idea to wash your hands thoroughly with soap and water. If you’re very worried, ditto with your groceries and deliveries whenever possible.

These are great ways to limit risk of exposure to this exciting new virus and help protect yourself and those around you.

All of my precautions I take are to protect the people around me. Perhaps I simply haven’t confronted my own mortality yet, but my age and clear health history leads me to believe I am at low risk for hospitalization. Not seeing clients who are in constant contact with the public, seeing clients much less often than usual, social distancing from my friends and family, shopping less frequently and more efficiently, wearing a cloth face covering when doing so… I do these things not to prevent getting COVID-19 but to minimize the chance, if I contract it, of spreading it to my community.

I also suspended my cancellation policy for the first few weeks when there was less information and preparedness than there is now. I heavily encourage anyone who is stressed or paranoid about catching this to just stay home. Families with immune compromised folks? Stay home. Underlying conditions that put you at high risk for hospitalization? Stay home. I’ll feel much better once we see a high number of people successfully vaccinated and being successfully treated in hospitals but until then… if you’re not going to the grocery store, don’t come see me, either.

I was once told that you cannot mitigate all risk and that has stayed with me ever since. If I never took any risks, I wouldn’t have the incredible life I have now. I work in an illegal industry, making intimate contact with new people al the time. I take risks every day, and so do you. We cannot prevent tragedy or disaster by cutting ourselves off from the world, though we can make sensible decisions to limit both the chances of bad things happening and the results should they happen anyway.

So, my beloved darling, when you ask if we can wear canister filter respirators during our appointment, I say no. Because that tells me that you either understand how they work and are only interested in protecting yourself, or you don’t know how they work which is even worse. I adore you, and I would love to see you, and I will wait until I can kiss you without instilling fear in your heart. Because what we do here is loving, gentle, connected, and I would be failing you if I agreed to contaminate that with fear.

If you’re comfortable going to the grocery store and shopping during busy hours, you can feel comfortable that, though the degree of contact you and I make is much deeper, it is also contact I am making with many fewer folks. I leave it up to your to weigh your need for human touch and a drop of normalcy against your health concerns, and to make adjustments you see fit. I already trust you to make smart health decisions. That has not changed.

Now. For the ranting.

We’ve gone over why we wear face coverings, right? It’s (mostly) to protect those around you. So why are people wearing them alone in their cars with the windows up!?!?!! Who are you protecting!!!??! I just… I suppose if your hands are contaminated and you don’t want to touch it but you will when you get home…. ok, that kinda makes sense. And delivery drivers, totally. But you’re alone inside your own vehicle!! Why are you wearing a mask!?!

And on the other hand: Why, you absolute moron, did you pull your face covering OFF YOUR FACE to LEAN IN and SPEAK to the poor guy behind the cheese counter!?!??!! Speaking is WAY worse than simply breathing, and you were wearing your hankie while you shopped. WHY DID YOU TAKE IT OFF!!%&$??@!# If that’s how you’re going to wear it, just don’t wear it at all and make it clear to the rest of us to steer clear.

And then there’s: walking into the center of a street in order to keep social distance between us *while wearing masks and jogging OUTSIDE with the breeze blowing*!?!!? You’d rather risk getting hit by car in order to keep 12 feet between us than simply hold your breath for the single second it will take to pass me 4 feet away and reach the fresh air on the other side of me? Do you even understand fluid dynamics and air flow? WTF people!?

And the crown jewel: A provider who feels that wearing a mask during an appointment with a client affords her meaningful protection. As if spending 30+ minutes breathing heavily in the same small, badly ventilated space is going to be magically mitigate by a wisp of fabric. Fabric face coverings work by limiting the potential of one person receiving a high enough viral load from the other to cause infection. But unless you’re both wearing a type of mask that forms a seal against the face and filters out particulate, the amount of time and type of interaction you’re having makes that a futile gesture. You know how everyone is complaining about fogging up their glasses while wearing masks? Yeah. That’s all contaminated air that, without good ventilation or filtering, just hangs out in the air. Even if she wears her N95 mask, unless the client is, too, as soon as she takes it off and takes a deep breath there goes her protection. You also have switch out masks regularly in order to maintain their effectiveness which is why washable fabric is so highly recommended right now. That and the heavier duty single use stuff is going to people who need it more.

