Author: C S

Posted on

Oh Baby!

Some of you already know that I sometimes attend orgies. Sex parties, group humps, whatever. I’ve been to somewhere around six, I think, spread out over a few years and they’ve all been interesting. Until this most recent one, I’ve been the massage girl, showing up with oils and table, providing pleasurable respite from frantic fucking and generally encouraging boners and the like. It’s fun, if sometimes odd to be tethered to a piece of furniture, and each party has its own flavor.

This last time around, I fell in love at least five times.

With the station at the massage table occupied by a well loved colleague, I took the entire night to float free. I watched, I admired, I played with a lot of boobs, and I showed off my sleek curves to an appreciative audience.

In one room, a bearded boy lay back as his face and cock are lavished with attention while on the other bed, a similarly supine attendee enjoyed pussy on his face and cock simultaneously. I caught her eye as she rose and fell, working his shaft with her trim tight twat and we winked slyly at each other. I recognized ‘the look’ as someone’s tongue went into someone else’s ear and the receiver held their own tongue to keep the sexy rolling. I love these people.

Across the hall five lithe forms writhe in sexual straining, pussy on leg on mouth on ass as the feminine figures rocked each other to one giant multispasm-gasm. The nice boy watching with a look of utter longing earned his brownie points by keeping his cock occupied outside this momentary madame mosh.

Girl, boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl, all nude, thigh to thigh, discussing the finer points of constitutional law and the first amendment. I walk up leading him by his cock. I’m already looking forward to fucking it. Later. In private.

Her moans fill the small space as six hands butter her buns, knead her knees, and leave long, luxurious trails of coconut oil up her arms. “You’re miserable aren’t you?” we laugh. He looks like he’s in heaven, having watched his girl get satisfied all night and now taking his turn to deliver pleasure through pampering. A touching moment between a talented and enthusiastic provider and one of her ravishing regular clients.

Every time I walk past her she looks as though she’s about to eat me up. Dimples and dark hair, Jesus Christ on a cracker I want to let her but not here. I’d be too vulnerable. I want to worship her through my hands and then let her have her way with me.

His smile warms me. Why is it always the guys with the biggest piercings and the fiercest tattoos who are the teddy bears? Glints of silver enticing the eye down, no, further down, yes there.

She covers her mouth with one hand and the back of his head with the other. I can see her, even from here, showing him when to go harder, faster, slower, deeper. “Let it out!” I yell and the guttural noises, none of this plastic porn trumpeting but the kind of sounds that don’t do words, just sensations. What a champ. His beard is going to smell like her pussy for a week. I think that’s his intention.

Smoke in her eyes, fire in her hair, I finally lose the ‘who is the palest in the room’ contest. I don’t begrudge her the win. Lingerie to match the hair and the look of the predator about her. Whoever pulls her drawers out of the hat is a lucky man, indeed. Time for a trip to the freezing north. Not frigid. Far from it.

Gleefully degraded, he parades around on one end of a leash, the business end in the claws of a teensy brunette in mile high heels. She walks him around the room and commands him: “Ask her if you may spank her ass!” “Please miss, may I spank you?” “That’s not what I said. I said ask her if you may spank her ass!” a tiny crack, more sound than sensation as the crop strikes a pink cheek. “Please miss, may I spank your ass?” Later he lies back in a chair, sucking a giant fake cock as his own is dutifully administered to. He is in heaven.

I know him and I know he’s good. I’m analyzing the situation as I see it: He is fucking her firmly from behind and looking around for a cock for her to suck. Oh girl, I get it. The tip slipping past my lips, luscious silky smoothness across my tongue; there’s something so deeply focusing about sucking a cock that it’s the ultimate turn on. Well, I don’t have one of those, but I lay down under her, face to face, and tell her to kiss me. lips and tits and pretty, firm nipples will have to suffice. “Thank you” she breathes when she’s done.

Stemware in hand we admire the collection of silicone, glass, leather, and steel. Something is vibrating but we can’t tell what. I can’t believe this is my life.

