Words with Pictures. Merci Encore Tk Kim!

I am reblogging my post, a new and improved version with a video that you can now open!

I am touched and honored to hear my voice sputtering out my words in this magnificent video created by a fellow blogger and my Spleen Sister as well, Tk Kim.  She is tremendously talented and a beautiful person that I have yet to have the pleasure of meeting. I know that one day our paths will collide, our wondering eyes will lock in a gaze filled with uncertainty and longing for essential truths. Thank you my friend!


Originally posted on September 5, 2013.

A photo having little or nothing to do with my poem.

A photo having little or nothing to do with my poem.

You waded,


Lapping like a thirsty cat
At my stream
Of Consciousness.
In my river
Of feelings.
Drinking me in
Until I was heady,
Beneath reason.

Hot, wet vacuum
Of sensations, then,
To your hard,
To your
Pumping so forcefully
That I slowly shift
Into a better place.
Another plane
Of temporality.
Ancestral calling
Releasing the spirit
From its carnal envelope
Beneath reason.

Originally posted on November 30, 2013.

Fernand Leger

Fernand Leger

Ton amour
(pas tout à fait)
Gonflé à max
Me pompait jusqu’au bord
Des belles choses,
Des rêves, de l’espoir.

Ton amour
(en quelque sort)
Fièr et déterminé, raide,
Me remplissait de bonheur,
De quiétude, de paix.

Ton amour
(ou ce que j’aurais voulu)
Pulsant, vibrant, probant
Atteignait mon fond,
Mon for intérieur.

C’est là où tu aurais du voir
La profondeur de ma solitude.

Wine Band-Aids

J’ai essayé
En vain
De panser
La plaie
Que tu m’as
Aux coups de
Les couleurs de l’amour, quoi.

Depuis, j’ai arrêté d’essayer
Et je guéris tout doucement,
Sans couleurs
De l’amour ou autre,
Bras baissés,
Coeur lourd comme un cercueil.


Hot and frazzled, streams of sweat sliding down the back of her neck, she plopped herself down onto the ancient stairs and removed her Ipad from her sack. She felt relieved as she reconnected herself to her virtual world. It wasn’t home but it was as close as she was going to get on this humid August day. In this free Wi-FI zone, students and tourists alike stared blindly into their computer screens, searching for whatever it was they were lacking…a cheap hotel room for the night, a friendly word from a friend, their last bank statement, some kind of link to humanity. All seemed relatively oblivious to the magnificent Italian backdrop.

“How alone we are,” she said to herself, her body aching and her heart heavy. Instead of leaving her problems behind, they seemed even heavier to bear on her Italian vacation than before. The incredible food and the beautiful cities  clashed with the darkness she felt inside. She checked her emails, skimmed over her Facebook and found nothing that made her feel any less weary. She shut off her Ipad and gazed into the crowd.

He was alone, an aloof stranger drinking a Campari on the terrace of a café in front of her. His jaw line was strong and masculine. A cloud of virility lingered around him like the smoke of a pungent cigar. When his sparkling blue eyes met hers, the intensity of his regard permeated the gray aura that surrounded her. He slowly lowered his gaze. She was momentarily perplexed, let down really. He continued to stare off into space, wearing a half-smile. It was then that she realized that from where he was sitting, he could easily sneak a glimpse under her light summer dress.

Not only a glimpse!

His smoldering regard made her terribly aware of her white panties and what hid beneath. Her cheeks flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. The naughtiness of their game made her wet. She slowly parted her knees.  A cool breeze caressed her, goosebumps rose to the surface of her skin. His mischievous eyes made her feel naked for all to see and although she was really quite shy, she revelled in her public nudity. His tenacity bore into her, seeping into every pore. Like a rising tide everything within her swelled, her desire surging in silent response to his late afternoon scrutiny.

Où es-tu?

Sarah Moon Photo

Sarah Moon Photo

Je me cherchais
Dans mon propre miroir brouillé
L’image floutée
L’Etre fuyant
Poisson argenté et lisse glissant entre les mains
Tombant comme une pierre
Au fond d’un puits sans fond


Chute vertigineuse
Aussi excitante
Que terrifiante

J’ai essayé en vain
De m’agripper contre la paroi glissante
Comme un goulot
Mais je continuais de tomber
Jusqu’au fond désolant de la bouteille
Faux ami par excellence
Me serrant dans ses bras forts, réconfortants
Afin de me rendre encore beaucoup
Plus seule qu’avant

Tellement seule que je livrais mon corps nu
Enveloppe charnelle
Une lettre à la poste
Au nord, sud, est et ouest
Sans destinataire précis
M’ancrant sous les corps douloureusement anonymes
Tous pareils et diffèrents à la fois
Sondant la profondeur de ma solitude
Ils me poussaient encore plus bas
Que le sol crasseux
Plus bas que la mort


Pendant cette descente fulgurante
J’ai perdu de vue
Si, en fait, je me cherchais
Ou si j’essayais de me perdre pour toujours

Sans jamais vraiment réussir

Ni l’un ni l’autre

Sans jamais vraiment échouer

Non plus.





Words with Pictures. Merci Tk Kim!

I am touched and honored to hear my voice sputtering out my words in this magnificent video created by a fellow blogger and my Spleen Sister as well, Tk Kim.  She is tremendously talented and a beautiful person that I have yet to have the pleasure of meeting. I know that one day our paths will collide, our wondering eyes will lock in a gaze filled with uncertainty and longing for essential truths. Thank you my friend!


Originally posted on September 5, 2013.

A photo having little or nothing to do with my poem.

A photo having little or nothing to do with my poem.

You waded,


Lapping like a thirsty cat
At my stream
Of Consciousness.
In my river
Of feelings.
Drinking me in
Until I was heady,
Beneath reason.

