The Blog

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The Botany of Desire by Michael Pollan

Michael Pollan writes about food. I love food. I wasn’t as huge a fan of In Defense of Food because I felt it more opinion than research and it was the research and story-telling factor of The Omnivore’s Dilemma that so enthralled me. In The Botany of Desire he again tells the story of food in an engaging and contemporary way.

Pollan chooses four foods to represent or tie to four human desires: the apple for sweetness, the potato for control, the tulip for beauty and cannabis for intoxication. As he tells the history of each plant, he ties in contemporary thoughts about how we treat the earth, ourselves, and each other and why we behave the way we do. It’s pure conjecture but it’s thought provoking, funny sometimes, interesting all the time, and altogether the kind of book I love to read.

One of these days I’ll live somewhere with enough space to grow my own food. It’ll probably be in Eastern Washington, somewhere quiet where people won’t pester me, but close enough to some kind of city center that I can find friends and food without too much trouble. When I’m out on my plot, sifting through dirt for little potatoes and picking spitters to make into cider, I’ll think of this book and smile to myself about the stories he shares of crazy but kind John Chapman who preceded westward expansion planting apple trees, the tulipomania of Holland that caused an economic crisis, the gentry’s ancient and the McDonalds fry eaters current distaste for a deformed potato, and the mind altering, healing powers of a good old fashioned doobie.

I’m happy to lend it out if you’d like to share my smile.

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On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan

True love….. we imagine it to be the whisker away of problems, the smoother over of ruffles, the perfect bond that bears up under any pressure, a prettier and more emotional version of duct tape, if you will. In reality, it is a fragile concept, one which McEwan tears to shreds in his novel On Chesil Beach. I love it.

We meet our fairy tale couple on their honeymoon. The story is told through a series of flashbacks inserted into the tale of a wedding night shared by two people, obviously in love. Unfortunately, a combination of miscommunication, assumptions, and cultural conditioning leads to disaster. It’s 1962 in England and the newlyweds haven’t yet experienced the sexual liberation of the sixties and the free love of the seventies. They’ve never had sex themselves, nor have they been able to talk about it between them. He is concerned about coming too quickly, but aside from that is eager to experience this new coming together. She is not only concerned about the coming act, she is viscerally repelled by it. I would guess that she is either asexual or so thoroughly acculturated to sex as a disgusting act that she finds the idea repellent. The flashbacks tell the readers that these two truly are in love with each other and could have a happy future if they can get over this hurdle. The narrative unfolding in the marriage bed tells us that they will not.

Since his preparation for marriage was to abstain from masturbation for a week, we easily predict that his one fear becomes reality; he doesn’t even make it to penetration before his overexcitement causes him to ejaculate all over his new bride. Her revulsion, which she has carefully and painfully controlled until that moment, comes out all at once. In her terror, she races out of the room and onto the beach. She has been preparing for this moment for months, trying to ignore or overcome her gut reaction. She has come up with alternatives, she has prepared a plan, and when he finally follows her to the beach several hours later, she proposes that they live together as married but he pursues other women as he pleases. He, in his petulant anger over wounded pride, rejects the idea and the marriage is annulled. We follow only him through the short and uneventful rest of his life as he comes to regret his decision. Their lives are unusual only in that we have just read their story; careers are had, friends are made and lost, life is lived, and the end is quiet.

I have the benefit of a culture that may not understand sex but at least is engaged in dialogue about it. I can’t decide whether I feel more pity or anger towards him. He’s obviously misguided if he thinks that avoiding sexual release for a week will give him some advantage in his first sexual experience. He is obviously ill-prepared for the idea that someone might feel differently about sex than he does. His constant reinterpretation of her actions as those of a sexually advanced but coy individual is laughably naive, fury-inducingly presumptuous, and disastrously incorrect. We have insights into his character along the way that clue us into his thought process. His mother received a brain injury during his youth which made her a bit crazy in a scattered, loss of focus kind of way and when his father tells him of her injury, he incorporates this knowledge into his world as if it has always been there and he has always known. This tells us that this young man is not only capable of but prefers to believe he knows everything about everyone and has always known it. His interpretation of his bride’s recoil as an invitation fits perfectly with what we know of his inability to think of another before himself or acknowledge the possibility that he is wrong. Even his regrets in his old age aren’t for the pain he caused his once wife, but for the love he missed out on.