I’m not upset at people taking precautions, I’m upset at people taking precautions THAT AREN’T EFFECTIVE. It tells me that they aren’t taking the time to understand why hey wear a mask or keep their distance, they’re just blindly following orders. For the same reason I HATE pedestrians who don’t look both ways before stepping into a crosswalk, I get angry at people improperly using their PPE. I love that someone walked to a marked intersection and waited for the light to change. But a crosswalk, much like a mask, isn’t a force field. It as flaws and often fails. Someone wearing a mask, alone, in their car, is someone who went to the trouble to walk to a crosswalk and then didn’t bother to look before crossing. Sure, they’re probably fine and it’s better than crossing without looking *not* at a crosswalk, but I’ll just be over here, crossing mostly at crosswalks but occasionally in the middle of the street, and obsessively looking both ways the whole time. I’ll be wearing my cloth face covering when it’s most effective, and making other decisions designed to protect my community while still maintaining a degree of normalcy when possible.

Wish List

I have many things. When I desire new things, I generally purchase them for myself without worrying. However, there are occasions where what I want and what I feel comfortable purchasing are not the same thing. Hopefully you can help me there.

Here I will list, when I find them, things that intrigue me, things I would love to own, consumer, or otherwise experience, that are beyond my means.

https://www.rollingstone.com/culture/culture-features/the-ethical-slut-inside-americas-growing-acceptance-of-polyamory-112319/
https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Drawn-to-Sex/Erika-Moen/9781620105443

CumSter

She knelt between my thighs as I lay down, listening intently to my instructions. “Slow in and out. The moment of penetration is the most stimulating, the stretch as it gets wider again and again.”

She watched carefully, slipping the long black silicone cock into me and out again, listening for words and sounds of encouragement. She went too deep once or twice, too fast for a moment, but sooner than I thought possible she found the perfect rhythm.

As she used her cock to fuck me slowly, I closed my eyes and went to work on my clit. My fetish is cum; cocks coming in, on, or near me revs my engine so that’s what I thought of first. Then I got curious and brought to mind the image of her riding me, dripping on me, coming on me slippery and sticky and smelling like pussy.

Turns out I am a gender inclusive cum slut, hahaha!

Between the rhythmic stretch as the head of her cock slipped out and in again, my own practiced fingertips, and this startlingly effective visualization, I went from not particularly aroused to orgasm faster than I have ever done before. Of course there was all that foreplay so my *mind* was primed, but I can’t even make myself come that fast.

Props to you, my dear. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to return the favor this time but I have a hunch that next time we meet, at least someone is going to give you that orgasm we missed today.

About the title:

I find it amusing to make fun of the way society likes to view people like me; people who do what I do or things similar. In this particular case, I’m making fun of the way I used to feel about people in porn. The first pornographic video I watched was a tear streaming throat fucking video. I was repulsed and pitied the girl for something that she so clearly disliked.

Then I started having sex and met other people who do, too. I realized that some things I didn’t think I’d like are actually pretty great and others I thought I’d love are not my jam. Also that there’s no sexual thing out there that *someone* doesn’t like. The phrase ‘cum dumpster’ is derogatory but it accurately describes one of my most arousing fantasies. To be tied (in a comfortable and stable position, with an attendant for my comfort and safety, preferably on a bit of adjustable height furniture for the comfort of my lovers) down and held helpless as cock after cock cums in or on my pussy. Not that they run a train and fuck me until they come, no. This is bukkake plain and simple. Except not on my face. To see and feel a constant stream of hot, sticky orgasms is… well, let’s just say I’m feeling myself respond even as I write this.

I found my realization, that the image of women coming *also* aroused me like that, was fun. A pleasurable expansion of my sexual repertoire. The phrase and it’s very filthiness amused me so I used it. Plus cum dumpster has a more pleasing semirhyme to it than cum slut.

To The Hilt

The sides of my wrist were pinked with hyperemia, more blood flow than usual, the way my neck blushes when I’m excited or your ears burn when you’re nervous. My forearm, finally freed, was at the end of its limits and relaxed only very slowly. I’ve always wanted to have a cock so I could feel, from inside, a woman contracting with orgasm, clenching my cock as she shuddered and spasmed. I may not have a nice, thick cock, but I do have very small hands.