Hot, wet vacuum
Of sensations, then,
To your hard,
To your
Pumping so forcefully
That I slowly shift
Into a better place.
Another plane
Of temporality.
Ancestral calling
Releasing the spirit
From its carnal envelope
Beneath reason.

Originally posted on November 30, 2013.

Fernand Leger

Fernand Leger

Ton amour
(pas tout à fait)
Gonflé à max
Me pompait jusqu’au bord
Des belles choses,
Des rêves, de l’espoir.

Ton amour
(en quelque sort)
Fièr et déterminé, raide,
Me remplissait de bonheur,
De quiétude, de paix.

Ton amour
(ou ce que j’aurais voulu)
Pulsant, vibrant, probant
Atteignait mon fond,
Mon for intérieur.

C’est là où tu aurais du voir
La profondeur de ma solitude.


Paris Street Art
I’m sending out

God please (Save this fucking Ship.)   -ndt

No!!!!  An SMS, did you forget????

Were you like-
Absent since the Renaissance Era?
(Chuckles the clown at the movie theatre)
Somebody in the peanut gallery
(mmmmmm! Trop Bon les cacahuettes!)

…they said you must take yet another Seresta 50
after 31 days of sleepless night.

“Do you have a drug problem Madame?”

Mais non connard avec un bouc,
I only drink on Mondays in ordre to start out fresh.
(Commercial jingle belles- Always)
But really Madame, have you gone stark raving mad?!?!???!!!

-ouiiii, I know I’m unlovable,
You don’t have to tell me. Message received loud and clear loud and clear….,

I really was born speaking French, babbling out “La Vie en Rose.” straight from the cradle.

And English too.
Ask my husband.
I just met him in the hallway at the top of the narrow staircase and I said to him,
“Did you get a chance to read my blogs today?

He just said, “No, I never even realized you knew how to write. (22 years later Laura Ingalls decided it was about time for a divorce. She had never fancied her little house on the prairie.)


Spinning aimlessly

An amusement park ride gone wild

Ideas, fears turn upon themselves

Like so many manic bumper-cars

Revving their engines

Colliding into one another

Going nowhere

Completely inert 

Yet using so much fucking energy

Such blatant waste

Greasy papers thrown to the ground

At the annual state fair

Between funnel-cakes

And corn dogs, cotton candy

Ephemeral, quickly consumed

By obese partiers 

Bewildered farm animals

Turning amongst themselves


Sharing only their destiny

One that they have not chosen

Oh, to be thrown brutally off the ride

Propelled out of the turning

Ejected high into the sky

To find a release

An exit

Freeing creativity

In order to find some reason to continue

To keep on riding.


Although this chapter of my life feels like a stinking brown shit spiral, although what I am living through seems impossible to exit, I am learning so many truths about myself. Maybe it’s all worth it. Or not. I’m not sure. My thoughts turn like giant wheels that never advance, a tractor stuck in the mud. Every solution brings me back to part of the problem. It’s quite smothering. I can’t sleep, I am failing at abstaining from alcohol….these two factors alone hinder my job search, make me even weaker than I already feel. Without money I cannot leave my husband, with my husband I can’t keep myself from drinking. Nor hating myself. Etc fucking etc.

I have always been into research. I read. I was interested in psychology at a young age, sexuality as well. At twelve I knew that my mother was in a codependent, abusive relationship. I knew that nothing my step-father ever said to me was true. I knew that he was the weak link. I knew that he needed to put down others, to hurt others in order to validate himself. I knew that I was someone worthwhile….

I knew about how abused children recreate the same hell in their adult lives. I figured that since I was so smart, that kind of shit could never happen to me. The fear I felt then has never really left me. Along with a strange sensation that every problem known to man is somehow my fault. I guess these two huge character defects have led me to where I am today.

Sometimes you turn the page, sometimes it’s ripped out like a molar.

I would have rather found the strength necessary to be a page turner. I’m not. I cling desperately to nothingness as if it could somehow fill in all of my empty spaces. This said, the page turned by another hand, I am relieved. I will now be free. Free of this life that has never really made me happy. Free to have new experiences, to find hidden assets in myself I don’t know about yet. I’m afraid because I’m not young, I am qualified for little or nothing, yet I have so much to offer. I am now free to open that door.


Septicemia of the Soul

Photo by Fabrice Numa

Photo by Fabrice Numa

Like a bad tooth, hanging on to bad relationships can provoke a septicemia of the soul. The more things rot, the more it hurts. Although you may be terrified of dentists, the only real solution is extraction. You can anesthetize yourself in a thousand different ways, for years, centuries but so long as that sick tooth remains in your mouth, you are doomed. The infection eventually contaminates every facet of your existence. Little by little, what started as a dull ache becomes something completely unbearable. The people around you notice an unhealthy odor that lingers around your very being. You are shunned by your entourage, a smelly intruder. The big problem with your rotting tooth is that it is so close to your brain, your heart. Insidiously, everything about you reeks, a subtle odor of despair.

Ode To A Mute

Georgia O’Keefe

Ode to a Mute

She is mute,
Yet beautiful nonetheless.
What a pity she cannot speak!
Oh, the tales that she would tell!

She is a spectacular passage
Leading to a stream,
A river,
The mighty ocean,
Gripping you madly in her force,
Engulfing you in her flow.

She is cleverly disguised
By all of her petals, superimposed,
She appears to be fragile
Like a flower,
She is not so fragile really.
She is by no means a minimalist.
Some may find her to be overdressed, gaudy,
Too many trinkets,
No smooth lines,
Yet each bit and scrap of her counts,
Essential to her function
And breathtaking in her possibilities.

She is mute,
Yet seemingly frivolous,
A versatile clutch
Adorned with a
Mysterious pearly button
So delightful to touch
That some women never dare
To do so.

A silent opening
Yet so communicative,
Without a tongue,
Lacking teeth,
She can express a lifetime of desire
Through convulsive movements.

