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Accidental Book Review

I just finished another novel by Robert Heinlein. I mentioned before that I was reading it and now that I’m finished, I almost feel let down. My past with Science Fiction, and this author particularly, has led me to expect more than I found. Of course this makes me think I’m likely just missing something. Stranger in a Strange Land was far more straight forward and resonated with my religious upbringing and later conversion to atheism. It was simple to see the parallels he drew between modern man and those who crucified Christ two thousand years ago. I agreed with most of the ideas the protagonist put forth since they all were essentially live and love and realize we are all parts of one big cycle. Why fight? Why not enjoy and explore each other and each others’ sensuality? Of course that appealed to me 😉 My satisfaction with this book is one reason I’m so surprised at my dissatisfaction at the next one.

The Moon is a Harsh Mistress pleased me with the community Heinlein had created (judging by his books it seems he is in favor of a free love kind of society where everyone takes care of everyone else and big government is bad) but I was disappointed by the shallow development of the primary mover and shaker of the book. In the first few pages the narrator meets ‘Mike’ (short for Mycroft with the obvious allusions attendant) and computer which runs the entire lunar colonies and then some. Mike has developed enough connections to become self aware and over the first third of the book we begin to see a personality emerge as Mike befriends the narrator, expresses opinions, questions things, shows off a little, and just generally behaves like a teenager. It’s charming and incited the reader to invest in the character. However it goes little farther than that. The narrator goes to Earth for the middle third of the book and by the time he comes back, we interact with Mike only a few times until the end of the book. Without spoiling the end, I can only say it didn’t have the impact it should have. The protagonist from Stranger in a Strange Land is far more beloved by at least this reader so we are more invested in his fate. It makes us feel as though we knew him, at least as much as you can know a character in a book, a figment of the author’s imagination. My connection with Mike, and even my connection to the narrator, was thin enough that at the end of the book I felt let down. It was too abrupt, not real enough.

Of course I’m sure this was the author’s intention. Science Fiction is a tricky animal, much like any cerebral literature, in that the author is trying to make you think in the what ifs. Are we unattached to the protagonist because of the writing or because he is a computer? Does the reader feel the ending is abrupt because we are too used to fairy tales as opposed to real life in which there are no epilogues or is it truly the fault of the author? What events sparked the parallels between the primary conflict and the true to life events of the many revolutions here on Earth? Why is the author so explicit in his description of the propaganda and censorship? That especially was hard to swallow. It made him sound either like a conspiracy theorist or a proponent of this sort of thing because his protagonists used propaganda and manipulation liberally for the revolution which the reader is encouraged to support.

All in all I was conflicted about The Moon is a Harsh Mistress. I felt that the community and the characters were, if not exactly believable, at least understandable and proponents of a lifestyle I personally would enjoy. I felt the story line was interesting but the premise of a computer spontaneously arising was too common in Science Fiction and Heinlein did an only ok job of making it unique. I would recommend Stranger in a Strange Land far more heartily than The Moon is a Harsh Mistress.

I didn’t exactly mean this to turn into a book review, but I like the idea of doing more of them. I’ll start with some of my favorites and try to keep up with current reads. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy my own interludes of fiction and fancy.

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A good damn night

This is a tale of fiction and fantasy, written to stretch my skills at imagery and also to tease and please the mind. This is not a guarantee of

I had a long night last night. No one was cooperative, nothing got done, and someone in the kitchen left the stove on and burnt some sauce all to hell. Of course no one noticed until the middle of the night when smoke starts drifting into the lobby. Breakfast was late, I missed the bus, and it was Sunday morning so a longer wait for the next one than usual. What should have been an easy night and a twenty minute ride turned into an ordeal by fire. All of these things by themselves are no problem, but everything at once? Come on! The half mile trudge through the rain to get home was the cherry on top of my shitty Sunday. All I wanted was a shower and to sleep.

There’s something about taking a hot, steaming shower that melts the worries of the day away. I’m torn between soaking longer and knowing you are in bed waiting for me. It’s the weekend and while I’m busy every night making sure other people’s vacations go off smoothly, you got to go out and have a good time, texting me all night, asleep by four in the morning, blissful and calm. I can’t wait to join you.

After my shower I’m warm and damp, my skin glowing from the hot water. My skin is smooth and soft, waiting for a kiss of lotion to seal the softness in. My hair is damp and smells like coconut, sweet and buttery, waiting to dry and fall in a soft silken halo around my face. I feel tired and relaxed, unwinding and getting ready to climb into bed next to you, wrap my arms around you, rest my head in the hollow of your shoulder, and twine our legs together to sleep.

