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Tanscendental Sexuality, and why you should explore it

2 Jan

He carries himchichiself with quiet, peaceful strength, and he smells like all of that too. We found ways and reasons and spaces to stay together that warm night, through massage and hugs, silent but for deep breaths under a starry Caribbean sky. Numbers were exchanged and we happened to make it to the same beach around the same time on the next day. An afternoon of exploring sand and sun, and gentle waves fit for play.

 

An afternoon that turned into evening as magnetic pleasure for each other’s proximity called above all else. Loud in our own hearts, loud enough we acknowledged it in the other. So, yea, let’s spend the night out here. It’s beautiful, it’s warm. And we can keep touching each other.

It couldn’t have been a blur because every moment was intense and pulsating and vivid of color and taste. But they came on like waves, rhythmic, and we created an orbit for hours, we really did. Only taste and touch. Only tactile discovery of our shapes, and textures, curves, and natural undulations. Only the warmth of our skins, and the gentle hold of his arms supporting me, we rolled like choreography on that shore. Hours, I tell you. At sunrise we kissed, we folded blankets and sheets, zipped backpacks, and accelerated away. Family day for him, flight home for me.

We still hold that gift and have unwrapped it together a couple of times. First, shyly, with sideways glances away from the other’s image coming through the computer screen;

did you feel it too? Time didn’t exist. We touched, we danced, we kissed, and suddenly the sky was brightening again.

Then, confidently. That. What we had that night, THAT. 

We want that.  Or better yet; we know THAT is what it’s got to be.  We know we’re not stuck in bodies, we have elastic skin to transcend us in and out of here.

We’re given other versions of ourselves, varied textures of hair and tones of skin, other families, and tongues spoken, even, but… once we quiet, we hear the same palpitations within.

We’re given sex and pleasure, lust and love. Perceptions of the world through tender nerves sparking up connections they’ve always known.

His touch set my essence into dance with my brothers and sisters; the stars, the moonlight.   Because Love solidifies our existence, we are gifts to one another, abettors that close the distance between ourselves… and all we were, moments after birth, and all we can be, if we listen closely.

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Merry Christmas to you as well. Thank you for the orgasms.

24 Dec

Ho Ho Ho, friends.  I’m full of fucking spirit, just can’t  quite confirm it’s jolly.

The red scare arrives next week, Christmas is tomorrow, and I just got dumped mere minutes before I used that upper hand and did it myself. Misery travels in threes, and as the most intuitive 33 year-old on the block, I already knew this.

I met him via online dating because, truthfully, I have no patience for most men who approach me these days. Except for that cutie who stopped me dead on my tracks mid Miami streets stroll last week, charm and confidence convincing me to hang with him on the beach till the wee hours of the morn. Lance, you’re so great – but I digress.

I’ve been single for nearly four years now. Yes, one, two, three, four. The last ex being the douchebag you already know. I never told you this, but his initials are BS. Fucking fitting, right?

Anyway, I was too busy being awesome, taking fun trips, working, and procrastinating on starting a second business because of, what’s new, fear of failure, so I’d “given dating a break.” Then I bumped into a friend who happily recounted her wonderful romance with a beau she met online – the same site on which I’d disabled my account – and she encouraged me to give it another try. So I did. I went  home, got online, re-wrote the damn profile, slapped some new pics on it, and started browsing. boricuabutt

I set my search to “long-term dating only” and men over 30. Because I don’t have time for weak ass bullshit. Tic fucking toc.  But I made sure to add “let’s slowly get to know one another” or some other cautionary phrasing of the sort (can’t check for accuracy now because only losers peruse dating sites on holiday break) to warn off the lonely types looking for a ready-to-birth bride. Back the fuck off, my uterus is mega elastic and the remaining ova carry primest DNA.

I thought bountifully shameful thoughts about the dozens of faces shyly staring back at me, ’til I came across his little square.

Oh.. he cute.

Clicked on him. Nice body, beautiful eyes, adorable smile, good job, outdoorsy, SPEAKS MY FIRST LANGUAGE, wants a girl who will make the first move.

DUDE… all I do is make brilliant moves. Messaged him. Logged off.