She is a humid corner,
Often wet,
But she smells of the earth,
Not of the sea.
She is amazingly strong,
Yet she yields and melts
Under closer scrutiny.

Sometimes she is uniquely mine.
I take special care of her.

She is mute,
Yet beautiful.

Let’s Get This Party Started

Bill Tong Photo

Bill Tong Photo



She was whirling, a lanky dervish under the twinkling lights who pretended in vain to be stars. She had somehow managed to momentarily separate her tiresome intellect from her body, a mixture of champagne and blaring music had enabled her to leave her mind at the door with the attractive brooding bouncer. The sexual energy that reigned in Mecca of Lust and Music was thick like a steak, raw and pulsing. That shared sexual energy engulfed every participant, a tsunami washing away whatever remained of morality, of decency, leaving only the naked beach, a lieu for rebirth, regeneration. For decadence. That was exactly what she had come there for.

His body came closer to her, he brushed lightly around her whirling self, like a firefly circling around a flame. She felt warm and heady with desire. Desire to be more than one, to be connected firmly to the ground she walked on, to the earth. To be less alone. His big hands clutched her hips from behind. She felt his strong chin on her neck, his hot breath falling somewhere behind her ear. Her round ass searched for proof of his attraction and was rewarded with his aching, throbbing maleness, his hard lines contrasting her soft, organic forms. She then knew that he would certainly staple her onto the wall of the evening, pin down her flightiness, tether her to a post where she would dismiss her perpetual solitude. A vague smile crossed her shiny red lips.

He was like a lumbering cruise ship, heavy and reliable, promising travel to another place, far away from his big black car in the big black parking lot. She was flowing, liquified, her tide thrashing against his solidity. His cunning fingers slid under her skirt and into her eager panties and all went silent for a certain time. He rummaged through her intimacy as if he had left something there at an earlier time. His thorough search left her completely out of breath, panting like a marathon runner. His full lips embraced her, his scruffiness prickled her delicate skin. Teeth gnashed and guttural sounds seemed to well up and search urgently for an exit as he ripped off her undergarment. A foreign, ancestral wail slipped out of her ravenous mouth as he thrust himself into her. For a moment he was hushed. His virility became nothing more than a bald, one-eyed newborn, rocking blissfully in her cradle of flesh.

Their rocking intensified, gaining speed and force. For a moment she was hushed, reduced to the ebb and flow, reduced to nothing more than her own physical pleasure. Time stopped passing as they attained their excruciating delectation. He gushed a stream of milky evidence into her needy orifice, pulsing in a beautiful staccato movement. She shook in spasmodic tremors. She gasped like a fish dying on the seashore and then suddenly all was quiet and peaceful in the leather confines of his fancy car.


RSCN5074 Love is fleeting, Ephemeral. The tide caressing the sand, Leaving as quickly as it arrives. Sex is tangible, Visceral, Quantifiable. At times a faux-semblant of love. Better than nothing, Far better even. Money is necessary, Permitting movement, Giving wings. If you have no love, If you have no sex, money can buy you a ticket. You can be the tide caressing the sand, You can fly away To the place mayflies go.

Petite Mise À Jour

/home/wpcom/public_html/wp-content/blogs.dir/654/29627629/files/2014/12/img_0145.jpgPhoto by Fabrice Numa


Meaningless fucking
Is suddenly


I guess that I’ve been trying  to turn the tables, to change the order of things. I like the idea of approaching my sexuality in a masculine way. Not that I believe thar men are never hurt or used or betrayed, I’m sure that they are, yet I was thinking that I could just have sexual relationships based on a text message or two, getting it and getting on with things, like guys do. I wanted to adopt a sort of consumer mentality. It’s out there, it’s enough to just be present to take part. This behavior is quite addictive. Once you start you are not so sure when to stop. Because you like having sex. Because you feel momentarily better about yourself while some man whose name you will not remember is pumping you up with…nothingness? More or less.

I told him that I would take the 5:30 train. I was ready to go so I took an earlier train. I hate to be late. It throws me off balance. Meeting strangers with the intention of fucking them is dangerous business. I prefer to be ahead of time, safely attached to a wine glass in a corner bar, to watch what comes to me. Not the contrary.

I don’t usually meet someone right away. I usually spend a week or so getting virtually acquainted. I’m good at deciphering people through their words, through what they say and what they don’t say. Emails and text messages are like dating, working up to the point where intimacy is a possibility. In my life, things have been incredibly bleak since September. Sometimes I break my own self-imposed rules. Sometimes when I feel lower than a turd on the sidewalk. Like lately.

He began sending messages, turn left outside of the train station, walk up the hill, as if I was going to walk to his home in the dark. By myself. Thanks for the gallantry. I told him where I was and waited. He arrived. We walked to his place. He kissed me passionately. We fucked like animals, he shoved himself into my ass and I heard his condom pop like a balloon. Great. He bit the inside of my lip and it still hurts now.

As far as sexual encounters go, it was vigorous, which I appreciate. What I didn’t appreciate one bit was that afterward, as I was catching my breath nestled in his armpit in a sort of mock post-coïtal tenderness, he informed me that there was something, “not right,” about me. Not physically but as a whole. Tears spilled out of my eyes, oddly more embarrassing to me, more intimate than the sum of all the other bodily functions he had witnessed up to that point. I asked myself silently, could what is “not right,” about me  be that I can never sleep past four in the morning, that I pour my first glass of wine before seven, that I know anxiety that suffocates me every fucking day? That depression clouds up my existence so much that I can barely see one foot ahead of me? We had planned to spend the night together and I rejoiced at the idea of being away from the heavy atmosphere I now live in, but seeing as how I am flawed in every way known to mankind, he kindly took me home.