Of course you have other ideas…

As I slip into bed with you, you turn and kiss me. Our hot breath mingles a little as our lips meet, caress each other, remove what worries I have left. I can feel affection in the kiss, and sleepy interest… a hint of lust waking up. I know what you have in mind. You tell me all the time how much you love to make me wriggle and moan and breath heavily with your tongue and your hands. Normally after a night like last night I just want to sleep, but the memory of our previous encounters and the powerful orgasms you’ve given me before entice me to stay awake. After so many times together we know each others’ rhythms and you can tell by my smile and the small flirty giggles and sighs that I’m open to a little interlude before slipping off to sleep.

I love it when you’re firm and gentle. Your right hand presses against my shoulder, pushing me onto my back where I can lie in perfect relaxation and enjoy the pleasure you bring as your fingertips brush across my skin. It’s the lightest touch, like a kitten’s fur, a rose petal against the skin… silken. Because I can barely feel it it demands my attention. My skin has such terrible sensitivity I can’t escape feeling that tingle across my skin. Your fingertips start at my lips, taking in the softness and how pliable they are, making use of the millions of nerve endings to send shivers down my spine and out to my toes and fingertips. You trace the curve of my cheek and that silly =dimple in my chin and though my eyes are closed (all the better to focus on the feeling) I know you’re looking at me, listening to me, drinking in the reactions you’re drawing from me. I can feel you brush across my collarbone, then lower, drifting close but not just yet to my nipple which is fast hardening, anticipating the touch.

Thoughts flit into and out of my mind too quickly to follow. Nothing noteworthy, just the assorted confusion of a day of sensory input. All of it is being overpowered by this tiniest of feelings, your fingerprints catching on the goosebumps you raise on my skin. Waves flow under my skin, rippling away from where you touch me, feeling exactly the way the water must feel on a sandy beach, when that top layer of fine, fine sand skitters to and fro just under the waves. It’s as if my skin is the water, the sand is below the surface of my skin, and it tickles and tantalizes and moves in waves back and forth, chasing relaxation and sleepiness before it and leaving dunes of desire and arousal behind. As your hands move up and down me the ripples move ahead of them and farther; I can feel the silken sand in my hard nipples, my thighs, and my arms… between my legs even. You know my rhythms and you keep going just past the point where I want you to touch me harder, denying immediate gratification, forcing me to go just past the point of need but not so far I can’t feel it anymore.

Your lips and tongue begin their work on me, bringing new sensations. Every time you gently wiggle my nipple with your tongue or your lips, there is a fire stoked between my legs. It doesn’t take much. Less is definitely more here. I’m so close to being ready but you know the anticipation hasn’t built enough yet. Your hard cock is resting against my hip, throbbing and leaving trails of slick, sticky precum, but not close enough to where I want it. I want the head of your hard cock, slick with desire and sex, to press against me and slide over my clit. No hands, no tongue, no silicone gadget can ever replace the perfect soft firmness of what has to be the most flattering and unfakeable evidence of your enjoyment of and desire for me.

You’ve made the decision, I can tell. You look at me with a mischievous twinkle in your eye and move yourself down, settling between my knees as I spread my legs eagerly. I remember last time, and the time before, and the time before. Much like good food, I can’t get enough of great sex. You pause a moment, heightening the tension, then use your soft fingertips to open me until you can see how wet I’ve become. The scent of a clean, healthy young woman is one I personally enjoy. I love kissing my lover right after you’ve spent good time on me. I can smell and taste the wetness from my pussy on your face. I can tell you got into it because it’s on your chin, and you have to take a moment to wipe some of it off before you kiss me again.

Your tongue touches my clit and I spasm. It’s so gentle it’s almost painful. I want you to lick me, hard, press yourself into me, but you know that after only a moment of that I can’t take anything else so you don’t allow me what I want, you instead dole out what is best for me, for this sex. I have the image in my mind of you entering me, sliding inside me after you’ve made me so wet I’m dripping and at the same time I have the feeling of your tongue and lips stroking and sliding all over my clit and around it, sending sensations rocking through my body. You use your fingers gently but firmly to stimulate me as if you were sliding inside me, causing even more desire. Your hands are slender, soft, and warm, but they are not enough; they are not your cock. I want you inside me and you deny me while at the same time pleasuring me. I have to remind myself to be careful with the spasms that bring my legs together around your ears, I don’t want to hurt you but it’s hard to control. The backs of my knees are on your shoulders, my hips heave, and you ride my shudders. Your hands wrap around my legs and hold onto my hips. I draw you as close and as hard into me as I can for long seconds. A string of gasps and epithets, a series of words like a sex mantra drawn from the base mind that has no words for what is happening, and no attention to spare for finding them. Images flicker through my mind as fast as sensations flood my body. I like to call these my little orgasms. There is no discernible climax, only a flood of heightened sense and a feeling of needing more, more, more. An addiction that can only be satisfied by full, firm penetration. I’ve passed the point where I need to be fucked but I can’t being myself to ask you to stop your work on me. There’s not enough thought left to make a decision until finally I can’t take it anymore. I break my catch 22. I need you.