She, on the other hand, is confused and afraid. She has spent hours thinking of how to sublimate herself to her husband, how to please him, how to get herself so small, so insignificant that he might be happy. Her inability to beat her own aversion into submission is not her failing, it is the result of natural inclination shored up by years of shame, disgust, and unspoken expectations. Again, I am fortunate to have information, support, and an inclination towards exploration at my back to power my decisions, regardless of what they are. She is not so lucky, as are many women still. I feel for her. Her every effort was for someone else, her every thought for another and still she met rejection.

Overall, the book is well written. By the same author as Atonement and The Cement Garden, On Chesil Beach is poignant look into what it might be like to miss out on so much love and beauty because of fear, confusion, misinformation, anger, and lack of communication. How much better the world might be if none of those things existed.

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Phillipians 4:8

Lately my published words have been few and far between. The kind missives of good old friends have not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. My words have not evaporate or even, in fact, lessened, but the time in which I have to mull them, roll them across my tongue, write and rewrite them has been sparse and preempted by assignments and money making schemes galore.

However, on occasion there is such overwhelming feeling and thought that no barrier of time or priority may interfere and so it is that tonight I write of a night.

The air is so still the clouds high high above have barely moved. Though I cannot see the city her blush spreads across the sky, ready for a devious night of passion and adventure. And a weeknight no less! haha!

Sweet strains drift from the record player to my ear, outside on the balcony, able for the first time this year to enjoy the outdoors after dark in only a sweatshirt and pink fuzzy slippers (and pants! naughty boy!) The intermittent sounds of grilling cheese sandwiches are an alternative music to my tipsy and dehydrated ears. My after hours mojito sits next to the mint plant it came from and a modest myriad of companion spices, foods, and flowers. Some dipshit rides his (or hers. women can be assholes, too) petulantly brazen motorcycle through my quiet streets, momentarily shattering the beautiful calm that is this evening.

Life is good, my loves, even great. For me particularly because I know and care for you, because my life is safe and full, because the night is calm (aside from ghost rider over there) and full of the scent of mint and rosemary and freshly melted cheese and fried butter. Please, wherever you are and whatever you do, whether we meet once, again, or never, see in your life something worth seeing. It’s there, I can promise you. Look and find a moment, a smell, a memory, a future plan, a present joy, anything you find pleasant and lovely, and dwell on it for a moment

Good night and all my best, always.

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A Cat’s the Only Cat Who Knows Where It’s at

He was tiny. A few weeks old, eyes barely open. He was perfect.

I always had pets growing up and as pets are wont to do, one died. I don’t remember it well but it was my mom’s pet, it had been a month or so since, and as is the way with our family, it was time to find a new companion. Friends of ours had adopted a puppy from my brother’s dog so we returned the favor when one of their wild cats had her own brood. The kittens had been irresistible to me as soon as the adults allowed us to play with them. A cautionary chorus of ‘gentle’s and ‘hold them carefully’s followed us through the house as we watched and helped them develop motor skills and explore their world. By the time they were old enough to take one home with me I already knew which one I wanted. He was a cute tabby with a white chin, chest, and tummy and little white socks. He was playful and exuberant and the perfect fit for my hyperactive, hyperfocused pre-teen self.

We brought him home and I could’t leave him alone. While my family watched TV and polished off dad’s Top Ramen Tuna Fish Casserole I cuddled our newest addition and sang phrases from songs I though might be comforting. Ostensibly he was mom’s pet but that first evening and my subsequent fixation created a bond that was to last until his passing sixteen years later.

His kitten year was adorable and fun; all the things that children and kittens like. We played with strings and feathers and I spent hours giggling and shrieking with delight at his leaps and spins. His ‘teenage’ years were full of mischief and mayhem. He used to relax on the steps between the first and second story, his twitching tail the only action. Innocent stair climbers would soon discover a coiled spring that would launch itself mercilessly at passing ankles. Those of us who were most often home learned to step wide or to the side, but there are family members who still harbor a grudge against the little stair monster. When that grew boring, he would lie on the ledge at the top and to one side of the stairs and swipe at whatever eartips and scalps presented themselves.