Et oui…
Meaningless fucking
Is suddenly



Tamara de Lempicka

Heavy like a bat
Hovers over us
Bearing down upon me
Turning down my easy smile

In the place we live in
Where I store
My hopes
My dreams
My secrets
Is completely

To me

When I come home
I see your car
Parked in the driveway
And I want to disappear
To escape

Fear of oncoming conflict
Tightens it’s grasp
Around my fragile shoulders
Cracks my spine
Tramples my soul
Drives a rusty nail
Straight through my heart strings

I remember that feeling distinctly
From years gone by
So long ago
From my childhood
And I cannot believe how far I have run
Millions of miles

Across oceans, forests and fields

Just to find that same feeling

One can distance the body
But not the soul

Even less the heart

Walking on the high wire
Walking on eggshells
A keen ability
Like riding a bike
An art form that
Never really
Leaves you
Although you’d like to leave it
Far behind

Wherever you go
There you are.

Tasting Your Essence

Everything hurts.
A dull, throbbing ache
Impossible to localize with any certainty.

A hesitant smile,
Briefly flashing pearly whites
Quickly fades as he wrenches my heart
Splintering what remains intact.

I want to make love to the world at large.

I am well on my way.

I want to know passions that burn deep, desires that lie low.
I want you to touch me in ways I never imagined,
I want to feel your desire surging in my hand,
Alive and vibrant.
I want to taste your essence,
I want you to penetrate the thin barrier that separates us,
The thin membrane that makes us individual,
I want to be one with you,
To fall into your outstretched arms like one falls blindly into faith,
To trust you unconditionally,
Like we trust that we have another day to live,
That the sun will rise again.

I want to spread my love onto you, thick and sweet as honey,
Soft and wet, overflowing with tenderness.
Warm and enveloping,
To cover you like a duvet,
I want you to feel safe,
To know love in a pure form.

I want you to exist.

Painting by Egon Schiele

J’avais tout prévu sur Google Maps.
5 jours et 16 heures précises
Afin d’amener mon spleen
Et pleine d’autres choses
De mi casa
A su casa.

J’ai marché, erré
Dans des rues désertes
Des zones industrielles
Des terrains vagues jonchés de poubelle multicouleur.

Je me suis déshabillées
En couches successives,
Une écharpe d’angoisse,
Un bonnet de désespoir,
Des gants remplis de vide.
Je me suis retrouvée nue,
Portant seulement mon amour
Qui brillait dans la nuit,
Illuminant la route noire.

J’ai atteint l’autoroute.
J’étais soufflé avec le passage des voitures
Un camion de bétail m’a doublé
Toutes ces vaches à cils longues
En voyage vers la mort
Comme nous tous d’ailleurs

Il m’est venu l’idée que
Nous nous connaissons depuis des siècles et siècles
Que ce n’est sûrement pas notre première périple
Qu’en aval ou en amont
En avancement ou reculant

Nous sommes ensemble.

Continue reading



I drink
To avoid my own reactions,
My own emotions.
Not because I care about you…
Believe me,
I gave that up
Like a bad habit,
Like drinking.
Not to spare you my anger,
My wrath,
But somehow to save myself
To spare myself
From unpleasant situations
That I feel incapable of dealing with.

This isn’t working.


Sometimes there is a dark ache in my heart,
And the hurt permeates
Into my bones,
Into the marrow,
Making advancement
Nearly impossible.

I am weak.

When I am in need of courage and strength
Everything that is positive about me
Seems to leak out like nuclear waste
Leaving me spineless
Completely handicapped.

Like a black slug on the sidewalk
Waiting for a handful of salt.

Go ahead, throw it.

I can take it.

Building On The Sand: Choosing The Right Beachside Property

He was somewhere in the blurry tequila background, interjecting from time to time. Between my inherent drunkenness and my complete oblivion to most subtle male advances, I really had no idea of his intentions and even less of how our meeting would alter the course of my life in such a dramatic way. It’s hard to say today that I regret that coming together, because we have had good times….but I have to say that deep down inside of me, there is a screaming little voice that says I probably regret nothing more. Or nearly nothing.

Despite my state of advanced inebriation, I suddenly remembered that I had a handsome German guy coming to my apartment for dinner. It was getting late and somehow, Husband du Jour convinced me that it would be a good idea if he drove me home. He did. He came in to visit my humble studio apartment, feigning interest in my living conditions and slipped a sly hand into my tights. That was when I realized that he wasn’t just a Good Samaritan. He invited me for lunch the following week, I said yes without really thinking that he would even show up. I thought the invitation was just a sort of payment for feeling me up. He left, I made dinner and enjoyed the company of my sexy German friend.

I dressed accordingly for my Monday lunch invitation without much enthusiasm. I doubted that my new friend would show up at all, and then he did show up. We ate fish in a restaurant by the port of Nice and then took a lovely seaside drive to Villefranche where we drank cocktails in the sun on the terrace of a bar overlooking the Mediterranean. He was trying to impress me and I guess that it worked. The afternoon looked nothing like my student life, far less opulent, less scenic as well. Yet back in America, I had gotten used to dating men a bit older than me, to being offered more than beer and pizza, so in a way, the situation seemed quite normal to me. He told me he was 34, to me an age quite advanced, nearly old.

That would be the first of a long series of lies. He was 44, roughly the same age as my parents.

Building On Sand, Surprised By The Tsunami


* I intend to continue my Fucking Stories. I just needed to start getting this off my chest. Unfortunately, my real life is far less orgasmic than my literary life.

Looking back on my relationship with my husband, it becomes more and more apparent to me that the foundation of our friendship was built for the most part on lies. His, not mine. I had come to France to study, alone, as I had been dumped, quite cruelly, by my former French boyfriend prior to leaving America. I had my paperwork in order, I was enrolled in university and I had a fairly important sum of money, so I just said to myself, “What the fuck! Go for it!” and that is what I did. I was 23 years old.