Posted on

Book Review: The Talented Mister Ripley by Patricia Highsmith

I hadn’t seen the film when I began Ripley so I had no expectations going in, I hadn’t even read any reviews or criticism. I knew it was billed as a psychological thriller and somewhat of a mystery so I was surprised by what I found.

Ripley tells the story of a young man, the titular Tom Ripley, from his life as a confidence man in 1950’s New York through a stint in Italy with Marge and Dickey, a pair of young American tourists, and a period of impersonating Dickey after his murder.

Major spoilers ahead. If you don’t like those, you can watch the movie at least and I won’t ruin the book for you.

My absolute first reaction after finishing the last page was outrage! He got away with it! Two murders in cold blood, and he slipped away not only scott free but with wealth and respect. Every time the police confront him or his friends get suspicious, I waited on the edge of my seat, trying my hardest not to skip ahead, for him to get arrested or confronted. Every time he slipped away, through either his extreme talent for lies and conviction or sheer dumb luck. I hated the way he crowed over his success; his only care for the lives and families of his victims was that it would make his life more difficult.

After I finished the book I read some reviews to see how others felt and was astonished to hear him called a ‘likable sociopath.’ Tom Ripley is not likable. Tom Ripley practices facial expressions to convey emotions specifically to evoke specific responses in his audience. He prefers his own company to that of almost anyone else. He feels wronged by a world that does not afford him the privileges he sees as his due. He murders with joyful premeditation in order to right said perceived wrongs and murders again when his new fake life is threatened. He lies and lies and lies and does it very very well, so well that not only does he avoid suspicion for the two murders he committed, he ends up with his first victim’s trust fund and assets given freely by the victim’s family. It’s absurd and obscene and irritating and deliciously unsettling.

After I read the book and a few reviews, I watched the 1999 film starring Matt Damon, Jude Law, and Gwyneth Paltrow. Suddenly the likable part made sense. While literary Tom is deliberate and premeditated, cinematic Tom is very nearly a victim of circumstance. He is reactionary, his victims are less likable, he is part of a persecuted minority, he feels sadness and love, and of course we feel for him. He has done awful things and covered up for them but he didn’t choose to do them, they just… happened. With this shading of events, it is reasonable to have sympathy for him and root for his success.

Setting aside my emotional reactions for a moment, I want to commend the author for her absolutely perfect, chilling description of Tom’s thoughts and feelings as he practices his art: the art of lies and impersonation. He is The Talented Mister Ripley because his skill set is broad and impressive. A handwriting expert, he can, with practice, forge nearly any signature, writing style, and syntax, even down to the errors in spelling and grammar. His sociopathy means that he rarely experiences emotions so he studies them in others and practices mimicking them to great effect. He is a careful collector of arts, performances, experiences, languages, literature, with good taste and the attitude to enjoy totally every moment of each experience. Without the fact of murder and deception in the mix, Tom wouldn’t be such a bad guy, actually, and I’d probably enjoy hanging out with him. It’s quite likely there is someone like him among my clients and friends. Yours, too.

Probably the most disturbing aspect of Tom’s personality is his absolute cheerfulness when taking his friend Dickey out for a boating trip, knowing full well that while on the water he will murder his friend, assume his identity, and forge his signature to live a life of leisure and pleasure. Perhaps even more disturbing is how much I identified with the pleasure he takes in that life. As he sits alone at cafes in Rome and watches people go by, sips excellent wine but never gets drunk, meticulously plans trips all over Europe, and treats himself to nice meals, I see some of my own life. I sit alone in my incall, gazing out the window or reading interesting novels, sipping wine or coffee, plan trips to Hawaii or LA or New York, Imagine myself in silks and warm sunshine, and of course treat myself to the occasional fine dining experience. I don’t fault him for his desire for and appreciation of a life of luxury. I do, though, like to think mine is a more honest way of supporting that life and that I’m not quite so extravagant as to tool around Europe for the rest of my entire life.