We exchanged some texts so I could assess his grammar on the go, and settled on a Saturday night in the city. I spent the whole afternoon at my parents’s place, stuffing face, and battling thoughts of canceling on him. Finally got the fuck up, went home, got ready and headed out. We had no concrete plans, so we strolled for a bit ’til we picked a local dance spot with soul and funk sounds. This kid was either gonna swim in his dance shoes or drown right before my eyes.

He swam, confidently, adorably too. We moved to a bar, and I ordered a ginger ale and he had an IPA. Because I don’t have time for weak ass bullshit, I made sure to throw in the quintessential “I don’t really casually date. I want to get to know someone to build something awesome with.” He nodded. The night went better than I expected. Since I’d taken the train in, expecting to be back home before the last ride of the night, he drove me home. I skirted a first kiss, because my intentions are pure, because I want someone to love my mind first. But he looked so sad, and his lips so fat, that I didn’t need to be coerced. We kissed. And it was god.damn.good. Like, I don’t wanna get out of this car, my vagina is WOKE, you better keep kissing me, boy, good.

The next date was the very next night. We picked a movie, and as we sat watching the previews, I let my mouth run off, and he shushed me with a smile. Mmm. This might just be a good egg, I thought.  A two hour drive to a beautiful hike in New Hampshire as the third date sealed the deal for me. If we could make it work horizontally as well as we did on our feet, I might have a dating profile awaiting a victorious ‘delete.’

I made him wait till the fifth date. I didn’t wear anything purposely sexy. I knew about his upbringing before I knew about his penis. I was serious about being serious.

And when we did it, it was good. And the next time was even better. Soon enough I had an orgasm, a feat only long-term boyfriends had accomplished.

He lives over half an hour away, but works nearly down the street from me. So I would happily invite him over, share my healthy meals (I’m vegan, y’all. I stick to real food, like a real human), and my healthy sex drive. I helped him not fall back asleep when his 5am alarm went off. And if he seemed extra tired, I’d give him oral for a good day ahead.

Yea. I’m fucking awesome.

We talked every day. Our schedules weren’t exactly similar, but early in the week we’d figure out which nights might work. We spent nearly every weekend together for two months. We acknowledged to each other that we weren’t seeing anyone else. I told him I liked him, and he said it back, ever so sweetly, while playing with my hair. I threw him to the lions, at a gathering with my friends (and their four children), and he was just as great as I’d expected he’d be.

Then the time came for a few trips we more or less planned before we knew each other. I had a long weekend at the foot of the White Mountains in the books, and he was heading to Cuba, to return a day after I’d leave for a week in Miami.  We didn’t see each other for nearly four weeks, but we traded texts, pictures, and messages of “I really miss you.” Well, at least I really meant it.

I had three priorities upon my return: kissing my dog, kissing my cat, and kissing that boy. I headed over to his place, and as soon as I laid my lips on his, tactically looking for that taste of magic, I peeled off empty handed. I tried again, and it just. felt. different. I shrugged it off. We talked, exchanged gifts. I’d gotten him a shirt he loved – it fit perfectly because I knew his top and bottom sizes, how he likes his coffee, what foods he doesn’t like mixed together, the face he makes when he’s annoyed.. you know. Because I’m fucking awesome. He got me a handmade wooden box we both had some trouble opening, but which I loved anyway, like I would’ve loved any old thing he might’ve chosen to gift me.

We had great sex. I still couldn’t shake that something wasn’t right, so I tapped him on the forehead and said, “what’s wrong? why are you so serious?” He looked to the TV and mumbled he was sick, his body hurt, that was all. We fell asleep. In the morning he made me come, we took showers, and ordered Thai food. We spent the afternoon napping and cuddling, until it was time for both of us to go see our parents. We made plans to see each other the next night, Monday. I left thinking something *still* wasn’t right.

stood-upMonday, Tuesday, Wednesday. We barely exchanged texts, and the words we did offer were superficial. I finally called because I knew his voice would give what he denied me with his texted words. He was uncommonly chirpy, he didn’t ask what my weekend plans were, and that affectionate boy I knew had checked out.