Oddly I feel like I had far more self-confidence at that time than I do now. Beauty, youth, stupidity savantly mixed with too much intelligence. Beauty, of course, fades, means far less than we imagine at the time we are reveling in it. Youth passes you by like the bus you’ve been waiting for for over an hour. (Do not look down to light your 15th cigarette, you most definitely will miss that fucking bus.) As for intelligence, you have to know how to use it in your favor, otherwise it is much the same as when you leave your phone charger plugged in at all times, even when you are not charging your phone. *Poof!

I was not looking for love the day we met. Although theoretically, I had more than enough money to get me through my school year, I met a lovely girlfriend who enjoyed nightlife, drinking, smoking, late nights in cafés. She had a car, a Peugeot 404. It was turquoise and we went on weekend trips together, we once begged for croissants at four in the morning at the back door of a bakery after a night of merrily frolicking. Together, we spent incredible amounts of money. My stash started to seriously dwindle around December and by January, it hit me that if I didn’t find some kind of shit job, I really wouldn’t make it to the end of my studies. Plus, I really intended to stay. To live in France. To translate subtitles for movies or find some use for my French. (22 years later I still haven’t found it.)

So, I threw back two or three glasses of wine, made myself look alluring, took a big breath and ventured out into the job search phenomenon, something I always managed to get through in America although it is probably more terrifying to me than cancer or death. The French have a well deserved reputation for not being incredibly friendly. Where I live, the summer is the season when a paperless American could probably find a job quite easily. In January….two or three completely empty restaurants and I began losing hope rapidly. Hopelessness leads me to a bar. Still, to this day.

Bartenders can recognize hopelessness ten miles away. I started with a miserable glass of wine, tears welling up behind my eyes, threatening to spout out at any given moment. My Super Hero Bartender led me to free tequila shots and my hopelessness evaporated so quickly, I could scarcely remember why I was all gussied up in the first place. My mission became terribly secondary. The bartender was hitting on me, a midget waiter had engaged me in some sort of political conversation…and somewhere in the background, my current husband appeared.

Fucking: Part 5

In his arms, my cheek grounding into his beautiful chest, I had a fleeting feeling of having found a place that felt like home, a place that I have always searched for but have never actually reached. His hands grasped my ass, his fingers sliding in from behind, exploring my slickness, my pearly button, my ins and outs. He introduced his digits, long and wet deep into me, making me gasp.

His mouth on mine, sharing his air, the whole experience made me tremble. My knees were wobbly, I yearned to lay down, to feel the weight of his body tethering me down, to stop shaking like an epileptic. I longed for all that was empty in me to be filled by his strength, to feel gravity working on me in a beautiful way. I wanted to feel connected to him, even just for a brief interlude in time. It is exhausting to always feel like there is nothing holding you to the ground, the whole lonely planet.

Fucking: Part 4

Photo by Sarah Moon

It seemed to glow in the soft night light, a perfect specimen of manliness, inches from my red lips. My tongue dashed madly around his beautiful tip, tasting his secretions. He tasted of everything delicious that I can imagine, a savory, bittersweet blend of salt and sugar and lust. Lust being the main ingredient. Slowly he entered my mouth, as if he was testing the waters before taking a dive. He placed his enormous hands gently on the back of my head, stroking my hair.

There was an aura of sensuality floating around our bodies as I took him in farther and farther. I could feel his veins pulsate as I quickened the pace, our tempos came together, fluid and innately human. He was murmuring words that I did not understand as I fucked him deeply with my mouth. He came in the back of my throat in a hot, salty stream, a geyser erupting in my mouth, a precious liqueur, a condensed version of his masculinity. His body shook for a long moment, his eyes were closed as he gently pulled me into his arms. A sexual act often overshadowed by a certain form of brutality took on an immense feeling of benevolence, of unexpected tenderness.

Fucking: Part 3

My eyes were nearly closed, light was coming in and out of my peripheral vision like headlights on the autoroute at night. His incredible specimen of the male sexual apparatus, finally released from the prison of clothing, gleamed, filled with heat and with hope as well, an ember left burning in the fire.

Generally, I never look. I’m shy that way, but in this particular moment I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. It glistened. Smooth perfection and proud, surging, with a sort of cap on top, like a mushroom or a child’s drawing of a tree. It pulsed with energy that seemed to enter me through the heavy air and I wanted it in the most desperate way. More than money, more than a career, more than peace in the world, more than my own life, which really, I only wanted to end. Most of the time. But not then. Not yet.

At that very moment I wanted his throbbing member in every part of me. In every opening that God foolishly left unlocked. (?) Every vulnerable hole, every orifice leading directly to my prune-like heart, every entrance that I was born with ached to be filled with his virility, with his light, with his hope.

Photo by John Faux

Fucking: Part 2

Egon Schiele Painting

His fingers on my zipper, an expert craftsman, an artisan of mechanics (maybe he assembled computers or complicated tiny watches) his graceful fingers opened me up so delicately. There was no awkward moment, no adolescent fumbling. His lovely palm between my legs made me want to be even taller than I already am. My back arched like a cat as he roamed freely in my most intimate places, sounds welled up in me and spilled out of my mouth beyond my control. Primal sounds, maybe the sounds of birth or of death filled the room. I recognized them as my own although I had never heard them before. They came up from somewhere so far away from my everyday life, from so far away from this moment.

He pushed me onto the bed like one might push aside a stone in the sidewalk. Effortlessly. I shifted into a different plane of consciousness, a place with no sharp angles, only blurry edges and the grain of old photographs. He was taking off his shirt, his pants. He laid them down on the back of a rosewood chair. His erection was still confined in the space of his undergarment. It seemed to be begging for freedom, a caged animal sensing a door left ajar. The room was filled with animal odors. My body was no longer my own. It had retreated back to ancient times.

