Category Archives: Sex

Deeper, bigger, better, real

kiss Last night D came over in his suit and tie, after a late night meeting. He looked beautiful. I fed him leftovers from the spaghetti dinner I’d made for Susan the night before, and we sat at the kitchen table and talked. He brought me home a gift that he picked up down in Florida. A kaleidoscope. Not just any kaleidoscope. This one was a variety I’d never seen before; an iridescent, oil wand kaleidoscope in a pearly stained-glass casing.

I couldn’t get enough of him from the moment he walked through the door to a little after midnight. It was mutual. I always find it to be amusingly rhythmic, the lilt of time spent between two people newly in adoration. How we move from the kitchen, to the bedroom, to the office, back to the bedroom, to the kitchen again, to the bedroom. If someone took a time-lapsed video of us, we’d seem as senseless as ants in an anthill. And yet, there’s a purpose to all that movement—if only the fact that it’s a dance. By twelve I could barely keep my eyes open, and so that was that. I kicked him out. He has the key now, so he can see himself to the door and lock up. And I can be lazy.

There are several others on facebook who are having romantic relationships parallel to mine and D’s (as far as timeline is concerned, that is). SF is at the three-month mark and he’s asking everyone via his status updates if it’s OK to just start calling this chick his “girlfriend.” Among a variety of yeses and nos, I wrote, “isn’t that something you discuss between the two of you?”

Then there’s CG who’s having a relationship with some guy out in Indiana or Ohio or something. She keeps posting her discontent at how much she misses him. From what I gather, they were together years ago and it didn’t work out. Now they’re back at it. He calls her “the bees knees” and she calls him “pooh bear” and “honey bunny.” She posted all these photos of the two of them when he came out for a visit last week, and then a few from twenty years prior when they were engaged. He didn’t age well. That’s for sure. Looks like he had a rough life. Totally weather-beaten. Broken. Apathetic. Dismantled. Wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he’s a drinker. She, on the other hand, looks a mess; desperate, pathetic, a bottomless pit. I feel like sending her an email or something: He’s not the answer, honey. You’re going to get hurt. There’s got to be more to this story, and quite frankly, I want to find out. Why didn’t they get married twenty years ago? Has she waited for him all this time? What the hell has she been doing since then? I don’t know what it is but the whole story kind of disgusts me and yet lures me in. Like that Two Girls One Cup video that’s been going around for a few years now. So grotesquely disturbing, yet you can’t look away.

I have this air of superiority when I’m confronted with these other love stories. It’s like my relationship is to theirs as  Necker Island is to Clementon Amusement Park. The inference being that I have been blessed with a far deeper, bigger, better, more real relationship than these others. Case in point, I just checked facebook and CG has deleted all her previous status updates and posted this new one: ok she takes it back, he just txt’d her…so she is a little less cranky…

Even at my lowest point with G or S, I never based my happiness on the consummation of a fucking text message– and then went and told a hundred people about it.

I suppose my projection and my feelings of superiority all go with the territory of romance. I am yet one of a billion or so victims that finds herself mumbling nonsensically that she is presently experiencing something far deeper and more profound than any other person on the planet or in the history of time. Actually, I take that back. All I am really saying is that these other freaks are making fools of themselves and I’m not.

Confession Mondays, 1

In an attempt to force myself to write more I have appropriated an idea from Nicole Callahan’s blog of a confession day. Sorry if this seems like flat out thievery, Nicole. But it’s a great idea, and I thank you for it!

That in itself could be my very first confession. However, being me, I have to bring everything down to a much seedier, trashier more provocative level. Thus, a more appropriate confession: 

I’m addicted to unique, intense, weird, hot, demoralizing, intimate, deep, fun sex. 

Wheph…there. I said it.

Sex

 

For the past few night or so, I have been dreaming incessantly of sex. Not the usual, missionary kind of sex. Not even the unusual dirty, kinky kind of sex that oftentimes accompanies some sort of physical follow-thru on my part. No. This stuff is just plain bizarre. Three nights ago I had sex with my cleaning lady. And though I love her dearly, there’s something about an overweight, diabetic black woman who wears a wig and a false tooth that, in reality, I just don’t find very attractive. But apparently, in my dream, she came at me hot and heavy and I said, “What the hell.” 