In all negotiations, you have got to be ready to walk away before you’re ready to begin. I knew the Cuba trip had stirred something in him – I’d been through the same experience, and returned home from 3 weeks in Hawaii absolutely convinced I was done with the 9-5 and 2-week paid vacation crumbles. I needed to run my own business, I needed my time to be mine, I needed to Live Life and surround myself with minds that understood we’re not here to grind and die. But hey, I also knew the climb is so much more pleasant with a partner by my side.

I told him I knew something was up. I told him I liked him, and it was unlike him to be so distant. I wished he’d share what was on his mind, but at least, I asked, give me honesty.

The next day went by without a peep from him. I decided if he didn’t reach out by the end of the night, I’d let him know I no longer wanted to see him. But he called. He said he shuts himself in when he’s got a lot to figure out. And with the studying he was facing for a work-related license, a new job, and new long-term travel plans he was making, he’d likely shut himself in more, which would be unfair to me. He also said bla, bla, and some additional bla. Ended with, “I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WERE EXPECTING OUT OF THIS.”


BITCH, WHAT?

stab

And, “I HOPE YOU DON’T HATE ME.”

BITCH, I DON’T HATE YOU. JUST RETURN ME THE LAST THREE MONTHS, A
DOZEN MAGNIFICENT BLOW JOBS, AND ALL THE GOOD WILL I SENT YOUR WAY, AND WE EVEN.

And, “YOU DON’T HAVE TO DISAPPEAR, WE CAN STILL TALK”

BITCH, SOON AS WE HANG UP, YOU CEASE TO EXIST. 

I was calm. I wished him well. I wished him Merry Christmas. I wished I texted mere minutes before he called.

I texted a good friend, ordered a pizza, and tried to watch a romantic movie. They all sucked. I stuck to science fiction – the kind of art that gives us the truth about human nature.

So, boo, I just wanna tell you:

  • Thank you for the orgasms. I probably came more in these last three months than I did over my two years with BS.
  • Thank you for gently, and non-judgmentally pointing out that I was again a pothead. I quit the daily joint and am in the best shape I’ve been in years
  • Thank you for helping me remember I have the spirit of Tim Ferriss and the skills of Lexi Belle
  • Thank you for giving me the opportunity to practice effective communication, faith in my good intentions, an open heart and open mind
  • Thank you for the beautiful hand-carved wooden box. I still can’t open it, like your heart, so I’m giving it away

Merry Christmas to us. May the new year bring exactly what we’re looking for. Atop my list are more adventures and more success – with a best friend who prefers me undressed.

Summers

24 Jul

That night we decided on a whim to have a mini adventure. Headlamps, sleeping bag, snacks, tent, weed, kayaks, and a lot of love for one another. We packed it all up swiftly and off we were, quiet in the darkness, paddling toward the island. We skinny dipped in unbelievably warm water, watching the cars go by the highway, hearing them faintly and feeling so far removed from the concrete. You were inside me as I floated on the water, feeling free like a bird, lucky, and loved. We talked all night. We slept under the stars and awoke to the birds. It was a coming-of-age summer for me, to be wrapped up in a kind of love that seemed to have no beginning or end; we just were, together.

So many sunny weekends have passed since. And so many clouds over our heads.

Last night I remembered us, if for a fleeting second. I was standing at the edge of the Mass. Ave. bridge, in a bra and panties, with Adonis next to me. We had met at a bar, he with inflated cactus in hand and gorgeous smile on lips, and our souls came together like good old friends.  And now, he stood next to me at the edge. The adrenaline of a 3am jump into the Charles River, thanks to this chance encounter’s daring suggestion, coursed through my blood, along with the alcohol. I looked down, unable to gauge the height of the jump in the darkness. I looked to Adonis, and he kissed me. He ran his fingers through my hair, down my shoulder, hip, thigh. I couldn’t tell if I felt more horny or anxious of the jump and this mix of feelings generated only more euphoria. I looked out to the cityscape, the lights beyond the river, and I felt so fucking alive. “I’m gonna scream so much, you have no idea,” I told him.  “That’s all right,” he nodded, “scream all you want.”  He smiled, counted to three, and we jumped. I love that dirty water. And I didn’t mind it as we swam to the rocks, water so warm, inviting bare skin. His grip on my body was strong, and we were both on a natural high, floating together for what seemed like an hour, under the bridge, below the city lights, absolute fucking bliss.