I sit up, interrupting your enthusiastic, thorough tongue fucking, and you know. You’ve known, but with part sadistic desire to push me, part selfishness, part single-mindedness you didn’t want to give up so easily. We both know I need you to fuck me, but not yet. It’s my turn.

I draw you up next to me and push you down on your back so I can reach your erection with my hands and my mouth. At this point I lack the finesse and restraint you have displayed. I’m already holding back on impaling myself on your erection so that I can take it as deep as I can and pleasure you with my mouth and my hands. Being penetrated turns me on, even if it isn’t exactly where I really want it, so while one hand is grasping what I can’t fit in my mouth, stimulating you as firmly as I can, my other hand wanders to where your mouth just was. The more I slide my mouth up and down on your cock the wetter I get until I’m past the end of my rope. I’ve fallen from it and my only option is to fuck you.

The moment of first penetration is incredible. It’s what I’ve been waiting for for half an hour now while we teased and licked and sucked on each other. We’ve been pleasuring each other for what seems like forever but this is what I needed. You sink deep inside with no resistance. At this point we’re both so slick and wet it’s almost frictionless. I can feel the ridge at the head of your cock pressing into the soft yeilding walls of my pussy as I sink down, lower, until I can’t take any more of you. The pressure inside me feels so satisfying. I want it again. I lift myself up and down again, savoring the feeling of penetration. I love it. Your cock is hot and firm and slick and velvety. Your face as I fuck you is ecstatic. I feel like a goddess bringing unexplainable and powerful feelings to my worshiper. I love the way you put your hands on my ass and pull me into you, like no matter how deep you push into me, we can’t be close enough. I love how you sound when you moan how much you love the way I feel.

I’m completely focused on your cock in my pussy and my hand on my clit. Between the two sensations I can feel an orgasm building. I’m leaning over you, panting into your ear and thinking about how much I want to feel you come inside me. I want to feel you filling me. I want to hear your orgasm on your breath and in your voice. My mind conjures images of cum spurting from your cock and into me, onto my clit, hot and salty and sexy. Between panting and swearing I tell you I’m close. You grab my ass and it send me over the edge. I bury my face in the pillow and yell. I’m swearing to God and crying out in pleasure. With my hand I can feel the muscles in my pussy contracting around your cock as the waves make me shudder and yell. I feel release. I’m not done yet.

The thought of your orgasm keeps me wet while I up the pace. You’ve given me a body shattering orgasm and I’m hoping to return the favor. I tell you not to hold back, it’s your turn now. I know I’ve only got a limited amount of time before I can’t take the sensations anymore so I take full advantage of my endorphin high to fuck you like a porn star. Our hips come together as I ride you, your hands on my ass pressing me harder, faster, until I can feel that moment right before your orgasm when your cock gets rock hard, your breath shortens, you break your focus and concentration and start swearing along with me. I can feel the spasms of your body as you come inside me and I grind my hips down to yours so your pelvis presses on my clit. It’s almost like I get to have two orgasms. I love everything about this. My body tenses with you and relaxes with you. I start rubbing my clit again, gently, with your cock spent but still firm inside me. It feels good but I can’t last.

I lay down on top of you, still entwined, sated, happy, sleepy. I suppose it wasn’t such a bad night.

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The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

I’ve begun a new science fiction novel by famous author Robert Heinlein. My first thought was ‘this a a bizarre narrator’ which if you’ve never read the book may not make sense. In order to truly submerge the reader in a futuristic universe while maintaining readability he has created an entire new colloquial in which some of the shorter words are dropped from language entirely. Instead of narrating a scene ‘I walked to the door and opened it to see a stunning woman waiting for me’ it might read more like ‘walked to door and opened. Behind was a stunning woman waiting for me.” It’s subtle, but that, plus the descriptions of futuristic scenes, setting in on a lunar colony, and including advanced technology in every day life (the main character had his left arm amputated and had various bionic arm attachments) plunges the reader into a world in which the characters’ plight is believable. It’s not just the setting, though. The plight the characters find themselves in is common: they want to rebel and become independent from Earth. IT isn’t clear yet, but it seems as though Earth has treated the moon much as the British Empire treated Australia, with similar effect.