Two nights ago I dreamed I had sex with my ex-husband. I actually find that slightly more disturbing than the cleaning lady. Although, I have to admit, he resurrected some of his old moves, and I might have even had a little dream-gasm. 

Last night though was by far the strangest. I was lying in bed atop white sheets and all these animals hopped up onto the bed and started licking me all over. I realize that, to some, this may seem freakishly erotic. But a dog, a cat and a mouse? I mean, what the hell would create in me the need or the desire to have sex with a mouse? I can maybe understand a dog. But a mouse? A cat? 

Gross. 

So, I broke out my dream-analysis book. And not surprisingly, there were no entries on “sex with mice” or even “sex with cleaning ladies.” Fearing that I was on my own in my interpretations, I started to combine entries. For example: The cause and or source of sex in dreams may be “a direct result of your own thoughts, desires and wishes that you are aware of; but at times there can be hidden or suppressed desires you don’t care to admit.” Harboring secret fantasies for Delores is highly unlikely. However, the book goes on to say, “Since everyone is highly telepathic, especially while in the Alpha state, it is not at all unusual to find yourself involved in a sexy dream with someone you do not even care about.”

OK. Fine. That explains Delores and the ex. But what about the animals?

I skimmed through the book for an entry, and this is what I found:

“The animals we find in our dreams often represent the animal instincts, urges, habits and aspects we attribute to them which are also found in ourselves [or others]. That would include the good and the so-called “bad…” Cats and dogs can both represent strong sensory powers and telepathic abilities as well as faithfulness, loyalty, and disciplined behavior. Cats are intuitive, aloof and detached…sensual and sometimes uncaring…dogs represent loyalty, protection, courage and companionship…”

This makes sense, and yet, I think it’s a little simpler than all that. I tossed the book aside and came up with my own theory:

I’m not having sex. I haven’t had it in a while. But it’s hovering over me.  Right around the corner. Inevitably on its way. But D and I have pretty much made a conscious decision to wait. All very exciting. I’m very much enjoying the wait in a sort of imposed painful way. Yet there is something that bothers me on a deeper, more buried level. I’m honestly afraid that our notions of sex, or rather, our sexual needs are vastly different. In plain language, I’m worried that I am too wild for this particular man.

The reason I am probably having sex with women and exs and animals in my dreams is not so much who they represent as “what” they represent. They are all taboo in the realm of what is normal and acceptable in matters of sex. Not to me, of course. At least not subconsciously. But in my mind, I worry that simpler things are highly taboo to D. These dreams, then, serve as guilty triggers to remind me of who I am and how I am perceived. 

For the record, I don’t like sex with animals. Nor would I probably ever “do” a  full-figured black women or my ex-husband. Not so much for reasons of morality as much as preference. However, I am far more liberal and experienced than D and this has me vexing about it, even in my sleep. 

Am I wrong? Am I dirty? Am I bad? Will I be perceived in a dark, evil light? These are all the things I have begun to question about myself. And why on earth do I see him as so pure and innocent and unsullied? Because he tries to come off that way (which he is not entirely, by the way)? Or because I see myself as such the opposite extreme. I hate this about me. I hate that I am this way at times. I am ashamed. 

And yet, I’m not. 

When D and I began talking about seven weeks ago he mentioned that he wanted to “exorcise” his “lust for crazy women,” and that sometimes he chooses “purity over happiness.” I barely knew him then, but I quickly shot back, “I hate to be the bearer of great news, but having/wanting/craving sex and/or falling for crazy women is not evil or impure and therefore NOT the polar opposite of “goodness.” It’s (surprise!) synonymous with goodness AND purity.” This then led him to tell me, among other things, that he doesn’t equate sex with impurity, but by then, it was too late. I had already formed my opinion. 