As the result of a urinary territory battle with a new arrival, he became an outdoor cat as all our cats have inevitably become. Despite the added danger and the succession of missing and DOA pets, we could neither deny freedom nor his ferocious tenacity as he grew into an affectionate and scrappy adult. Birds and mice were a common gift from the cats to our doorstep and we quickly learned to look first in the morning when heading to school lest we hear a tiny crunch underfoot. I once came across him toying with a mouse on the lawn. I rescued the little creature and brought it inside, only to have it escape in the kitchen. It lived in the kitchen long enough to create some highly amusing stories concerning mouse traps, fingers, and midnight snacks but it wasn’t until we invited my mighty hunter back inside that the now thoroughly fattened rodent took its leave.

I used to climb into the neighbor’s apple tree with a bag full of apples, oranges, water, and a thick book to sit in the warm summer sun, reading and snacking. On rare occasion he would come join me until my incessant petting became annoying and he left.

On the evenings we let him into the house, we would fall asleep together, his fur and my long hair an inseparable tangle of fuzzy, cuddly affection. Many of my pets had an affinity for hiding in my hair but he spent the most time by far on my pillow with me.

Leaving him behind when I went off to college didn’t feel like a betrayal or abandonment, it felt like an interlude at the end of which we would fall back into old patterns like the best kind of friends. Finding him wherever he was on property and giving him a snuggle was part of my home visit routine until I finally got a place where I could bring him with me. I had a little cottage type place out far enough that I felt fine letting him roam around and the little old couple who lived next door would give him little treats.

He and I lived it up that year. We had boys over and parties where he and I both earned the affectionate title of ‘snuggle sluts’. I remember one evening when he went from person to person until he had received adequate pets and snuggles from each attendee, then went back for seconds from the best cuddlers. Even my allergic friends couldn’t resist him, if just long enough to start sneezing before they had to shuffle him to the next person. By this point he was ten or eleven and had settled into a calm, alert, but relaxed regality that ruled our social circles from whichever perch he chose.

It is this age that I remember the most clearly. His full, round belly, thick, ropey muscles, easy, strong purr, and alert, brightly green gaze glowed with health and stability. I can see in my mind’s eye my hand cupped around his face, his eyes closed in ecstasy, his breath hearty and rumbly as my fingertips found all the right spots: under his chin, behind his ears, and that one spot that made him scritch like a dog with his hind leg. He always met me at the door in the morning and when I came home. A few times I even saw him racing me home as I turned the last corner to the little side street we lived on.

There’s something about that perfect combination of total independence and devotion that only a cat you’ve lived with your whole life can share with you. Dogs are wonderful and I’ll have them, too, when I can, but they have an element of neediness that cats lack. Many cats have that aloofness that keeps you from bonding but when you share the better part of two decades with them, there comes a point where that aloofness wears off. You share vulnerability with each other, you share strength when it is needed, and you become family in a way that still leaves you both room, free of judgement, to pick fights and make mistakes and still come home to someone who loves you.

My life thereafter didn’t lend itself well to pet ownership. I ran out of money and left him in the care of a friend ‘just until I can take him back.’ A year passed, two years, three, and I was finally in a place to bring him home with me but by then he had become a source of strength and joy for her in her times of need. He had become a loving grandfather now. He stayed indoors and slept a lot, he lost some weight but his eyes still took everything in and radiated wisdom and calm in return. His teeth started to loosen and fall out and we saw less of each other. Every time I saw him it was a surprise. The kind of surprise you get when you see you your parents after a few months away and suddenly they have gray hair. It’s been silvering for a few years now but you missed a few months of it and now suddenly you notice. His immune system started to fail but both I and my friend failed to get him the care that he needed.

Tuesday morning I got a text. “I just got home from work. He’s really bad. Can you come?”

…

I knew it. I’ve had pets before and they all find their end sooner or later. I went home and emptied out a cardboard box. I lined it with ragged towels and put it in the car. My eyes blurred as I drove and that image of his face pursed in ecstasy and joy came to my mind. I knew what I would find when I arrived and I knew none of us were prepared. I’m not proud of what I did when I bundled him up. I couldn’t deal with her grief on top of mine and so I left her behind, unable to make a full cathartic goodbye. I took him and he never came back.

I felt for the people at the vet’s office. I walked in, carrying a sack of bones and bawling, knowing what had to be done. They expect people to hang on, to be sentimental, to demand extension of their beloved pet’s life and so they didn’t understand that I knew. I knew that he and I weren’t going out the same door that morning. I knew that his run was over, probably sooner than it needed to be. I knew that I had failed him by leaving him in the care of a friend and not checking in. I knew that regardless of what regrets I might have or damage I might have averted six months ago, it was too late now and he was already gone.