One thing I adore so much about science fiction is that it’s not so much about one or two people, or about the future it’s set in, it is about people. Humanity. It’s a chance for the author to explore what might be. What happens when people as a group encounter a potentially sentient computer while under duress? How does one manipulate a group of people to do something they may not be inclined to do? I’m just getting started in the book, but I’ve already become invested in the future of the characters, of the world, and of the machine that has gained sentience and still operates on the social level of a toddler. How will those who discover what the computer is capable of choose to make use of it? Will the computer allow that? I can’t wait to find out.

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Jiu Jitsu!

I’ve always loved to wrestle. Be it on a mat against an opponent, at a pillow party with my girlfriends just for fun, or in bed with my lover, writhing together in ecstasy with legs locked and breath deep and fast. Never, however, have I turned to professional training. My first real class was this morning. As a beginner, I had no Gi, no mouthguard, not even real workout pants. One of the other young ladies loaned me a pair until I can get a Gi of my own. While I’d prefer to practice wrestling without the cloth of the uniform a part of the fighting style, this Dojo does not teach no-gi fighting.

The first class was easier than I had expected. I sat in on a more advanced level class a few days before and so had expected a more intense workout with drilling instead of practicing, the difference being many repetitions of a movement on your own rather than one or two iterations of a move with a partner. The three girls in the room were set in our own little group, with me as the new kid who knows nothing. It’s my own personal fight to slow down and master each movement before trying to execute it quickly. I watch and I try to learn and then I ride my bicycle the half hour of Seattle hills home so I can go to bed, exhausted.

In six weeks I’ll be allowed to spar with the other students and at that point I’ll start displaying a few bruises. It’s all good. One struggle I’ll be keeping very private is the struggle against obvious arousal. The strain of muscle against muscle, the sweat and the competition, the drive to win using your mind and your body contribute to a full body state of physical arousal. I expect my sex drive to increase and I expect to see improvements in muscle definition. Of course my eating habits will be as rich as ever so I’ll still have my nice, soft, feminine curves, but my stamina will increase and with all this I’m expecting some great things in our future 😉

Come wrestle with me

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For the long haul

I was contacted recently by a gentleman who wished to get together and explore an intimate encounter. I’m always encouraged by that. I don’t receive frequent contact. Enough to keep me happy and help finance my hobbies, plus a little more to sock away for the future. Because of this infrequency, I have found myself entertaining options that are not perfectly right for me. I’ve discovered that I wish to establish longer term connections. I’d rather see one gentleman and find a groove, as it were, without spending so much time chasing down the one or two, once-off encounters. I feel as though, in my experience and without your knowledge, I’ve disrespected those of you who take the time to get to know me, respect my time and limits, and think of me as a young woman instead of a hot piece, in good need of ‘pounding.’

I read a lot of reviews. I like to keep up on what everyone else is doing. Call me nosy, call me paranoid, whatever. I want to know what I should be prepared for. A huge amount of those reviews are near pornographic. Now I don’t mind a little explicit content, I kind of like it when what I’m reading gets me wet, but what I see in most reviews is an almost childish need to show off. I hear in the tone a need to feel like the caller gave the young lady the greatest, most intense sexual encounter of the day, week, or possibly her life. Most of the time it’s phrased in a praiseworthy way, but even under the praise is an ego in need of a boost. It’s… off putting. A man I want to spend my time with doesn’t need to use acronyms or crude euphemisms to convey arousal, eroticism, lust, and satisfaction. The men I want to spend my time with acknowledge the risk and skill implicit in each encounter and has enough self confidence to allow the woman who is pleasuring him the spotlight. It’s a reciprocal relationship when with his words, a man expresses joy and admiration for a woman and with her words, smiles, caresses, and all the other little ways she expresses appreciation and the value of the words.

I’m picky. I choose to be choosy because, no matter how aroused I am or how long it’s been, I demand the company of true gentlemen. Men who respect me for my skills as a lover and also for my conversation, my intellect, and my curiosity. Anything less leads to dissatisfaction and a liaison that is less than the best. Trust that should you be one of those who are granted access to the private areas of this website are also granted my admiration and respect, as well as my gratitude. We have established a rapport. I thank you gentlemen for your commitment to a more lasting and perfectly reciprocal relationship.