I need to state something here, which may not be entirely obvious: I am discussing the SUPERFICIAL. None of this has anything to do with matters of the heart. To me, there are many realms of sexual expression, all of which I enjoy and desire; that which arises out of a deep connectivity between two people in love, spiritual sex, tantric sex, enlightened sex; plain old missionary sex and quickies that tend to be self-serving but fulfilling; passionate sex, make-up after a fight sex and so on. The sex I am talking about here is the edgy, experimental, psychological kind. The kind of stuff at which you arrive when you’re curious about the underworld of sex. Ambiguously taboo stuff. Even more so, the kind of sex that you “suggest” one night in the bedroom only to be met by a comment like “aren’t people arrested for stuff like that?”

The kind of sex that drive feminists to institute laws protecting women against it. 

You get my point.

At any rate, here I am, seven weeks later, dreaming of sex with animals and trying desperately to believe in the purity of my own lasciviousness. Hoping there might be a middle ground between his perceived innocence and my so-called…experience. Hoping too that I am not running the risk of seeming weirder than I actually am. The more you draw attention to something the bigger it becomes. Right? It’s at this point that I wish to exhume all my old boyfriends and say, “Can you please help me out? Tell D that I’m not as strange as I’m making myself out to be,” to which they all reply, “you were a little bit crazy, but definitely hot.”

That’s the gist of all this. I’m hoping D thinks I’m “hot,” not weird. Among other flattering things, of course. Is that asking too much? I just don’t want to give up my fetishes, that’s all. I mean, wouldn’t it be great if there were a guy out there who accepted even the darker, more questionable side of my nature? Wouldn’t it be great if someone said, “give me what you’ve got, Tracy. I’m not afraid…” 

He and I have talked at length on this subject. Maybe not enough. Whatever the case may be, there’s really only one way to set my mind at ease and purge the guilt and fear. And that’s to do it. To have sex and lots of it. And after months of doing it and learning about each other and experimenting and talking and crossing lines and pushing envelops (or shall I say buying dildos, renting movies and breaking out the Catholic School-Girl outfit?), I will either be satisfied or I won’t. Plain and simple. Until then, I suppose I will remain the victim of guilty, animal dream sex and the telepathic lust of my cleaning lady. Let’s just say I’m hoping this issue is resolved quickly.

Broken

 

beauty

I’ve spent the day in untrammeled reverie, wondering who is inside this guilty body of mine and who, if anyone, decides the truth. More importantly, I’ve been listening to Edith Piaf’s “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien”  for the past hour, talking to myself in a french accent and spinning around in a swivel chair. 

It is one of those nights. To be inside.   To feel the workings of the inner body and the outer as well…

I don’t regret anything at all

I’ve been thinking about beauty, and how I need to remain there, pure in thought, no matter what. And yet,  the gravity of being human is that it burdens the soul with shame. My body, tonight, is a witness. 

Not the good that was given me. Nor the bad. They’re all the same.

I remember how beautiful everything was with S. Everything was whole and pure. Even the dirtiest of thoughts we shared were guiltless and sacred and good. Love does that. It takes the ugly and makes it beautiful. It takes the profane and makes it sacred. It takes shame and transforms it into innocence. Or so you think.

It’s all paid for, wiped out, forgotten.

And as beautiful as it gets, it’s all so temporal and transient.  It’s taken away in a matter of minutes. How I remember those five little words, “I don’t love you anymore,” and how they broke me. How beautiful I was before those words were spoken. How cracked and dismantled I was after.

But then, you go back out there again, eventually,  and everything is vast and undetermined and strange. And you, inside, are amorphous, floating, untethered. Hoping to find validation in someone’s smile.

I talked to MH tonight, the friendly sinner. And he told me I was average. I was plain. There’s nothing special about me and that when a man begins to whisper things like, you are beautiful into my ear, “remember,” he said, “it’s a lie.”

And I don’t care for what’s gone by.

I don’t want to believe this. I never wanted to believe it. And yet, it’s true. Others do not make you beautiful, girl. Knowing this, is part of figuring it all out. Knowing this, makes you strong. 

With my memories, I’ve lit a fire…My pains and pleasures. I don’t need them anymore.