His belly heaved with each breath. His spine was a serrated knife, ready to tear through his thin skin. His fur was still soft and fine but now tiny parasites crawled in it. His gaze was directed inward, focused or fighting I will never know. I stayed alone with him until he began to grow cold. I had left him before and I would leave him now but not until he had left me first.

Mortality is a funny thing. We all have it, we mostly deny it. I’ve expounded to some on the research being done into hallucinogens as treatment for end of life anxiety and other mental disorders. I wonder if there was something more I could have done. His eyes that final morning did not hold the bright, outward gaze I got so used to but instead held the inward focus of a starving creature in pain. I had a thought of a cat on LSD, taking a guided trip to help him come to terms with his end and his pain. That wasn’t my only moment of wry, morbid amusement as the morning came and went. I thought of the last really bad hangover I slept through. It was all encompassing. I felt feeble and weak, wanting to eat and vomit at the same time, able to do neither. If that’s bad I can’t imagine what he must have felt and feared. The thought brought a chukle devoid of joy.

They say time heals all wounds and I’ve got a remarkably robust mental immune system so the pain of yesterday is already a shadow of what it was. The life that left us yesterday, however, was not, and I felt it important to memorialize that life. Words are my punishment, my joy, my artistic medium, and my platform and so in words we find his memorial.

My Kitty, I know you never could understand my words, but the feelings behind them must have rubbed off a little. I hope that you felt my love and my need for you and I hope that all cats go to heaven too.

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I Watched

Not often does one have the chance to observe. I tried it once, because it seemed like it would help, but it was merely uncomfortable for all involved. Today I had a real chance to observe.

The light was strong, slanting through the window so fully the edges were shattered, diffused through the room, lighting every detail for my inspection. I had only a few moments; both participants were so consumed, so passionate, so thoroughly prepped that the moment was gone almost as soon as I realized I had it.

It occurred to me, as I watched and brainstormed how to be with this preoccupied pair, that there was no need for me to be. I had done my part and there is a moment when the third becomes third in truth as in conceit. The advantage to our situation was that the edges of our interaction had been delineated prior and so there was no need for insecurity or egotistical fragility. I knew that they would, at some point, reach this pinnacle but I had not yet decided, or even considered, what to do while they were consumed by each other. So I watched.

First I observed his face. Expression is difficult to describe when you have only a moment and that moment is split into micromoments, each filled with its own expression. The impression I came away with was complete rapture. Eyes open, gaze far away, internally focused, filled with the intense concentration that arousal confers; lips parted, no effort spared to close the jaw or turn a frown or a smile, breath quick and shallow, not yet raspy but hints of what might come should they continue long enough.

I notice her back, striped pink flush and pale flesh stretched across ribs. The pattern repeats as she tosses her head back and low but throaty cries force themselves from her throat, the wild horses of legend tearing down a canyon: raw energy irregardless of its surroundings. Her face reflects her arousal: a deep and bright flush that I can only imagine he feels as she envelops and draws him into her. Her hair falls in that combination of perfection and tousle that comes only from the application of vigorous activity. She could have just come in from a run or a swim, but the circumstances are obviously otherwise.

I notice my own body, curiously absent from the action but a direct contributor to the circumstances in which it is occurring. I feel anxious and calm at the same time. I feel an impulse to insert myself into the interaction but immediately on the heels of that impulse I feel an assurance that my participation, while understood and welcome in spirit, are unnecessary. The pleasure of that relief is cathartic, opening my focus not to myself but to them. Thus the observation; the watching.

All too soon it is over. Her orgasm pulled from him his own and the flush begins to fade out as the broader focus fades in and the rest of the room comes to their attention. My moment of observation has passed and my attention is required again as she and I reassure him that he is the kind, lovely, generous, handsome, and trusted gentleman we have always known. The vision of her back, his face, the two entwined, haunts me as I go about my day. I wish for it again. I crave the opportunity to observe two people fucking, not for any voyeuristic pleasure but for the satisfaction of my Kinseyan curiosity.

I have confidence it will happen. Someday I will again watch two people, brightly lit by afternoon sunlight, completely enraptured in each other’s basest desires and shameless of it. Someday I will again watch.

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First!!!