And that’s not the only personality trait I identify with. Tom gets restless. He fakess his first victim’s will and squirrels it away. It gives him everything. He has murdered two people, forged many signatures, impersonated one victim for three months, tricked everyone who knows him into thinking his victim killed himself, been under suspicion from the police and even talked to a private detective, all of whom made up a different story int heir head, though they were all so close to the truth. And after a while, when he’s nearly in the clear, he opens the will. Because he’s bored. Because there’s something in the danger of possibly getting caught and because he’s bored and wants the money. I sometimes get bored and want the money. Of course, instead of murdering someone and forging their will, I advertise in new places, write blog posts and newsletters, come up with new schemes that I never follow through on, and plan short trips to amuse myself. But it’s still a disturbing echo of something I feel.

Overall, The Talented Mister Ripley is really a great book. It’s both a page turner and a thought provoking story. I enjoyed contrasting the film and the novel. It’s written well, it’s chilling and infuriating both. It is an excellent novel with the perfect antihero at the center and it has the advantage of being short for those who want a quick read but also having sequels for those of us who like to prolong our experience. If you pick it up, I hope you enjoy it but if you don’t thats cool, too. Now you know what it’s all about and can sound smart at parties, haha!

Posted on

Double Standards

You may or may not have heard but the actor who used to play Barney in the popular children’s show is a male prostitute. Google “Barney sex work” to find dozens of articles thereof. I don’t have a problem, obviously, with people who offer sexual services for a fee. I think it’s healthy and fun and can be truly therapeutic if done carefully. I am happy for him and his clients and wish them well.

What angers me is that he is a ‘tantric sex therapist’ who insists on unprotected sex with his female only clients at 350$ per session and the only thing anyone is worried about is his past as the ambulatory force behind a giant purple kids entertainer. No one is calling him a victim of economic forces outside his control or brainwashed by the patriarchy to believe he’s consenting when actually he isn’t. He’s not getting slammed with jail time and called a scammer for operating his sex business like Tracy Elise and her temple. Were I to so openly advertise the exact same service, I would get thrown in jail.

I hate this double standard. Can we please just agree that there’s nothing inherently unethical about hiring out sexual skills for a generous wage? Can we please stop drawing lines between good sex work and bad sex work? Can we please just get the fuck over ourselves already!?!

 

Also, any client having unprotected sex with a sex worker should perhaps rethink their priorities. One of the reasons sex workers have a lower incidence of STIs than the laity is because, you guessed it, we don’t fuck clients bareback when we have the choice!

Posted on

Travel

Fly me to you!

For a minimum financial commitment plus travel expenses I will fly to your city within the continental US. Minimum commitment depends on travel time; starting at 1000.

To send a deposit covering travel expenses and half my fee, I can take a credit card over the phone, Bitcoin, or squarecash. Please put “Couples Massage Class” in the memo line when applicable.

There are benefits to being the first. If your city entices me to return of my own volition, my first caller may enjoy a great deal more flexibility than those who wait.

Posted on

Cuddles

I’ve been hearing about cuddle parties for a while now. There’s a decent amount of crossover between all the touch communities but I don’t often hop the lines. I don’t get too deep into kink or poly but I’m familiar with them and same with cuddle parties. As part of some background research I’m doing, I tried it out.

They are careful to keep confidentiality so the facilitator does remind us to talk not about what other people do or say but about our own experience and response. Telling my experience will include outlining behavior and impressions of others but I’ll be vague. I hope that’s not too frustrating.

I did have some expectations going in. Since I know a facilitator, I have heard some of the more helpful catchphrases and principles and since I read the website thoroughly, I knew what the rules were and kind of had an idea of the kinds of people I would meet. I was, as always, open to surprises.

When you first arrive, they show you around the space, in this case a private home, give you a chance to change clothes into full coverage, flexible, preferably not form fitting clothes, and let everyone kind of mingle. A few folks have been to parties before, one or two of them have been to many many parties, and about half are new or within their first few. We’re all a little awkward, even me. We chat a little and when the time comes, the facilitator goes over the rules. She goes in depth, making sure there can be no misunderstandings, and we do a few exercises.