You go back and forth like this all your life. Searching for some sense of who you are in someone else’s world. You are loved and have value. You are left and worth nothing. Thinking outside yourself like a fool. Until, perhaps, you come to a point where you, yourself, assign something value based on nothing else but what’s inside you. You in your own little mind. And the value you assign things is yours, no matter what. And it doesn’t matter how others perceive you or how they themselves interpret things. Whether you are dealing with truth or lies. Something or nothing. What matters is what is inside the self. What matters is that you hold on to yourself, no matter what,  up against gently cresting waves or storms of transformative measure. 

My romances wiped out. With the tremblings they brought.

What matters is not to forget how love  is built. You forget sometimes when you’re  broken. You think it’s outside yourself. You cry at night and hold on to the past and try to bring back the familiar- even if it had its flaws. Because as ugly as it is,  it’s the only thing you know. It’s the only place where purity and innocence are to be found. Only there, you think. Because newness is the bearer of shame. And this scares you. There is no love to be found in the emptiness, you think.

Wiped out forever. I set out once more from zero.

But when you remember that love is not wrapped up in any of that, nor is it the consequence of certain events, but rather, an acceptance of what is, then you’re OK. You can be in a place absent of shame, guilt, innocence, purity, goodness and evil once you finally remember that you are your own answer. That only you determine your worth. You can take what MH says and let it roll off your shoulders. You can accept breaking. You can accept rejection. You can accept what you’ve been dealt.

You can enjoy the pleasure of your own skin and the way your body feels and who made it feel so good. You can forgive your shame. You can make peace with the fact that you don’t know entirely how you feel at any given time. You can be sure that beauty is not a mark of validation given to you by others, but rather something you acknowledge in yourself. All that, in itself, gives you your spark of innocence. 

You can  be happy in the emptiness, knowing nothing, experiencing nothing, because broken or not, you carry a world of goodness and truth within you.

Sleeping beauty

 

The Lovers

The Lovers

 

 

It’s cold, it’s winter and so starts the dreaming…

I had this really sexy dream about, dare I say it, someone from FB. Pretty sad when that’s all you’ve got. I’d give the initials but it’s just too risky. I don’t want anyone to know anything about what’s going on inside my little head aside form what I write here.  I will say that I think about this person from time to time, whenever they happen to pop up on a comment or post. But not more than that. And he’s not a good friend, mind you, none of the usual suspects, but just this guy for which I have been able to form some sense of curiosity. Good enough for a dream, anyway.

I can’t remember where I was but it must have been a party at someone’s house we happened to be both be at, he and I and a bunch of other friends. But it was getting late and I found myself to be very sleepy, so I laid down on the floor in front of the TV. He came and sat beside me. He leaned down, very close into me and whispered in my ear, “don’t go to sleep,” and all my senses awakened. I could smell his clean skin and feel his breath, and hear his voice so clearly. And i remember thinking at that moment, I want this. And as i turned toward him, smiling and sleepy, I kissed his lips and touched his face. His hands ran down the length of my arm and over my hips and around to my belly and his face remained quite close to mine, smiling tenderly. And then I woke up. The moment was so sexy it woke me up. So…as is my custom, I will dream of this person all day.

This dream followed one of great horror. I was at another party, looking for G and someone said he was out in the courtyard. I went outside into this beautiful, Spanish-style sunny courtyard and there he was, in the corner, looking very sick and pale and he was sitting on one of those toilet seats on wheels with rail guards for handicapped people. Right out in the open courtyard. And he was shitting himself. And there was shit every where, all over the patio. But worst of all, I was barefoot and stepping in it. I ran over to him and being the caretaker I am, I said, “what are you doing? we need to clean you up.” And he just laughed at me and said, “this is who I am, baby. Get used to it.” I was so disturbed. 

This second dream was hugely symbolic. I had recently written an article about G on his uncanny ability to live green. As we’re dumping some 20 metric tons of C02 into the atmosphere every year, he’s only dumping about six. A heroic feat. So, I have been in contact with him more than usual. He came over last night with a beautiful bracelet that he had “acquired” for me. It was a Christmas gift. And the thought was quite nice. But my brother was over when he arrived and I was nervous about the dynamics. Mikie doesn’t like G too much. Never has. Anyway, G comes in looking more homeless than usual (are there actual degrees of “looking” homeless- yes). The dingy layers of black and gray hoodies, the dirt under the fingernails, the wirey Grampa Herman-looking side-burns. Oh! And the smell of fried foods from the diner. I have always loved G for who he is inherently, underneath the shoddy exterior. And when we were together I had a certain amount of influence over how he kept himself. But I was actually grateful last night that we are NOT dating anymore. I don’t know how I was able to put up with that. I see it as a sickness now. An inability to care for oneself. 