I went slow at first, like I need with an unusually thick cock. Let the muscles ringing her pussy relax and give her a chance to slip onto my hand instead of just pushing into her. Just a little stretch and once the thickest part of whatever is doing the fucking is past the choke point, the little pain goes away and all there is is pleasure.

She was worried that it would be too much, after a surgery and long recovery, and after two already fuck-full hours, but he kept watching over my shoulder with delight and encouraging her, reminding her that we were there for her pleasure and I could speak up for myself if I was overwhelmed and that, in the past, when they had gently overcome her resistance, she had been happy they had.

Three fingers, a little less than his cock, slipped in easily. Four wasn’t far behind and in no time at all my relaxed hand, all four fingers and my thumb, gentle and constant, pressed its way in. As I felt my fingertips reach the back of her, I curled them as gently as I could to form a full fist. A loose fist at first, feeling her dimensions and watching her face for cues of pain or pleasure. She gave me excellent directions and encouragement, asking for more, bigger, thicker, stronger.

Given what I know about my own equipment, I wondered if perhaps what she was asking for was more stretch, right down at the base. I tightened my grip to make my fist as wide as I could, turned it sideways to maximize pressure, and pulled back until I felt strong resistance.

If you’ve never felt a woman with a strong pelvic floor contract in orgasm around your wrist, you’ve missed out on a truly incredible experience. I hope feeling it around your cock is as good. I felt like some insane sex goddess, watching and feeling and hearing her come this incredible, fierce, powerful orgasm, back arched and muscles rigid, moans and yells and eventually deep, rich, velvety screams. Her husband watched, absolutely over the moon, as his wife, his woman, got fisted by this slight, busty pro. From the corner of my eye I could see his gaze flickering between my face, her face, and her pussy, dripping wet onto the pillows. The sounds and the smell of her fresh sweat, the sight of her writhing and shuddering, my wicked happy grin, our three naked forms working to give her every sensation she asked for.

With the aftershocks of her orgasm heating us all, I slowly withdrew and thought we were done. He was so excited at the sight of my tiny wet hand slipping out of his woman’s glowing cunt that he asked me to do it again. She was done, she said, but she thought she could handle a few more ins and outs before she would need a cool shower and another glass of champagne. Well, this is what happens when two people who know each other inside and out make suggestions. Neither she nor I knew that she had one, final, loud, body wracking, firestorm of an orgasm left in her.

As I slipped in the second time, I thought it was simply to please her husband. To our surprise but not his, she gasped and suddenly changed her mind about being done. This time, she was warmed up and demanding more. I remembered something he mentioned offhand about her G Spot so I turned my wrist and curled my entire hand up in a ‘come hither’ motion. The flat of my four knuckles put full, broad, strong pressure directly into it.

It’s things like this that make me a little jealous. With 15 years on me and twenty with the same encouraging and open minded partner, she comes harder, faster, and stronger than I do. I wasn’t keeping track but I know I was responsible for at least four orgasms (six if you count his) and got an assist in at least two more. Based on volume and sheer heat, they felt powerful, possibly even overwhelming.

With my fist balled as wide and hard as I could get it, fucking her as fast and as hard as I could, watching and hearing her (and him) enjoying every wet sloppy minute of it, I felt like Aphrodite, Loki, Hera, and Athena all at once. (yes, I know I’m mixing mythologies. You would, too.)

Today I am reminded of last night with every step. Our interlude with the strap on gave me a tender pubic bone and my right forearm and my back are reminding me of just how little I cared about them last night. His length, strength, and vigor left me exhausted inside and her insatiable pussy tuckered out the rest of me. Nothing hurts, darlings. I know you’re reading this and you’ll worry about me. I pay other people money to make me do far less fun exercise and feeling sore the next day is part of the satisfaction. Part of the pleasure. Part of the experience.

Young lady. Nice boy. You two are a gem as a unit and as someone who only knew you for a few hours, I’m pleased on your behalf for your openness, your adventurousness, your confidence, and your inspiration. Would that all wives welcome the chance to come for hours on end. Would that all husbands listened to what their wives wanted and helped nudge them towards it. I’ll see you two again, I’m sure of it. Just give me a few days for my arms to recover 😉

Imposition

Impostor syndrome (also known as impostor phenomenon, impostorism, fraud syndrome or the impostor experience) is a psychological pattern in which an individual doubts their accomplishments and has a persistent internalized fear of being exposed as a “fraud”.