Fucking: Part 1

Painting by Tamara de Lempicka


The vast expanse of his strong hand, more than adequate to, say, palm a basketball, covered every inch of the small of my back. One or two agile fingers lingered idly along the crack of my ass, making me feel dizzy. I swooned with desire as his mouth bit into my neck, his beautiful teeth grazing the skin behind my ear. He smelled of sandalwood and bergamot and I felt heady and nearly drunken as I inhaled him all the way into myself. He pulled me closer, his erection jammed right next to the zipper of my jeans. I instantly regretted that I wasn’t wearing a tiny skirt, allowing instant access into my intimacy. An unmeasurable distance separated me from the promise barely concealed in his crisp linen trousers. Like the distance separating the sun from the earth.

The passage of time altered slightly, seconds became years and my impatience seemed to swell inside me, a sprained limb rapidly growing bigger and bigger. His arms around my waist, fondling my round ass created an urgency that shook my entire body. My ancient soul yearned to meet his playful kindred spirit, to feel him buried deeply inside of me. I wanted to capture his essence and plant it firmly within myself, to hold on to him for a while, to experience the melding of our two bodies. Fucking him seemed to be the perfect remedy for the perpetual loneliness that I and every other human being is confronted with. A joyful, electrifying manner of escaping the crushing oneness we are born into.

What Are You Looking For?

Sometimes, when I read the comments that my posts evoke, I am embarrassed. I get the feeling that everything I throw out into the world sounds vaguely like a plea for acceptance. Flattery. Compliment fishing at high season. That is far from my goal. It would be even more selfish than I actually am if I begged people to feel sorry for me, because obviously there are so many people out there who suffer in ways that are much more concrete than mine, far more tragic than the sum of my existential flagellation. (and occasional masturbation. Ok, every God-given day.)

Each accomplishment that I embrace is immediately ridden of any importance. By me. I don’t know how to change this but I would like too.

For example, I wanted, as a young woman, to live in France, to speak French really well, in order to maybe find a way to express what I have to say accurately. I am shy, I am not all that sure of myself but somehow, I made that happen. I know that there are many women who appear to be far more adventurous than I do who never get past the highway exit of their miserable hometown. And then it meant nothing.

Wallowing in my slew of alcoholism, I sought help, went to treatment, quit drinking. It was an enormously painful experience, yet once in the bag, it meant nothing. (and did not last very long. Hélas.)

I have written my way out of a sexless existence (thanks in part to WordPress and more so to my blog friends) and I now partake in carnal pleasures more or less whenever I feel like it and even that means less than nothing.

I have posed nude for an artist and for a photographer despite the fact that sometimes, merely walking through a restaurant in search of the lady’s room can fill me with parlalysing fear.

After three years of complete, tooth grinding anxiety, I have finally gotten the fuck-eating French Driver’s License and I want to celebrate this and feel worthy, but once acquired, it of course means nothing.

I’d like to drive far, far away from my thoughts that continually bury me, but they come back, like an STD that I have so far not contracted. (eek!)

But I don’t have a car. (and if one day I do, that will mean nothing anyway. Obviously.)



Apparently, my good luck, as unexpected as snow in September or a teen pregnancy, has suddenly run dry. I have been thriving on the act of propelling my body into situations that basically scare the shit out of me, hoping that somehow, so fucking late in the game, I might be able to build something that at least looks like self-confidence.To other people.

I never fool myself, but I certainly try.

Frazzled and exhausted, completely destabilized, I am trying to dig out of the avalanche of shit that I am wading through. The “Sleeping With Strangers,” chapter of my existence seems to be coming to a grinding halt. As is often the case, changes like this always seem to come to me at the worst possible times. Autumn is such a vibrant, magnificent season. I would love to really enjoy it, yet as summer tapers off, I always feel an overwhelming sadness. Inevitably, things change with the seasons. There is no use trying to hang on to the last shreds of summer passion. It’s all over now, along with warm evening walks and balmy days at the beach.

So I am asking myself, where should I go from here? It is impossible now to go back to where I came from. I am flailing with the idea that nothing else really awaits me, that I can just give up and silently accept growing old. Hopefully when we are elderly, we lose all of our desires, physical urges…our libidos, more or less. Somehow I doubt this, for me, completely, and for others as well. I imagine myself in a few years, filled with hope and lust, wrinkled and undesirable, and I see little reason to continue hanging around, as incredibly vain and selfish as that sounds. At the end of the day, I guess I am not really all that altruistic. I hate the idea that one day, someone might see me and think, “She must have been beautiful once. Before now.” And then I hate how shallow I am.

I guess that there is no other alternative. We can only move forward. Allons-y.

Sometimes While Searching For Fireworks

borrowed photo

Sometimes while searching for fireworks
For explosive moment
For someone to detonate the bomb
Hidden cleverly within you
For someone to pull your
Trigger, aching with desire

It is sometimes at this period of searching
That someone offers you
All of those things

Plus, for no additional cost
Something that feels like a warm bath on a cold night
Like a comforting bowl of soup

Fireworks provoke oohs and aahhs
They are less magnificent when you watch them a lot
Sometimes all you really long for
Is a warm bath and a bowl of soup


Photo by John Faux

She cautiously moves ahead, treading deep waters. The idea of going under, letting the waves wash over her troubled head is extremely enticing but at the same time, she would not want to miss even a second of her perilous journey.

So much time has already been squandered, as if “too late,” would never pertain to her.

So many extraordinary possibilities that are presently extraordinarily impossible.

In the new scenario she has written, herself being the main character, (obviously) she is continuously confronted with hugely uncomfortable situations. Situations that probably go against the very grain she was raised on. Situations that make her feel like an imposture. A ridiculous tourist visiting strange lands through the tinted window of a technicolor tour bus. Someone way too far out of her waters to ever swim well.

Or worse, just a complete idiot.

This lingering impression causes her to doubt her actions and herself in general. Maybe she is really much too far from her native shores. Maybe she is silently stepping on toes she had not even seen in her path, being blind to the protocol, the codes, breaking rules of conduct that she is completely unaware of. More or less. Maybe she is not really “a mature audience.”