First, we ask to kiss each other. You turn to the person next to you and ask them if you can kiss them. They reply “no.” Not “I dunno”, not “maybe”, not “no way”, not “gross”, and not “yes”, no matter how much they’d like to. One of the core concepts and the most helpful catchphrase from a cuddle party is “no is a complete sentence.” That may not sound revolutionary on the surface but there are hundreds of people across this country who can’t look someone in the eye and say, simply, “no.”

They also talk about how ‘no’ is useful information. It tells the hearer that they need to ask for or try something else or, if they hear it often enough, that they may want to try with someone else.

And they remind us that we can change our minds at any time. We may think we want to say ‘yes’ but when we get what we agreed to, find it isn’t to our liking. Or perhaps it’s good for a while, then isn’t anymore. That happens to me all the time and I try to let you lovely boys know when it happens. It means staying in touch with ourselves which isn’t always easy but it’s lovely when it happens.

My experience was useful but not one I’ll repeat. After the reading of the rules, we kind of pair off, much like the naughty parties I like to go to. Except instead of making out and banging, we snuggle. My usual role is caretaker so I made a conscious effort to ask to be taken care of. I asked for a simple shoulder rub, just nice thumbs into my rhomboids, a little muscle rolling over the upper traps, maybe some kneading down my back but nothing fancy. I should have known better.

It started ok but my partner got bored quickly and roamed around to places where their inexperienced hands weren’t delivering effective touch. They attempted a stretch but had no idea how to deliver a deep, pleasant one so it was lots of weird bouncing and my whole body got confused. I was sitting cross legged and I thought I might prefer to lay on my tummy so I interrupted and asked to change. My ‘cuddle’ partner immediately straddled my hips and got to work. It was a little more relaxing but also more uncomfortably sexual than I was prepared for. It’s difficult to tolerate mediocre massage when I know how much better it can be. When it’s slower, in rhythm with your breath, deep and rhythmic and satisfying instead of nervous and frantic. Then small talk leads to the inevitable: “I’m interested in learning tantric massage.” Sigh.

While tantra is a life discipline of existing in your body in the moment, people who don’t know anything about tantra think it’s about having better sex. Not a topic I was interested in covering then and there. Realizing that I legitimately would enjoy myself better in the teaching role, I asked to switch places, gave them a few pointers, then left to find a less sexually charged partner.

I ended up snuggling comfortably and chatting safe topics for a while, deliberately censoring myself and my stories to avoid sexual topics (not easy for me, haha). That said, I think it’s become an instinct for me to be the perfect girlfriend for the moment. When I eventually left I felt sadness, like this was a bandaid we had applied to my cuddle buddy’s emotional pain and my departure ripped it right off again.

The others, though… I noticed by watching that in general, the women were nurturing, satiating their desire for non sexual loving touch by giving, long, sumptuous, sacred strokes on the arms and chests and backs of the boys. The men were in heaven, enjoying totally safe touch, freely given with love and affection, without pressure to achieve any goal. One in particular looked like he hadn’t been so happy in months and given the long luxurious touch he was getting I don’t blame him.

I felt very much like I was working. I love, love, love what I do. I truly believe it is valuable and useful when done right. I think loving touch, freely given, is a joy and a treat and helps us return to the world better people. I absolutely understand why these women attend these events and lavish their affection on strangers. It feeds the soul and I am so glad it’s available.

I’m also glad that I get to do it in the privacy of my apartment with individuals who are free to express their sexuality as well. While the structured, nonsexual setting was perfect for many attendees, it wasn’t for me. Knowing that I passed up the chance to share time with two phenomenal beloved clients to attend this event didn’t make me happy and I won’t make that choice again.

Recommended?