I know I am not the only one to have ever experienced this terrifying voice in the corner (and sometimes the very center) of your mind. The doubter that suggests you’re not qualified for the position you hold. In some cases this voice can be crippling but in mine, it spurs me. Usually.

Not a day goes by that I don’t remember how well my life suits me, how much freedom and pleasure I enjoy, how (I think) I’m helping folks learn and grow in their bodies, and that it could all come crashing down around my ears at any moment. Every day, or at least every few days, I wonder when my upward momentum will reach exhaustion and begin coming back down. Given all the mediocrity and downright misery in the world, who am I to deserve such joy?

So I try to justify it. I read and write and try to exercise enough to make me feel that I’ve earned my place. I take classes and process information and synthesize it and still I’m pretty sure it isn’t enough. I often seek assurance from close friends that I am actually as good as I think I am and they tell me where I am strong and where I can keep working. And yet the voice never quite quiets.

And yet… My conversations with Betty brought me a strange peace. She asked me: what if I were enough? What would my life look like if I didn’t have to overextend myself and constantly earn others’ approval? At first I tried to give concrete answers but after several unsatisfactory attempts, all I could sob out was that I “just want people to like me!”

After that conversation, two hours that ended, as they always do, in heavy, sobbing, cathartic tears, my imposter syndrome shifted from deeply personal to academic. Something that no longer dragged me into ‘yes’s I didn’t mean but instead informed my decisions to move forward or not, as needed to address legitimate shortcomings. Instead of pressuring myself into tolerating things that stressed me, I can choose to tolerate, or not, as I see fit, without that added layer of guilt or shame.

Though I have not lost my constant sense of faking compentence, it no longer controls me.

Have you ever asked yourself these questions? What if you were enough? What if your passion and curiosity and insecurity were enough to open doors and lead you to greater things? What if learning and growth were choices you made for yourself instead of choices made for you by that doubting voice? What if you made decisions based on what it useful and good instead of on what you think you have to do to keep the illusion? What would that look like?

Out of Bounds

I get together with my girlfriends sometimes and we talk shop. Things come up, usually just small pet peeves, but also deeper thoughts on our work, how it impacts us, how we can do it better, and how to solve problems.

A week or so ago, I was sitting around chatting and the conversation turned to breaking boundaries. Not when clients do it, but when we do. When, in an FBSM session, I let you taste me or, when in a mutual touch session, we have sex. When the moment moves us to share more than we should because it feels right. In the moment

The three of us agreed that it never ends well, not because we regret the moment or the passion, but because it nearly always leads to unmet expectations. When I’m deep in the middle of a conversation and can’t help but bleed over time, when the call of an orgasm is stronger than the will to deny it, it sets up an expectation for the next time. Or if not the very next time, then one somewhere in the nebulous future.

Though we all agreed, it wasn’t in some sort of female solidarity over men, it was with a sense of sorrow. We three adore our work and our clients and regret that we cannot allow ourselves the freedom of the moment. Nearly every time we break or bend the boundaries, eventually the client provider relationship suffers.

Never right away. The appreciation and feeling of pride lasts a while most of the time. Then the client starts to wonder if it will ever happen again. Then follow feelings of insecurity, of desire, of rejection… Sometimes, with self awareness and communication, these feelings can be headed off soon enough to maintain the relationship. All three of us have lost clients, beloved regulars who fill us with warmth and pleasure, to this trap.

We all slip sometimes. We make mistakes and go too far and wish we didn’t have to regret it. We can forgive ourselves and try to do better the next time around. I don’t regret the times I’ve let excitement carry me away. I only regret the fallout.

So if your provider allows you a bit farther than they are supposed to into their world, I hope you appreciate it for what it is and let it stand on it’s own. All three of us, talented, experienced, incredibly sensuous women, agreed that, were our clients to allow these moments to stand as they are, without letting them inspire future desire, we would feel a much greater sense of freedom in our work.

I wish this to be an inspiration for my readers. An inspiration to appreciate and adore without demanding more. Without asking. Accept your gift, freely given, and cherish it. When you find yourself expecting more and wishing for it, I encourage you to remind yourself that what you have is enough. If the reminder rings hollow and you realize that it is not, thank your provider for opening your eyes, and make changes where they are needed.