This has, by far, been the best summer of my life.

Nite Writer does online dating

25 Mar

Scandalous pictures. Over 200 messages received. Here’s a sample gem from a 21 year-old whose profile shows residence in Las Vegas. I had to respond.

boy:   fat cock here for ya butt baby

nite writer:   yes, let me get on a plane for it, right away.

boy:   haha It just says vegas because i’m visiting for a week there start wednesday. I live on the south shore in mass :p

nite writer: this is awkward.

End of romance.

Nite Writer returns… dear diary style

19 Mar

ImageEvery day I’m hustling. I’m a small business owner now. This means I quit my job, and said goodbye to predictable paychecks at the end of each month. I love the butterflies in my stomach that come with knowing nothing is guaranteed, and I alone am responsible for my financial success.

If you didn’t think I was badass before, you should now. You should also ask me for my number and send me two pictures of your face; one smiling, one not.

But the butterflies and autonomy I’ve created for my future haven’t prepared me for the blessed curse that is having the freedom to create my own schedule. Take yesterday, for instance. I did not have to “go into work” but I certainly had plenty of work to do from home. And I did… after a bowl or two, and a hike with the dog at a local trail, and three loads of laundry washed, and the hour spent looking at pictures of myself and my friends on facebook, and the two hours spent analyzing the definition of douche bag.

Douche bag is a term I’ve had at the tip of my tongue lately. I say what brilliant re-purposing of a stigmatized yet rather utilitarian word! Merriam-Webster defines it as “an unattractive or offensive person”. For the level of embeddedness the term has in our culture today, I was unpleasantly surprised by how much this definition leaves to be desired, in quality and accuracy. I hereby take the time – a quick break from work – to put henceforth available to all who seek truth and accuracy on what a douche bag really is. And while I’m at it, I’ll do the same for the up-and-coming variation, douche baggery.

douche bag     noun

  1. one who sleeps around on his/her significant other, denies it, gets caught, gets dumped, and skillfully refuses to ever make mention of the entire incident;
  2. one who starts inventing relationship problems right around the time he decides he wants to start having sex with his ex again, particularly if this is an ex that has cheated on him in the past;
  3. a teacher who texts his student at 11pm two nights in a row to say she was “impressive” in class, and kicks her out of the school 5 days later, making the office manager, her friend, place the unprofessional call, banning her from ever returning to the premises;
  4. a teacher who holds school membership over a student’s head as a way to force her to “be friends”

Synonyms

1. manipulative jerk, insensitive bastard, lying cheater

douche baggery     noun

  1.  telling other people your significant other is crazy, and a bitch, while you send her emails telling her she “influenced [you] to be better” and that you “often look at an imaginary version of [her]”, and you miss her, that she’s “the most courageous and confident girlfriend [you’ve] ever had” and that you hope to still have “someone who [will] help you through everything”;
  2.  having all of the means and potential to be the greatest guy on Earth and acting like a douche bag

Synonyms

1. arrogance, selfishness, idiocy

There you have it, friends. A couple of better defined words in this crazily misinformed world. Don’t mention it ;o)

Coping with my disability

19 Apr

I believe in honesty. I like receiving it. If it ain’t so nice, I try to find a lesson in it. And when I don’t, I cry a little, but I’m always fine. And I appreciate knowing.  I like telling the truth too. At least I try to do it. Then if it fails, I try again a different way.

It would be fair to say that I’ve been feeling rather heavy and unwanted pressure lately. Pressure from work, pressure from my mother who wants me to be perfect, but it ain’t happening. Then she guilt-trips me with her sadness and somehow I end up the bad guy. Top that with the fact I decided to skip the placebo birth control pill week and jump right into another pack, and sure, I might agree I may have been going through a short phase of insanity for the past few days.

Given the circumstances, I decided to take my own advice and self-medicate. Problem is – as with anything – the more you do it, the more you need to get to where you wanna be with it. You follow?