For my occasional female identified/gender fluid readers: there are women only cuddle parties if that suits you better and you can always choose to cuddle only with those giving off female energy, I know I can only do that with my female-identified friends who give off a lot of male vibes but we all have different desires and attractions. It’s worth looking into if for no other reason than it is very good practice saying yes and saying no.

For my male/male-identified/whatever readers: I do encourage it as part of a broader self care routine. If you are in a life where you do not wish to leave your situation but also do not wish to live your life without loving touch freely given, this may be something beautiful to explore. It can also help those learning how to negotiate intimate boundaries. While there is no sexual activity here, it can help you get used to reading body language, asking permission, giving permission, and learning to love ‘no’.

Posted on

I’m So Wet

Prelude: I’ve had a few conversations about this post and I’d like to make it clear that it isn’t the woods, it’s the intent behind them. A statement of awe and amazement holds thanks and admiration inherent, no matter the syntax. A statement of possessiveness over my body’s reactions is arrogant, even if it’s got all the right words. I see this again and again with male friends and with clients: the ones who worry the most whether they’re doing things well are the ones who inevitably already are. You guys are the best.

We providers hear a lot of good things about ourselves. We facilitate incredible sensations and provide an easy place to feel them. Our clients get to unburden their shame and sadness, rejoice in their proud erections, experience whole body pleasure, and we manage all this with a smile. Why wouldn’t our clients say nice things about us?

Well, sometimes those nice things don’t quite hit the mark. I had a conversation recently with one of my sweet regular clients about dirty talk. I told him about the difference in my mind between “you’re so wet” and “I love how wet you are.” I told him that it bothered me when someone who I might not even know very well tries to tell me something about my own body, as if I were unaware of it myself, and is sometimes even wrong! He laughed, a big belly laugh, and said “I guarantee I’ve said that to you!” and I, somewhat chagrined, tried to explain what I meant.

Most people wouldn’t make the distinction. Among those who do, the observation is just as sexy as the appreciation. For me, there is a stark distinction between an observation about my body and the implicit claim over it, and a statement of sexual appreciation implying thanks. It sounds arrogant to my ear but I feel it nonetheless: I give out my body’s authentic reactions, not you. I will say when my body’s reactions are your gift to me. I know that the effort and mental energy I put into getting turned on is real and I will let you know when you’ve done it for me. And I will thank you.

Outside of the bedroom, what little time we linger there, I have similar feelings about complements. We only truly believe complements that we already truly believe. If someone tells me they like the way my hair looks but I’m dissatisfied with it, it doesn’t read as an authentic complement. I may smile and say thank you, but it doesn’t stay.*

Vague complements also don’t stick. “You’re so sexy” may be true, but it lies right up there with “you’re so wet” on the internal eye-roll scale. You know what feels really good to hear? “The way you look, lounging there, makes me feel sexy. I want to kiss you.” First: you’re giving me information I don’t already have. Second: you’re letting me know that I moved you to a feeling I enjoy within myself and that gives me pride.

And there it is: a complement that moves me, tells me I’m doing a good job at facilitating your experience, makes me smile, makes me want to kiss you back.

Instead of “you’re awesome” I want to hear “you are really good at this.” Instead of “You’re so smart” I want to hear “I love reading your blog.” Instead of “you’re so wet” I want to hear “I love the way you taste.”

Because you’ll never quite know if I really am awesome, or smart, or wet so telling me that… it just doesn’t sit. But you do know, and I want you to tell me, that you feel safe, you feel smart, and you love the way I taste.

*This is the root of street harassment. When a complement doesn’t ring true or when we’re not in the mood to accept it, we don’t want it. When we don’t accept it and the giver gets upset, that is the turn from genuine complement to harassment.