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My City

I’ve been a busy girl. I just moved, I’ve enrolled in classes and have an appointment with the academic adviser next Friday, I’ve been keeping updated on my blog and I’m still working on my new website. Between all that and working more than usual at my graveyard shift job I’ve been too distracted to write more. I’ve had this particular thought in mind for a while now, since the first time I rode my bicycle home on a Sunday.

There’s something about this city. It’s not too big or busy, like New York. It’s not too small and shallow, like my home town. The water and the skyscrapers and the distinctive sight of the Space Needle…. coming into town from the North you see Queen Anne and the Space Needle painted against the sky. When it’s a little cloudy and the sun is going down, it really does look like a great impressionist painter came along and casually filled the canvas. The Seattle skyline really is kind of like impressionist art: when you get up close it’s kind of messy and smells funny, but from a distance it’s beautiful. The details really come together to form this aesthetic of grace. The buildings fall away from the Columbia tower like the robes of the Virgin Mary, offering a focal point and then pleasingly uneven lines to draw the eye down. From Alki the Great Wheel and the waterfront is almost accentuated by that tall, graceful, almost protective skyline. At night it’s even more incredible. The stark brightness of human engineering is softened by distance and rendered more lovely than any picture could capture. Coming into the city from the south, down from Beacon Hill, the city almost looks shorter and more industrial. You can see the sports fields and the great industrial complex of SODO. The highway hasn’t yet incorporated itself into the city and you’re closer, so the flaws are more apparent. You can see where the homeless have made their beds, almost looking down as if into someone’s bedroom, an urban camp-out driven by rejection and poverty. You can see and hear the cars merging, stopping and going, creating a waterfall of red lights and a roar of honking horns and swishing tires. It’s so alive and so broken at the same time. The greenery is separated by swaths of asphalt and steel and rubber. There is only a moment on the 12th avenue bridge where you can look towards the Sound and see the sun, the clouds, a glimpse of that painting. The Virgin Mother is looking away from you, protecting the other half of the city, not this one. Not the half with the smelly under-bridges and trash bins. You can see a moment of her glory before sinking into Chinatown which, while it has delicious ethnic foods, is the worst smelling part of the city. Now we’re close to the painting and the flaws come out. For me, the flaws of the city make those painted moments all the more beautiful. I love that a million people from a million circumstances live here. A bus ride takes me through a dozen cultures, sometimes all at once. It may be a little weird, a little scary sometimes, but this city is my home. I will always love this place. It’s where I first really felt like an adult. Seattle has been my rite of passage and I feel as though I’ve passed admirably.

This all started because riding my bicycle through Seattle at seven thirty on a Sunday morning is surreal. It’s not too bright, it might even be cloudy. It is Seattle, after all. The lighting is exactly what a director is trying to portray in a post apocalyptic world. The pedestrians you meet are few and far between but friendly and unselfconscious, and the streets are clear of vehicles. It’s chilly and maybe a little clammy, but cycling warms me up quickly until the cool breeze is welcome. There is no hurry. There are no worries. The city is…. not dead, but still asleep. She hasn’t woken up yet and everyone knows the joy of being able to observe a lover while she’s asleep. Her hair is tousled from the night before and you can smell the scent of her skin and yours mingled, and the warm, salty, distinctive aroma of the two of you, mingled in the sheets. Her breath is sweet and acrid. Her clothes never came off all the way but they aren’t exactly in place anymore so you can see some things you might not during the day. She’s not self conscious at your gaze because she’s still recovering from the night before, the wild night and the passion after you poured yourselves into bed but before you fell asleep. She is beautiful because she is yours and because this morning you don’t have to share her with work or school or her best friend or even her cat which she loves. She is yours to smell the scent of your love on and to touch a wisp of her hair. I take my time. I stop on the bridge and turn around to look at her. She is mother and sister and confidant and lover. She is my city.

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If a picture is worth a thousand words…

…then here are a thousand words.

 