This said, it is far from her intentions to waste anyone else’s time.

Happy Hour At Dawn

10:00 A.M.

Her heart pounds sporadically like a symphony warming up, dissonant sounds of one hundred different instruments fill her ears. Her throat is constricted by invisible hands, her teeth seem to grow, taking up too much space in her mouth. Her tongue swells like a blowfish, in silent conflict with her enormous molars.

In her mind, her thoughts are a marching army of red ants. They seem to be well-organized at first but if one looks more closely, they are moving in several different directions all at once. Five move forward while twenty move back to where they came from. Cheap resolutions are made and then abandoned just as quickly as they are formed, like hubcaps. Leaving those good intentions on the side of the desolate road procures in her a sort of infantile jubilation.

10:05 A.M.

In such a short lapse of time, she has travelled one thousand miles ahead of herself and then gone back in time to a place where she finds solace. The bottle has glistening pearls of condensation cascading down its length and this image alone, combined with the coldness of the neck in her hands gives her sudden focus.

She opens a drawer, the corkscrew is at home between her fingers, as if it was born with her. As the cork exits the bottle, a lovely sound escapes, a poof, followed by a lull. All goes silent as she pours herself a glass. She momentarily panics at the idea that someone may be witnessing her daily ritual but in the end, she does not care.

The glass moves to her lips, the immediacy of her pleasure is breathtaking. Cold white wine instantly fills in all the empty spaces, reorganizing the disorder, eliminating the strangling discomfort. Her ideas are then streamlined, her focus is akin to a magnifying glass.

All of her words fall into order and she feels incredibly clairvoyant. Sometimes she writes at this particular moment. Sometimes it passes too quickly to grab ahold of for it is a fleeting moment. She silently reflects upon the fact that probably all beautiful moments are fleeting, fine sand in the wind, and she pours herself another glass.

Like Casa Bonita, Only Different

When I was in elementary school in Colorado, a field trip to Casa Bonita was nearly the erotic highlight in my vaguely conservative upbringing. I was an eleven year old, a lanky (ok, towering.) vessel of curiosity. On the long, overheated bus ride that took us to this culinary institution, couples suddenly grew like bad weeds, plans were made. By fifth grade, the year we went there with our class, most everyone had already been to this legendary Mexican restaurant with their families. We were elated, hooting and screeching, well aware of the abundance of possibilities to escape adult restraint in the Disneyland atmosphere that reigned at the sexually charged Casa Bonita.

No one goes to Casa Bonita for the food, as the cuisine is similar to a frozen Mexican TV dinner meant to be heated in the oven that you unfortunately choose to heat up in a microwave. It isn’t really awful but it’s not good either. They do make excellent sopapillas served with honey that you order at the end of your meal by raising a tiny Mexican flag on your table. Raising that flag always made me salivate, but I don’t intend to write about food. In this Mecca of Tex-Mex, there are huge waterfall, divers, Mariachi bands and Black Bart’s Cave. (!!!)

Colorado is an arid state but at Casa Bonita, there is an ocean-side, tropical humidity in the air. The turquoise colored waterfall, the sexy high divers, the dim lights, the music, it all seemed to be a perfect lieu for falling in love. At the time anyway. Or maybe I was just incredibly influenceable and I haven’t really changed much. I was kissed in that cave in such a passionate way, a kiss that resembled oral surgery. A tonsillectomy. It must have been one of the first times that I was felt up and I thoroughly enjoyed the darkness of the cave, the urgency of my young friend, the pervasive feeling of doing something that ought to be more carefully hidden yet was not.

Which brings me to what I wanted to write about.

Yesterday, continuing in a long string of experiences I never expected to include in my life, I was invited to an adult sauna. To my surprise, it was far less sleazy than I had imagined, but then again that is maybe only because of the summertime heat. We were alone except for the sauna employee. If my initiation to this truly erotic place had been witnessed by loads of other sweaty fornicators, I doubt that I would have had what it takes to stay. I am not an exhibitionist and not much of a voyeur either, as I have already said here before.

The lighting, the humidity and the sultry feeling in the air all made me remember my fifth grade field trip to Casa Bonita. Inhabited by unmentionable desires, I seized the day when I was eleven and I seized the day yesterday as well. I’ll leave the gory details to your imagination…I have skinned knees and my mind is still overflowing with erotic smut today.

(I have a 500 word limit with myself. Without it, I would ramble on forever.)

In Regard To Being Regarded

Photo by Brett Walker


I recently posed for a figure drawing artist, yet another highly unlikely activity in a lengthy list of things I never imagined that I would ever do in a million years that I have done in this year.

I am not one of those people who sashays triumphantly out of the shower and into the kitchen butt-naked to fetch myself a drink. I sleep with my panties on, even when I have a handsome bedmate. In the wintertime, I add socks to my thermal nighttime apparel. I avoid lingering in locker rooms and showering with others at all costs. I won’t pee in front of you, ever, even if we are good friends. Outside of clearly sexual contexts, my own nudity seriously embarrasses me in company and when I am all alone as well. Your nudity makes me incredibly uncomfortable, makes me not know where to look, can make my skin crawl.

Unless we are fucking. (past, present, future…but not too long beforehand and not too long afterward either.)

So, needless to say, when I saw the job offer in the classifieds, wrote an email, sent a few photos and then physically moved my body to another city in order to sit silently naked with a complete stranger, well, it was huge for me. Because I don’t really like my body? Yeah, probably a bit of that but not only that. It was an odd experience. Not a bad odd experience. I really enjoyed talking to the artist. He made me feel at ease right away.

Ever since, I’ve been trying to pin down what confuses me in nudity, why I am so uncomfortable in the nude. Surprisingly, I really wasn’t uncomfortable at all in our work arrangement. I guess it felt unusual to me to be undressed and not have any sexual intent lurking in the background. To be honest, it baffled me. I am still trying to process my own feelings about this.