I shouldn’t have had the whole pizza. That’s the thought my body tells my brain as I sit in the aftermath of a hungry decision. You know how it goes: you’re super hungry so you get more than you need because it all sounds so good. Now you’ve demolished everything you ordered simply because it’s in front of you and the feedback from your insides is not friendly.

Speaking of friends: the reason for my descent into mozzarella-based madness is a letter to a good friend. My friends have always been better at keeping in touch with me than I have at keeping in touch with them, but a stalwart few have called and written until their hands cramp and their lungs run dry. Thanks to those constant companions I have fodder for thought and also an excuse to go to my neighborhood pizza place and eat an entire medium white-sauce pizza.

In this case, the fodder for thought is love and sex, as usual, but in a slightly different context. Most of you know I grew up surrounded by conservative, Republican, Christian soldiers, raising up the next little army in a small town in Montana. There are several wonderful benefits to growing up in a small, remote town in rural Montana, but social development and cultural exposure are not among them. As a child of the creek bed and a horse riding, gun toting, bible quoting, evolution denying, Jesus freak, my exposure to sexual relationships was unusually broad among my peers. My parents regularly kissed and fondled each other in the hallways, I was 13 when I first learned of my father’s, then my mother’s indiscretions, I hid around the corner to listen in on Monty Python’s ‘The Meaning of Life’, we watched a british TV show about sex and relationships as a family when my peers were being carefully sheltered from any mention of sex, sexuality, or sex’s role in romantic relationships. The way my mother talked to me, frankly, without shame or sensationalism, about her sexual history, her opinions about when its appropriate, and many other topics, shaped my view of sex as something that is fun, normal, healthy, useful, and interesting. To me, frequent and gratuitous physical affection was normal, even in relationships where fidelity isn’t always present and love and like sometimes don’t agree with each other.

Upon my ‘maturity’ around age fifteen, I had been masturbating for three years so I knew what was possible given the right circumstances, and I had latched onto a phrase my mother shared with me that made sex ok as long as it was with the right person. She even went so far as to say it’s ‘usually your husband’ which didn’t make sense until later. Given this ‘license’ and my natural curiosity and inclination, it is no surprise to me that by the age of sixteen I was sexually active and loving it. Of course that’s where things went, not exactly south, but definitely not ‘north’. During one of my many uneventful encounters with my long term high school lover, I began stimulating myself. I hadn’t done either of us any favors months before when I told him he had given me multiple orgasms when in fact there had been none, not even close to one, but this sudden change from only needing him to climax (so he thought) to needing extra stimulation was so emasculating he stopped his thrusting and began pouting. I never again attempted to actually have an orgasm with him involved and simply continued masturbating in the privacy of my bathroom all throughout high school and college. I accepted that it was my lot in life to have orgasmless sex and I would simply do my wifely duty and take care of myself on my own. It wasn’t until a later sexual partner encouraged me to do whatever I needed (partly so he could figure it out and help, partly just to get me where I would be happier), that I discovered a fleeting ability to share climax with a partner.

I am among the fortunate. Many of my peers feel into early marriages, children too soon, and regrets. The idea that sex, love, and friendship are all separate is foreign, unlike the idea that some deity can end all woes and right all bedroom wrongs. The congregation I spent most of my time listening to espoused the notion that a god fearing couple who waits until marriage to consummate their relationship will find the sexual fulfillment of their dreams and everyone will live happily ever after. This becomes a problem under most circumstances but the two I have seen most often are the married bad sex and the unmarried bad sex. In the married relationship, if sex isn’t magical and perfect right away, that puts their devotion to god in question. Instead of seeing it as trouble in communication or a natural discrepancy in the sexual appetites of two people, any incompatibility undermines everything their world is based on. Bad sex is bad enough, but bad sex that means you’re not a good Christian is worse. The other scenario has the extra special sauce of shame and guilt before sexual activity even happens. Unmarried christian kids having sex for the first time can easily misinterpret natural awkwardness, discomfort, or dissatisfaction as punishment, reinforcing the negative attitude towards sex that they brought to the table in the first place, and further crippling future relationships. In circumstances where the sex is ok to good, the aftermath is less crippling, regardless of whether the sex is married or unmarried.