Anyway, we watched Superbad with Mikie and he left around 10ish. No hugs, no kisses, no nothing. I was content about that. 

But I now see how my brain is translating the events and why I dreamed the dream about the sexy guy. G represents where I was and where I no longer wish to be. And the FB guy represents where I am headed. Whether anything ever comes of this FB guy and me is not the point. The point is that my brain craves maturity, intellect, sexuality, cleanliness, normalcy. For a few years now I have been seeking out the superficial stuff– the musician, the rebel, the super sexy Rockabilly guy with tattoos and long hair. There is definitely a side of me that is drawn to that. But I have learned the hard way that those types of men don’t seem to answer my craving for normalcy— of which a huge part of me needs. It’s not that I have dated “bad” men or cruel-hearted men. It’s just that their goals and dreams are quite different from mine. 

I remember when I dated M, briefly. He used to say to me all the time, Tracy, I’m a family man. This freaked me out. Scared me. I didn’t want a family man. I wanted a rebel. I wanted a man who represented  where I wanted to go, who I wanted to become. I wasn’t able to make peace with the fact that I am a family woman. I’ve always resisted it. Like my friend SD always says, “I am not a suburban housewife.” Well, I too struggle with that reality. I am an artist. I belong with an eclectic clique of writers and illustrators and musicians. Don’t I? OK, in fantasy-world, yes. But my reality is quite different. My reality is that I am very family-oriented. I am a homebody. I enjoy my children. I can’t really live the life of a rebel. I’ve never been able to. When will I finally realize that?

Oh anyway…Despite needing to make peace with my reality, I’ll take a night of sexy dreams for now. I can’t come to terms with my whole life too fast. Besides, I quite enjoy the freedom of fantasy. And at least I am dreaming of a man who has kids. That’s a huge step for me.

The Look of Lust

This is the “look” I usually go for, and the very one I need to stay away from.

HELP ME.

Confessions

I dug these confessions up from 2004. 

  1. I read romance novels
  2. There’s a whistle on my underwear
  3. I used to be in love with Tony Orlando and Bobby Brady, William Shatner and the “Jimbo” from Emergency One.
  4. Much of my music selection comes from Starbuck’s and the jukebox over at Tom Fischer’s
  5. I used to hang out at a bowling ally…and a skating rink…and behind the Acme (when it was an Acme).
  6. I’ve never had anything waxed.
  7. I’ve had sex midway up the Eiffel Tower.
  8. I don’t know what the word ignominious means (but I think I might be doing it now).
  9. I loved waiting tables
  10. I practically read all spam mail, and even visit the sites, namely Penis

Enlargement “increase the length and girth of your penis”

“Drop the hammer on the next chick you bang,”  “Penile Growth Patches,”

My all time favorite spam mail though was, “Become a legally ordained minister within 48 hours”

Website called Ministry in a BOX

MARRY your BROTHER, SISTER, or your BEST FRIEND!!
               • Don’t settle for being the BEST MAN OR BRIDES’ MAID

Baptism: You can say “WELCOME TO THE WORLD!!!! I AM YOUR MINISTER AND YOUR UNCLE!!”

FORGIVENESS OF SINS

Visit Correctional Facilities

 • Preach the Word of God to those who have strayed from the flock

11. I wrote on the wall at Graceland “Elvis, you were just OK.”

12. I don’t particularly like poetry.

13. I love sloppy joes

14. I met my ex-husband online.

15. I own The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Understanding Einstein. (Can you believe there’s also a book out there called “Sex for Dummies.” )

16. I still like Prince

17. I used to steal baklava and apple dumplings from my grandmother’s bakery—until she went out of business.

18. I recently had a lap dance.

19. I enjoyed it.

20. This isn’t the first time I’ve confessed for the sake of entertainment.