I’m sitting at the bar in my favorite coffee shop, sipping hot chai. The sun shines on my face, blocked by a building for now, but already filling the shop with warmth, almost enough to make the chilly morning commuters start sweating. The room is a little muggy, but it smells like hot milk and steam, boots and denim, pastries and the scent of sweet spices all fill my lungs (the scent is technically in my nose, but lungs are sexier, because they’re under my breasts ;-P). My book is open before me but I’m not currently reading it, choosing instead to think about the way my skin feels when the rays of the rising sun begin to slide down my face and onto my freckled shoulders. I watch the people walking by, boarding buses and nursing hangovers. Of course I just got off work and I’m looking forward to an hour or two of morning productivity before I crash… and I’m waiting for someone. I have a description but I never need it. I’m always early so I’m ready when you walk in the door, checking you phone for that last email and looking round surreptitiously. You’re looking for someone, too. I catch your eye and it takes a moment for you to be sure I’m the one you’re looking for. I always forget to tell you what I’m wearing. I’ve never made a mistake finding the man I’m to meet, so I simply forget how nerve wracking it can be. You haven’t seen my face before, so while you were prepared for the rest of me (until my clothes come off. You’ll be re-surprised) you weren’t quite ready for my face. It’s in the shape of an acorn or a heart, well proportioned, with natural eyebrows, light brown without today’s popular exaggerated arch. My hair is swept back from my face so you can easily see my eyes, their size accented with a touch of eyeliner and a wisp of mascara, but true to themselves. The left one has a small dot in it that, if you look closely enough and the light is good enough, is a discernible ‘x’ marking some sort of spot. There’s probably a clever remark about treasure being behind the eyes to be made, but I’ll leave that for you to supply 😉 My nose is perfectly average. It doesn’t turn up, nor down, or to either side. It is neither too large, nor too small, the most unusual thing about it is a freckle right at the tip, easily ignorable unless you have a thing for freckles. Then it may even compete for your attention with my lips. By far my favorite facial feature in many people, not just myself, my lips are soft… I mean really soft. Like the bottoms of the feet of toddlers. Like the feel of rose petals when you rub them on your lips. If you’ve never done htis you’re keeping from yourself a delightful sensual input that never gets old. They are pink and light, complemented perfectly by the creamy, barely tanned complexion of my face, shoulders, and arms. They are topped by that little dent just below my nose and it adds a flair to the curve of my lips as it deepens, anticipating this new experience. I have a small, soft dimple… not in my cheek where it would be cute, but on my chin, matching the men in my family and balancing the eyes, the lips, and the laughter to make me a special kind of ordinary. There’s nothing exotic about my face, with its freckles and soft cheekbones, but there is something real. Something genuine that draws people out. Some people walk around with what we like to call ‘chronic bitch face’ where your regular “I’m thinking and in a neutral mood” looks like “there’s a giant pile of bonfire wood in my soul and you’re holding the match. Light it. I dare you.” I seem to walk around with a cherub behind my eyes. Strangers tell me I look nice, people I will never see again smile at me and say nice things to me. Part of it is simply that people can be very good. Part of it is that I, all of me, not just my face, invites it. I’m so not exotic that I almost shouldn’t be pretty, but I am, and you notice. You’ve seen this face which surprised you, and the dark, dense freckling across my shoulders and down to my wrists. You can see just a peek of cleavage, firm, young, with a visual texture of… well, I can’t think of anything that looks and feels like a soft, pert bosom and isn’t that jell-o salad mom used to make from green pistachio flavored jell-o and cottage cheese. Even that is a poor comparison. I’m open to suggestions. Regardless of what it looks like, what it is is irresistible. You behave like a gentleman and keep your eyes above my delicate collar bone, but not without difficulty. I greet you like an old friend, with a hug and a big warm hello. You sit down with your coffee and we chat. We talk about what your day looks like and what my plans are and we talk about what we like to do in our free time. We exchange funny stories and thoughts on the NSA scandal and I forget myself for a moment while I get angry that no one, myself included, seems able to do a damn thing about it. Before long, you know which books I just finished and I’ve added a few to my list and as I look up from my list, you can see in my eyes that something is on my mind. I’ve made the decision. Your effort at wooing me, making me feel safe, has paid off. I’m asking you with my eyes and my words if you’re ready for another first time.