Some of these thoughts and scenarios may be familiar to you but perhaps, hopefully, you haven’t had to go through something like this or watch a close friend go through it. First experiences are formative and due to their import as firsts, what might be mediocre can feel traumatic and influence future experiences. A fleck of one of the conversations I had today involved this concept of formative firsts. We were talking about his experiences with several local providers. None were negative, but all but one lacked the liveliness and connection he was looking for. That one whom he felt a connection with happened to be his first. Had his first been any of the others, there likely would not have been a second foray into the hobby. I wish for everyone who makes their way in the world that their firsts are fabulous, and if those firsts aren’t amazing that they have the courage to try again, within reason. I, for one, will do my part to make all my firsts the best they can be, as I have for many years.

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Updates and Rambles

New post! First substantive post in ages and I apologize to those who attempt to follow my blog for the total lack of updates over the last little while. Classes have kept me busy enough that my free time has been spent in mindless game mode and also staying up too late and being sluggish in the morning.

You may have noticed some updates to my website. I have removed the policies/procedures page and added an FAQ page. I feel the informality of FAQs serves me better than the intimidation of a formal policies page. It is a fine line to walk between inviting the shy to participate fully in a sensual and entertaining experience and discouraging those feeling as if their special snowflake qualities allow them to ignore, bend, or attempt to break my comfort zone. The vast majority of you do not fall into this category. I can assure you, if you enter my space with anticipation but no expectation, you are not among the benders or the breakers.

I have also made some changes to my rate structure. Because of the convenience and general awesomeness of my new incall, I am happy to roll out a 60 minute sensual touch experience. I have been on an evolutionary path towards being a therapeutic massage practitioner and in that journey I began to focus more on the deep tissue therapeutic massage than the lighter, more teasing sensual aspect. I realize that it takes different strokes for different folks and so I am beginning to (continuing on the evolutionary trend) diverge in session type from one common ancestor to two general descendants: FBSM and FBST.

When I think Full Body Sensual Massage, I think a quiet room, soft music, dim lighting, and firm strokes stretching and kneading the tension from your back, legs, and shoulders. There is a moment (or ten ;-P) of sensual contact between two bodies, one atop the other, pressing our selves together in tranquility and mounting arousal, then a release and a slow descent, all in the atmosphere of quiet, dim calm. The social aspect is downplayed or reserved for before/after and the arousal and release are part of the relaxation therapy, not the focus of the session. Your responsibility in this session is to relax and allow yourself to be pampered and treated, as you richly deserve. In order to address your entire body fully, without rushing, I find ninety minutes is the least I can manage.

When I imagine Full Body Sensual Touch, I think of giggling, moving, back and forth between teasing and tickling, flirtation, sustained arousal, interaction, and more vibrant energy. I imagine sharing a drink and a huge hug, lots of kissing and perhaps some hot grinding. It’s all about full body contact between two people restricting themselves to their teenaged experiences of fumbling enthusiasm and ‘chaste’ activity. I feel the naughty delight of holding ourselves back and taking pleasure in touch, wherever it may lead.

Keep in mind that these are two descendants of the same session. There will always be shared characteristics between the two, but I have (finally) realized that there are two very different ‘vibes’ for two very different sessions. I am able to create either experience and a range of experiences in between, I only need to know which suits your mood better. You can always change your mind or combine aspects of both, there are no hard and fast rules here.

As always, social time either on the couch or in the little cuddle closet (the one at the new place is much smaller, more like a ‘lounge closet’ so be aware) is always an available addition before or after at 50/hh. I highly encourage social time before a therapeutic session to give your mind time to clear. I also encourage you to consider ‘dessert’ first as the endorphin release can be a great assistant in the relaxation response. I’m developing a case study idea involving the benefits of release before/after therapeutic touch to enhance relaxation effects. I’ll publish more once I get it solidified and hone the techniques I need to accurately track progress. I’ll be soliciting volunteers once I get the experimental design ready 😉

This blog post started with this thought, then I derailed it with my updates. In any case, I hope you enjoy my mind rovings 🙂

Are you a spiritualist or a skeptic? I ask because the explanation which makes sense is different for the two, but the outcome is the same.

For the spiritualist: We are connected deeply to each other and feel each other’s energy flows. We pick up on signals our bodies give each other and those signals, those first few signals we send each other, dictate in a great deal how we relate to one another. If our energy comes from a place of reservation, shyness, or insecurity, we convey that fearful energy to those we meet. We tell them we are afraid and make ourselves vulnerable to them. If we carry strong, confident energy, we send signals that people respond to. This is why leaders can be wrong, evil, ineffective, and contradictory yet we follow them regardless: they carry strong, confident energy and it overwhelms our own. Their spirit captures ours and subjugates it in small and big ways. By projecting our own strong energy, we can counteract that effect and allow ourselves to step back from a situation’s energy and make decisions based on thought and reason.