Come home from work, change out of work clothes, roll a spliff, and smoke it while walking the dog: my routine for the past 4 or so days. We walk around Allston/Brighton with the Russian grandmothers strolling arm-in-arm down the wide, Spring-blooming-lined sidewalk. And the hipsters, and the homeless, and the school kids sneaking off to Ringer Park where they get high and fool around; where the homeless will soon set up camp, mattress and all, come summertime. With the middle-aged Asian men who crouch down on the building steps and chain smoke. I’m high, rather smiley, wearing a hoodie, and have the habit of looking at everyone and… keep looking. I smile at them, squinty-eyed and genuine, and never take for granted the happiness they shine back at me. Sometimes they’re a little older, pudgier, and Mexican, in which case, they might smile AND raise eyebrows, uttering a deep, masculine “Hhhelloo!” Mmmm… si, papi.

All is peaceful and friendly, breezy and sweet during our long walk, until we arrive at CVS.

Last Friday I was feeling particularly drawn to a pint of creme brulee Haagen Dazs, or a  Mango Tango Odwalla, or maybe crayons, markers, colored pencils and drawing paper so I can draw and color late at night. You just never know. CVS presents limitless possibilities. As such, if I were to – as I did – combine a long walk with Tori, being high, and going to CVS all cracked out to look at crayons, I might be in there for 10-15 minutes instead of 2-3. I believe it is perfectly fine for a dog to be tied up at a safe place outside of an establishment while its owner shops. So I exercise this reasoning, tie her outside, and walk in. She’s barking. I’m telling myself to hurry up. And she’s barking. But the birthday cards I just decided to get and the crayons are all the way in the back, where I can’t hear her. So I browse and browse, until I hear the store manager on the mic:

IF THERE’S SOMEONE HERE WITH A DOG, CAN YOU PLEASE COME GET YOUR DOG?

A guy is standing outside, taking the last drag off his cigarette and tells me, “just bring her in. If they ask, tell them she’s a service dog.”

I generally bring her into to the liquor and convenience stores in the neighborhood, but never CVS, with its very legible SERVICE DOGS ONLY ALLOWED sign. And I generally, when I can, like to play by the rules. This, however, seemed rather unreasonable; you only let my dog in if I’m disabled, and you won’t let her sit outside barking either.

Drastic measures must be saved for drastic moments. On Monday night i found myself back at CVS. High as I was, eyes squinty and red, I came up with my truth:

I’m disabled. This is my service dog. I smoke too much weed and I lose track of time, and I overspend on crayons and ice cream, so she’s here for my health and safety.  Protection as well. Try and kick me out, see what she does to you.

I walked in, head held high, doggie at my heel. Quiet, subservient, alert; service dog in her pink harness leading disabled, cracked out young woman, as she tours the pharmacy, snacks, and magazine aisles. We are harmless. We bring joy and smiles. The manager says nothing. We stroll on back home.

Except today. I skipped the weed, went boxing, and decided to try a little more writing. This feels good too. Maybe I’ll give it another go tomorrow.

Casual sex

18 Apr

Her dress was of lycra, short, with open back; a floral second skin. Her hair was soft and wavy, silky dark strands reflecting the summer moonlight.

He was tall, massively strong, skin dark as the night, gorgeous smile and black eyes. He never approached her, yet she could feel his eyes on her body all night.

Eventually their arms touched, and after catching her friend talking to his, she found it difficult not to look at him and smile. They went home together. He grabbed her by the thighs and sat her on the bathroom countertop, his hands moving to discover her round, ample ass. His large fingers slid the skintight dress off her body in one swoop, revealing her completely nude, sensual.

She smells him still, this morning, his scent strong on the lapel of her jacket as she strolls to the park with the dog. The memory brings her to smile wide, and after that smile comes the thought of… him. And no matter how hot and spontaneous the previous night may have been, it was not one with him.

Because with him, she would’ve spent the entire night either on or off underwear, from 11pm to 5am, feeding him ice cream, helping make snacks, packing his bowl, talking about everything and nothing, wrestling in bed, listening to reggae, making out.  With him, she would muffle her own screams as he bit her, hard, and she would squirm in pleasure each time. He would slap her across the face too, while she laughed, arching her back and riding him even harder. Always a good girl, always obedient, always smiling.

And he’s not here right now. And he was not there last night. It’s only casual sex with no emotion, and no playfulness.