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Friendship is Magic

Our friends bring things into our lives that we would not have found otherwise. Sometimes it’s a new tv show. It could be a love of cooking (and of course sharing – yummy). Sometimes it’s support when you’re in a bind emotionally or otherwise. I find that my closest and most enduring friends are those that I’ve come to make use of. That wording makes it sound callous, but my opinions on interpersonal relationships are for another post altogether. When I say I make use of my close friends, I mean that what they contribute to my life in the form of emotional support, reason, humor, and sometimes straight up favors. My closest friends have a combination of all those things. As I write, a flurry of images run through my head like those digital albums that imitate a rolodex. They are of faces and events that I cannot forget. They are stuck in my mind with a glue made of emotions. The summer sun shines down on us on the Fourth of July as we collaborate to spell words using letters written on the soles of our feet, make human wickets for human croquet balls, and snarf (it’s totally a word, I swear. It’s like scarfing, but cuter) fresh roasted corn on the cob dunked in a pitcher of hot butter. Moonlight illuminates the pebbles on a walk to the bay where some of those pebbles are used to light up the ocean’s tiny blue stars; little reflections of the sky. I can feel the sweat and hot hair under my thighs of the horse as she finally settles into that slow, graceful gait and we ride circles, testing ourselves against each other and against our mounts. I can hear and see embarrassing, tearful, overlong voice-mails and angry conversations that support and test me, leading ultimately to shedding my carapace again in another step in the metamorphosis. I know some people can find pleasure and meaning in solo activities, but I do not. I crave companionship and if I don’t have it, I pass the time as quickly and with as little investment as possible. Ironically, I find it difficult to reach out and initiate social interaction. I made a mistake. It turned out ok in the end, like it always does, but it could have put me and my reputation at risk had any number of things gone wrong. My impulsiveness and thoughtlessness could have cost me a critical supporter in my personal life, were he not such an enormous soul, capable of taking in hurt and anger, containing it, and turning it into constructive criticism and healthy support. I’ve made many mistakes. Over the next few weeks or even days, I will be setting aside time and energy to imagine all of the situations that I might be in, and as many of the mistakes as I can think of. Once I’ve exhausted my own mind I plan on picking the brains of friends inside and out of the industry. The result, if I do it right, will be a set of policies that protect my time and personal safety, my reputation as a safe, respected, understanding, interesting provider, and the safety of your person and personal information. They will be published, and I will encourage each person to read at least those pertaining to our proposed adventures. I intend to plan for the worst and hope for the best when it comes to our connections. Most of what I’ll be preparing for will not ever happen and even more of it won’t happen between you and I, so the majority of these policies will not matter. I will still be firm, because, as it has been so wisely said “there is no one and no amount of money that is worth putting yourself at risk.” I respect your wishes for privacy, intimacy, seduction, enlightenment, safety, understanding, and a hint of lust, I only ask the same of you.

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Coming into one’s own

Originally published 8/20/13

I just got back from a week long vacation. Well, almost a week. The place was a small cabin, very old, owned by a close friend of mine. It’s been in the family for four generations now and it lives on a little plot of land a minute’s walk from the shores of a little lake, surrounded by evergreens and other cabins, large and small, old and new. Three things make this place ideal for my vacation: it’s free, it’s close, and it’s far from civilization. the first is self explanatory. For the mere contribution of a bottle of good wine, I can enjoy the quiet solitude of a private dock, the comfort of a dim living room with a huge old fireplace, and the pastoral sounds of the neighbor’s guinea hens scratching outside and children running on the grass behind them. The location is about a six hour drive from Seattle, forty minutes from my brother and his young son, and a little over an hour from my parents’ home. In fact I got to see them again and host them in this little home in the woods. It was the first time I met my little nephew. My brother has been serving in the armed forces for the last six years so finally having all of us together in one place was unusual. I’ve mentioned before that I love and respect my family, despite our opposing worldviews and generation gap. Hosting my parents and brother, even though it wasn’t my home, exactly, opened my eyes to something interesting.

Parents require their children to do chores. Said children hate those chores, as best I can tell. There’s a reason that parents feel good when they’ve accomplished something and kids don’t care. When a parent (it helps if they own their home) finishes a chore around the house, they have just improved their own personal wealth. When the porch is freshly painted or the gravel driveway is finally raked out or the vinyl flooring is finally in place, the value of their home and of their life situation has just gone up. For the child, it’s nothing like that. He or she just had to do something which they will eventually leave behind. It’s the same reason most renters won’t improve the property they live on: it’s not helping them at all. They finish any improvements knowing their time and effort and any money they expended are leaving them and will not come back. Well, I finally felt like a home owner. Since this property belongs to a close friend and I will likely have access to it for the rest of my life, I am invested in it’s improvement. I finally felt good about chopping wood for winter and cleaning the rafters and fixing the plumbing. I know that, while I may not own it, it is in my life for good and the improvements will not be left behind me. It’s empowering. Upon returning to Seattle, I am even more motivated to learn and improve myself, because no one else owns this. No one else will ever take my improvements from me. What more motivation does one need to improve oneself?

With this little epiphany behind me, I’ve enrolled in one of the community colleges nearby and will be taking classes now, on what I’m not sure yet. To you, my reader, this means even less time available to you and it means our time together is even more valuable and sacred and it means I look forward to it even more now than I did before 🙂

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“How can you do it?”

Originally published

7/28/13

I am a chameleon. I am adaptable and eager to do so given the opportunity.