For the skeptic: There was a time in human history when we were not able to speak. Communicate, yes, but form words or language, no. In order for a highly social species to cooperate and survive, we relied on cues from motions and body language in addition to what vocalizations we could create. Those subtle cues are present to this day but because we rely so heavily on words and voices, we forget the impact nonverbal communication has on our instinctive responses. When we encounter someone taller and larger, we already assume a subordinate role. Those who find themselves often in this position establish habitual compensating behavioral patterns such as loud speech or emotional shields or a tendency towards victimhood. When we encounter someone who holds their head high and their shoulders back in proper posture we respond to their posture of authority. If we can consciously change our posture and nonverbal signals to project images of intelligence and authority, the instinctive reaction we experience are those of deference and respect. Of course that’s not all there is to it, but similarly to the pleasure response we feel even from imitation laughter, the image we project will change the responses we attract.

Anyway, just riffing on an idea I had while reading one of my school’s books.

Speaking of books: I recently finished “At Basilisk Station” and another book I’ve already forgotten. I’m swinging in my lazy/motivated cycle more towards the motivated side so hopefully we will see more updates as time moves on. We shall see ;-P

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First Contact

If you’re unsure how to begin your initial email, or are unclear about what to include, here is an example of a first contact that covers everything I need to know

Hi!

My name is Max and I’m a Seattle local and sparse hobbyist. I love what you’ve written and would like to spend some time with you. I like Science Fiction, too, but totally disagree with your analysis of that one book. I’d love to talk with you about it and maybe have some fun too ;-). I see you have time available next Sunday at one. I would love to meet you then. If that doesn’t work, maybe a Tuesday afternoon would.

My references are So-and-so; she will remember me by the funny hat I wore and because we talked about her dog’s upcoming haircut. Her email address is prettylady@gmail.com and you can find her website at www.sexysoandso.com. I also know such-and-such. We met two days before the Fourth of July and we talked about the intricacies of Chinese foreign policy in the context of a grassroots social movement. I also wore a funny hat, but a different one. Her email address is otherprettylady@gmail.com and you can find her most recent ad at postplace.weebly.otherprettylady.com

(Alternatively)

My full name is Maximus Maleleus and you can find my LinkedIn profile/facebook page/businass profile at the following link: www.romansoldiersareawesome.com and I would be happy to leave my driver’s license out for you to check when I arrive at your incall.

Looking forward to getting together soon

-Max

You are free to add as much as you wish, but deleting too much isn’t a great idea. This will streamline the process and make our communication much smoother.

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Update long overdue

Good day my dears and my most sincere apology fort he long hiatus. Between school, moving, and just generally staying busy, blog posting has fallen by the wayside, along with letter writing, scheduling with any sort of timeliness, and standing in the rain wondering what it all means. I have not abandoned my blog, I merely need to work on my time management.

Classes have been going well, though it seems that drivers around here forget that rain makes for slick roads and still drive as if they were slinkies hooked to the bumper of the preceding car. There are some intersections near my building that I want to do some stealth line painting to direct traffic so people don’t drive like self-entitled idiots (something I am occasionally guilty of myself). But this isn’t about traffic or weather, this is about updating my blog and sharing some more thoughts with you all.

Tonight is the Halloween party for the review board. I’m planning on being only moderately indecent, so don’t feel you’ve missed out too much if you can’t go. Perhaps there will be another valentines party and you can join us then. In any case, I’ll try to get a photo of my costume for members viewing pleasure 🙂

The move is official. I started signing the 69 pages of leasing paperwork yesterday and will be moving out of the old place this Wednesday and into the new place the following Wednesday. I do have a backup location in the interim so aside from my regular days off and moving days, I am still available to get together during my regular hours.

For those of you who have submitted email addresses to the mailing list: I apologize. You did it right, I have simply not yet established an easy and reliable method for composing and distributing information. I have some ideas, I simply have to get around to doing it. I will post about it when I eventually get it up and running. Thank you for your patience.