Posted on

It’s No Fantasy

Feelings happen. Often, when feelings happen, they are confusing. We are told that feelings come from specific places and mean certain things. When we experience feelings we weren’t expecting with a provider, that can be confusing. We try to put them into the framework of monogamous, marital love and that does not fit within sex work boundaries. New clients discovering this industry, particularly with excellent providers, can easily confuse the feelings of safety, comfort, loving physical contact, sexiness, acceptance, and sexual pleasure with feelings of love and romance. Often, those feelings of love and romance are then projected onto the provider when it might be healthier to integrate them into the client’s identity.*

In this industry, managing feelings comes with the territory. The easiest answer to the question “Does my provider have feelings for me? I only ask because [special treatment]” is “of course not, it’s all fantasy.” In my opinion, that answer is too small.

I’ve been fortunate enough to have mostly self-aware clients. You educate yourselves, you read what I write, you enjoy the level of intimacy we share without forgetting that it’s only possible because of our boundaries. You appreciate the industry and what it can do while also making yourselves aware of the risks and downsides. When we come to trust each other and some of my boundaries relax, you take pride in being a client who makes my work easy, or if not easy then at least rewarding.

You also know very well that I don’t create a fantasy for you. I don’t pretend to be your girlfriend, nor do I put on the airs of a trained companion or ‘high end escort’. I don’t fake my pleasure or tolerate discomfort any more than I would for any lover. I spend hours thinking about how to best manage our expectations and I get genuine satisfaction from our encounters. I am genuinely, wholeheartedly pleased to have you as a client.

You, my client who cares about my pleasure and my expectations, bring me gifts and cards and bring my friends over to fool around with. You, my client who gives me financial freedom and with it a sense of safety and security. You, my client, whom I cherish and adore and who can never and will never be just friends.

We met under amazing circumstances. I got to dance with you on my table and roll with you in bed. We’ve cuddled and fucked and told each other secrets we can’t tell anyone else. We will always hold a special place for each other in our memories and in our lives. No way can I give that up.

Someday I will leave this work. You will find love or death or another beautiful woman in another beautiful city. Whatever the reason, you and I will end our precious relationship. I will wonder what you’re up to and you might wonder the same. I’ll toss that scarf around my neck or wear that sweater and smile at the memory it holds. And that memory will stay beautiful, more valuable than diamonds, because we didn’t try to make it what it wasn’t meant to be.

So the next time someone somewhere asks “Does my provider have feelings for me?” We can answer “Yes, she does. She feels passion and joy and comfort and safety and pleasure for her awesome regular client. Enjoy the special treatment, don’t read into it, and never take it for granted.”

*I’m never more pleased than when a client begins to love themselves and realize that I only facilitate their experience, it is their own body which creates it.

Posted on

Book Review: A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman

I’ve had this book on my suggested reading list for a very long time but only finally got around to reading it. Well, listening to most of it, but consuming it nonetheless.

It’s been a long time since I laughed and cried at the same book, much less every few pages by turns. I loved the heartwarming story, the quirky phrasing, and the author’s uncanny ability to make it feel good to be sad.

Ove (Pronounced Oo-va) is an old Swede living in a row house by himself. His wife is gone, his life is gone, and he’d like to die so he can join her in the afterlife. It’s not happening on its own so he decides to take matters into his own hands. Thus follows the story of Ove, constantly thwarted in his suicide attempts, partly by his hilarious, loving, incompetent neighbors, but mostly because people keep doing things wrong and he has to stay long enough to do them right.

The story is told partly in the present and partly as flashbacks, each bit of the past filling in a bit about Ove, why he is who he is, why he does what he does. I know a lot of men and almost all of them have a bit of Ove in them. He cannot fathom why his beautiful, cheerful wife loves him but he accepts her bad taste in men because he adores her and as long as she’s happy… His father taught him to be good, to do good, and he takes it upon himself to enforce good on his tiny community. He hates smug authority figures, cats, people who can’t drive, and all cars not made by SAAB.

The author does an excellent job of showing us Ove’s way of seeing the world in the context of innocently loving friends. It’s what made me laugh so often: the irony of this grumpy, gruff old man’s crankiness, surrounded by good hearted people. That I, the reader, get to see where he’s not exactly wrong, just misunderstanding makes me feel like I’m in on a big, warm, fuzzy joke that ends with love and happiness.