I am a non-Newtonian fluid. When pushed I resist, but when given the atmosphere and opportunity to explore, expand, envelope, encourage I do so with abandon.

When we are together, you are my world. You are the center of my affections, the commander of my attention, the focus for us.

I’ve been chatting with close and professional friends about my side of the experience. On occasion it’s a simple exchange with not nearly as much intimacy and care as I had expected based on our email exchanges. The witty banter and mild innuendos, followed by lively repartee during our meet and greet leave me surprised by a businesslike or prideful encounter. The vast majority of the time, however, it is a truly transformative experience.

We are intensely social creatures, we humans. We crave acceptance and love and if we can’t get it we demand respect or fear. If none of those come naturally, we generate power and use it to create the illusions of love, fear, or respect. One thing I never could stand when I worked as a dancer were people who used cold hard cash as a replacement for personality or kindness. They got what they wanted: a facsimile of the specific interaction they failed to command in their own right.

When I meet with someone who has both need and appreciation for genuine, honest, thoughtful connection, it’s almost as if we fall in love for a few hours. It begins with a spark. Perhaps it’s awkward chat about our lives, or a nod to pop culture references. Perhaps we hit it off from the very start and the banter just flies. It doesn’t matter, because one of my gifts is that ability to just chat. To open myself up in order that you feel more free to do so yourself. I will bare some personal details about where I grew up and what I love; my family and friends; my dreams. In turn I will encourage you to tell me more about your life, likely vastly more varied than mine. I want to know what you’ve always wanted and what you like. I want to hear your funny stories and your opinions on today’s world. When I’m with someone who appreciates themselves and me the possibilities are endless. I often find it difficult to tear myself away from an interesting conversation or an intense intimate experience or a leisurely cuddle.

About the experience: there is a wide range of emotions that are all good, all different, coveted, enjoyed, treasured, and craved. I’ve shared many of them with established friends and the relationship continues to deepen. Recently I had an experience that we both described as almost spiritual. I felt like the female was being worshiped with my body as the vessel. I was the glass through which this young man was able to look, unashamed and accepted, into the beauty of female. I don’t know how he felt, but I can imagine based on an experience I had earlier this year, and based on what I learned as an exotic dancer.

It takes ultimate safety and comfort to allow yourself to be the gateway through which male or female is observed. I can picture in my mind’s eye that slow, warm early summer afternoon lying in bed, freshly showered and warm, just looking and touching in a way I hadn’t been able to before. I was curious to explore the bits of him that were different from my own. It was innocent and playful, like children who don’t understand why they’re in trouble for ‘playing doctor.’ It simply doesn’t occur to either of you to be ashamed. Looking and touching the long strong muscles of his thigh, comparing my girlish, rounded knees to his blocky, masculine ones. Watching the muscles of his shoulders move as he leans over. A woman rarely has opportunity to explore a penis in a nonsexual atmosphere and that hour, lying together and touching each other, careful and curious, will always make me feel good. Safe. Thoughtful. As I would imagine Eden was like before ‘sin’ and what I’m sure our ancestors experienced before shame and ritual governed our sexuality.

During my short stint as a dancer my opinion of female sexuality made a dramatic shift. Watching young women who absolutely did not fit today’s model of beauty turn the heat up on stage and become elegant, sexy, sensual, charismatic goddesses in their own right was a slow but lasting experience. At first I was hypercritical, always comparing my own form and talent to theirs. Then I began to realize that each woman here had a different sex appeal. Thick thighs and buttocks that at first turned me off began to look sensual and sexy. Tiny, lithe, straight hipped bodies took on a catlike quality with surprising twists and smouldering eyes. Loud, abrupt personalities took on languorous grace as they twisted and turned and moved in interesting ways. Mothers with soft bellies turned into acrobats with incredible strength and precision. After a few months of watching it for hours at a time my tastes have permanently changed. Women of all types and shapes and sized interest me. And it doesn’t stop there. I’m now easily able to look past superficial nonsense to discover at least one thing sensual about each person I meet. It might be the way you smell or the feel of your skin or the way we kiss or your obscure interest in origami but there will be something that gives us that connection that allows for one of those coveted, needed feelings that we allow ourselves to indulge in for a while before we’re forced to return to the real world with its demands and taboos.

I hope and believe that this eager, nervous young man with whom I was able to explore my own Goddess was able to experience the same feeling of non-judgmental exploration. I hope I was able to facilitate his discovery and satisfy his curiosity, or at least slake it until the next time we meet. I hope to provide that atmosphere of safety and acceptance for each person I meet in whichever circumstances we meet in.