Posting at all was inspired by a mental rant I was running through on the bus this morning, but it’s been so long I hate to reintroduce myself with a blast of negativity so let me just say thank you each of you who meets with me with a sense of humor, opennes, lack of expectations, and willingness to form a healthy and mutually pleasing relationship. The overwhelming majority of my gentleman friends are exactly that: gentlemen. You are warm hearted and enthusiastic without being pushy or expectant. You are appreciative and caring without hanging doubts or guilt anywhere near us. You validate my need to help and to care for, whether it’s a touch you’ve been missing or long conversations about life and spirit or just a few hours where you don’t have to make any decisions, you make me feel good to make you feel good. I deeply appreciate that and I want to thank you.

I hope your Halloween is wonderful and I will try not to let such a long time elapse next time.

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Thoughts on Wishes

There is a saying: “If wishes were fishes there’d be no room in the ocean for water.” I like old adages like that. Simple, but layered with meaning. On the surface it decries wishing, intimating that it is a waste of time but when you think about it, it is also an encouragement to do instead of simply wish for. Instead of filling the ocean with too many fish, work for what you want.

 

That being said, unexpected gifts are always nice. I’ve noticed that people often prefer buying for others to having things bought for them. Perhaps my sample is skewed, or perhaps in this day of consumer madness, people already have what they want but still like to buy things and so enjoy buying stuff to give away. In the context of you and me, perhaps you’d like to buy something in order to see me wear it. (I’m a size six or small in most clothing items including shoes and panties. Bra size 32DD. You know, in case you were wondering). Maybe you like to read and have a book sitting on your shelf you’d like to share. Perhaps you’re a tech guru and want to show off some new gadget. You might wish to take me to dinner or give me a gift card so I can take one of my girlfriends. Perhaps you’re not sure what to get but have an impulse to give a little extra, to show that you had a little extra fun this time. I hope if you choose to give me something nice it is something we can share such as a bottle of sparkling wine, some fresh fancy cheese, or a cute little number I wear special when you’re around.

 

If you like directions and suggestions, here are some places I like to eat at:

Purple Cafe and Wine Bar

Ethan Stowell locations

Tom Douglass locations

Whole Foods (gift cards make grocery shopping much less painful)

I also occasionally review places I’ve been on my Trip Advisor Account

 

I like great, expensive food and so the places I like to eat are often on the higher end of the spectrum. I can’t say the same thing for my clothes. I prefer second hand stores because current fashions are not flattering to a woman who isn’t waifish. I have noticed that I can wade through racks and racks of high end clothing and find perhaps one item I like. In a second hand store or at a garage sale I fill my arms with clothes and they all become my new favorite. That being said, I do like to turn over my wardrobe on occasion and when I do I usually hit one or two of the following.

Victoria’s Secret

Buffalo Exchange

Target (I kid you not, their panties are amazing)

Ross (for shoes and dresses mostly)

Banana Republic

Butch Blum

 

And for miscellania: I can always use candles, unscented or otherwise, and I’ve been looking around for a good candelabra or taper candle holder. If you stumble across something interesting and elegant that holds tapers, even if it’s just one, I’d love to add it to my candle collection 🙂

Bed Bath and Beyond is always a good bet, be it pillows, fuzzy blankets, dishes, music, or kitchen supplies.

Sur La Table is my preferred place for kitchen gadgetry

Lover’s Lair or Babeland gift cards are ALWAYS welcome

I’ve recently delved into collecting attractive things to wear. The best ones are quite indulgent. I’ve been intrigued by but not yet able to justify buying from one or more of the following:

Morgaine Faye (Portland gothic jewelry maker who creates perfect wearables for my assistant, Rose)

Artas Usuwil. Not all of it, though, the brilliant and the dark, the simple and the elegant.

Oru, if she ever did bracelets. But I love the system and the work.

Freeland Spirits makes an absolutely to die for Gin but it might be hard to find because they’re small and in Portland.

And of course good old Amazon. You can get practically anything there. Amazon gift cards prepare me for my late night bouts of intoxicated purchasing. A great pastime, actually, I highly recommend it ;-P The only gift more all purpose than Amazon gift cards is straight cash and at that point it’s not as much a gift as a tip. Which I suppose is also a gift. But whatever, you know what I mean.

 

As always, these are suggestions. As with most people, I won’t say no to gifts but I don’t expect them. It is all about what might bring you pleasure. For some people it’s having someone spank them for an hour, for others it’s giving gifts.

 

As always, I appreciate your attention and care and I hope to see you soon

 

:-*

 

My Amazon Wishlist
A taste of what I like to wear -VS