Silk and Roses

She is so pretty! That was my first thought. So slim and innocent, with perfect clear skin and long, thick, corkscrew hair. And her smile! How on earth is someone like this reaching out to someone like me?

Inexperience is nothing to be ashamed of. I have, a few times but less and less as time goes on, made a fuss about age and experience. He was 26 and had never gone down on a girl!?! She was 27 and had never been with a man!?! She was 31 and had never come!?! He was 50 and had never had sex!!?!! These things never *phase* me, but sometimes they still surprise me. Sometimes, my surprise shows, because I have no filter and have internalized beliefs about the world. Oops.

So when she reached out as a young, beautiful, bisexual woman and said she wanted to be with me to get over the hump, as it were, of having sex, I was surprised. And flattered. And excited. And nervous.

You never forget your first. Your first kiss. Your first orgasm. The first time you experience sex you truly want. Being deliberately chosen, *AND PAID* to be someone’s first is a beautiful and heavy responsibility, no matter when it comes in my client’s life.

She was unsure. That she followed up and arrived must have been an internal battle that I”m glad she won. I wondered once or twice if she would change her mind and leave. But she didn’t.

Women are more complicated, more difficult in many ways, than men. Men have this nice, highly visible barometer that tells you clearly and immediately where their sexual desire is*. Women, well, we’re a little more cryptic, and the price for a misjudgment is often higher. When I casually mentioned this, her first thought was to apologize for being more difficult than my other clients. I rarely miss so badly with my words, foolish, self absorbed personality that I can be, haha! Her reaction was such a short hop from what women in the US, particularly shy, pretty ones, are told every day. Don’t be difficult, don’t make anyone’s life harder than it needs to be.

Well fuck that. I want women to own and enjoy their hidden depths! Fuck yeah it’s harder (most of the time) to make a woman come than a man. And to know what’s going to make her come. And to hang on long enough to get it done. Generally, with a penis-having-person, you stroke it up and down. Add lube or a foreskin, a little ball play, and that’s about it. Variations in tempo and pressure, sure, but nothing like the variety in women’s pleasure packaging!

I’ve seen everything from ‘I’m not going to come but that feels nice for now’ to ‘lube your ducking hand and GET IT IN ME’ to ‘Please strap me on this penis shaped rocket and light the fuse’ when it comes to getting women off. I am, very nearly, as clueless as you are, my reader. But what I do have is the ability to read body language.

When someone is nervous, they sweat, they tremble, they avert their eyes, they need a hug and some non-eye-contact cuddling. When someone is comfortable but not aroused, their eyes are bright and willing to make contact, their breath is even, and their speech can be either animated or subdued, but is focused. When someone is aroused in a way that will probably make them come, their hips buck, their breath gets fast and loud, their cheeks (and a lot of other places) get flushed red, often their eyes close, and sometimes they start making noise. These things. I look for these things. If I’m about to go down on someone and they’re giving me nervous signals, I’m going to either stop, or proceed veeeeeeeeeery slowly and check in after making my intentions clear but before actually beginning. Trying to be sexy to someone who is nervous doesn’t work well.

Guys. This is the secret to pleasuring a woman. Not special techniques or ungodly stamina or some fancy toy, just listening to her body and allowing it to dictate where you go.

Sorry. I got a little derailed there.

She was shy, so I am holding the details for myself because I think she would prefer it, but I am compelled to write about the encounter because I think it’s important that inexperienced men and women know that I hold space for you in my practice. That your newness and shyness is charming and sweet and that being chosen to guide you along your sexual journey fills me with pleasure and pride.

So thank you, sweet girl, for trusting me. I hope to see you again and I think it would help but you don’t need it. I saw in you, in only two hours, a little boost of confidence that I think will serve you well. I didn’t treat you the way I did because I was paid to, I did it because you deserve it. You deserve to have input in your pleasure. You deserve to be asked for what you want. You deserve to give and receive the touch you want. You deserve to be with someone who values those things. And also: you’re gonna be great. Whoever you choose to share your self with is a lucky, lucky person.

*About 15% of the time, a boner does not mean what you think it means. I won’t discount this, but I will acknowledge that it’s far more often reliable than not.