Ove’s predicament made me think of the men in my life. Research supports the idea that women who survive their husbands live longer after his death than men who survive their wives do after hers. Men so often rely on women to provide social support, love, touch, human connection; when that goes it’s simply too easy to lose the desire to live and with that, the vital spark that keeps us fighting. I wonder what I can do to help prepare the men I know for a day when work and wife, those two motivating forces, go away. Hopefully that’s a long way off, but it did make me think.

And of course, I love the two inspiring women who play primary supporting roles, one in the past and one in the present. Sonja, the charming young woman, the teacher, who lets nothing take her joy, who needs Ove as much as he needs her, his wife. There’s something beautiful in sharing joy with people who need order and I identify with her efforts to do that for Ove.. Parvenah, the fierce neighbor woman who relentlessly drags him into the present and gives him something to live for, whether he likes it or not. The woman who knows what she needs, who can give it to her, and gives love and delicious Iranian food in return. The actress they chose to play her in the film has the widest, most beautiful smile I think I’ve ever seen and it’s perfect.

When I listen to a book on audio tape, it’s a different experience. It takes much longer, for one, and I notice details more. This means if I start to not like a book I’m listening to, I end up really, really not liking it. There’s no skipping ahead or speed reading past annoying bits. It also means that when I find a book I like, listening to it makes the experience that much better. I adored A Man Called Ove. It made me laugh and cry, I can’t wait to give it to everyone I know, and I am very glad I listened to it instead of reading it because I loved the story that much more.

As an added bonus: If you’re really not a reader but someone in your life is, get them the book and then watch the movie together! Currently there’s a Swedish version with subtitles but in a few years there will be an English version starring Tom Hanks, apparently, so you’ve got options.

Posted on

Happy New Year!

So it’s 2018. Weird.

It’s been an eventful 2017, hasn’t it? I changed my name and my space and my whole world, just a bit. I rebuilt myself from the ground up, a few blocks at a time, and I feel softly content. I know myself well enough to know that my moods come in waves. I’ll get really excited about something and then leave it behind or change it when it becomes tiresome or I lose steam. I’ll maintain aloof disinterest in something until it catches my attention just right and lights a fire in me. I did that at least twice in 2017 and I’m sure it’ll happen again a few more times in the coming year.

In January of 2017, I was three months into learning French. I had lost some pounds and was a busy bee indeed! February saw my 28th birthday and a mild cold that knocked me out for a few days. March was the first month I started to feel burned out but as someone who loves watching numbers grow, it didn’t stop me yet. April began regular trips to Eastern Washington and a rising excitement for the new me. In May I began adding to my chic new wardrobe and June saw my restlessness peak. By the end of July, the new website had launched and it came out slowly, just the way I wanted it to. August was hot and awesome, September I took a few weeks to hit up the rest of the West Coast, October began the holiday season and saw me move to a new apartment, November was beautiful for my soul and my bank account, and December ended 2017 on a quiet, cold note in my beautiful new space.

This work comes and goes in waves and I’ve tried to use the ebbs to fill myself. A good friend once told me that only half of our job is providing companionship. The other half is keeping ourselves interesting enough that that companionship is worth it. So I learned a language, how to sail, both not very well, and have started volunteering at various worthy causes around the city. With SWOP activities slowed to a crawl and self-imposed limits to how busy I can realistically be, I find myself with time to fill.

My goals for 2018 are to finally publish something. Perhaps that book I’ve been talking about for ages or perhaps just a few simple short stories. Whatever I decide, I want to get something out. Also to keep a closer eye on my health. I’ve been careless so far, eating and drinking whatever I feel like but it’ll catch up with me eventually so this year I’d like to pay closer attention. And after filing this year’s taxes I’ll be looking into more aggressive investment opportunities. I’m still young so I have time to take some risks and I have a not insubstantial chunk of capital to work with.

Wish me luck! I’ll be around this year enjoying myself, my work, and my free time. I hope to see more of you in 2018!