When I figure it out, I’ll write something enlightening. (that or run naked through a stadium!)


I would rather write this directly to you, but at the core of me there is someone a bit old-fashioned when it comes to expressing desires. If you wrote to me first, exposing some under the sheet fantasy you had about me, then I would feel justified in telling you mine. My mother always said, “Don’t call boys. If they are interested, they’ll call you.” Which is the way we do things where I come from. If another woman told me she was using this outdated technique, I would think that she was terribly passive, that she has the same right to expression as any man does, that she is so much more than just a pretty flower waiting to be picked….but I am not another woman. I’m just me, and since you don’t seem all that keen on picking me, I’m just going to share my fantasy about you to everyone but you.

It is early in the morning, the fan is blowing cool air on our entwined bodies and tiny slivers of light are shining through the shutters like thousands of diamonds that no one has ever offered me. We are on our sides in a sprawled out spoon position. My warm snatch ( I can really never find a word for that part of me that doesn’t either embarrass or horrify me or make me smirk.) anyway, my warm entrejambe is resting quietly on your knee, as if that is where it ought to be. I am floating back and forth between really sleeping and just resting. I feel your breathing change, I hear you stir and I bear down a little on your knee, just to get your attention. This works like a charm and I can feel you hardening, swelling up behind me. My hips start to rock gently and I turn into a liquid form of myself. In my ears there is a sound like when you put your head under the water in the ocean.

With your fine example of the male sexual organ, you start to search. To the left, to the right, as if you are looking rather clumsily for something that you can’t find, as if you are probing. You do this because you know that it makes me crazy. I am instantly mad with desire for you to penetrate me in the deepest way possible.

Then I woke up.

That was my fantasy about you this morning and it has left me feeling anxious. Edgy. I suppose that even if I had found the self-confidence necessary for sharing it with you, the impossibility of living it out today would make me vaguely dissatisfied. Voilà.



Discernment is the faculty used to make good judgements. Or not. An ordinary interaction with someone today got me thinking about my own discernment, the rather inadequate space that lies between the words in my head and the words coming out of my mouth.

When I find humor in a situation, it is nearly impossible for me to keep my words contained. Like slippery fish in a net, they tend to slide on out. Sometimes they fall under the head of a hammer, bludgeoned to death, deemed inappropriate. Those words make nearly no one laugh. Except me. Sometimes they go back out to sea, largely unnoticed. It is difficult for me to judge what others find humorous. I find absurdity to be incredibly funny and my discernment is often lacking when I decide to share my ridiculous punch-lines. I guess that people find me strange, and really, I don’t give a shit about that.

Discernment is useful in deciding with whom you will share what, and there again, mine is a bit off. I love to be alone, I have a definite need for solitude but not really for privacy. Not for secrecy. Hiding what I feel or even what I do is extremely difficult for me. So for the most part, I don’t bother. (I even feel the need to spout off about myself to the unknown masses here on the internet!) This part of my personality annoys people who are close to me because….I don’t really know why. Because my sharing intimate details with someone does not mean that I am close to that person, so I guess that the people I really am close to feel less valued. (?)

When I am hurt, my discernment instantly captures all of my words, allowing them no exit. They are like maggots that burrow into my heart, feeding off of their fleshy host. I wish that they would feed off of my ass! My heart is big but my ass is way bigger! If I could change my own judgement about how to react in situations where someone has hurt my feelings, I could eliminate so many other problems. Hell, maybe I wouldn’t even have any problems of my own left to resolve. Then I could start working on world peace, which is certainly much more relevant in the sad times we live in.

At The End Of The Day, Love Is Better

René Magritte, Les Amants

You can only fool yourself for so long.

Spicy sexual escapades filled with erotic sensations and emptied of sentiment are like many other hobbies. You begin in a passionate frenzy that typically does not last very long. At first, you can imagine yourself, say, golfing, playing tennis, bridge, doing needle-point….with the same zeal for the rest of your time on this earth. And then one day, you realize that you feel less inclined to do so. After the newness wears off, a sort of tediousness takes over. There is a whole lot of predictable in the unpredictable.

Meeting new people, seeing their homes, how they live, learning about their sexual penchants, having unbridled intercourse with them, it’s still totally thrilling to me. I enjoy discovering them, finding common denominators between them. I have learned more about my own sexuality in this past year than in my whole life up until now, which is something I feel incredibly lucky to experience at this point because I am no longer a young woman. More or less, I’m flabbergasted to even be getting laid at all, much less to have the luxury of choice.

I would be lying if I said that my partners in crime meant nothing to me. They are often quite interesting, frequently incredibly warm and always very enthusiastic. Their ardor is contagious. I have seen some of them several times, some of them only once. One or two I now consider to be my friend. One lives in my neighborhood and we talk on the phone sometimes. He is a true libertin and I enjoy sharing my adventures with him because he is so genuinely interested in my sexual evolution. A few of my pals are cheating on their wives/girlfriends and I have mixed feelings about what we do together. As I am cheating on no one, I feel like I am a real, bona fide libertine. Cheating just means a person is bored/horny/whatever. It means that you are taking liberties that you are not supposed to be taking. I am a stickler for clear definitions. Life is confusing enough without throwing in nebulous terminology.

What prompted this post? Well, I was watching television with my husband the other night when a passionate love-making scene passed before my empty, hypnotic gaze. My eyes welled up and spilled over. I have been doing lots of things lately but love-making is no longer part of my repertoire. I really am so much happier in my new, highly sexual life than I was in the old, withering on the vine life I was living before. Having my husband’s approval to act on my desires makes me love him even more than I did before, but we don’t have sex at all. Ever.

My body purrs like a kitten but my heart knows a scam from miles away.

(Note to self.) You can take the love out of the sex or the sex out of the love, but probably, if you really thought you were worth it, you would strive to find a full-package deal.

Breath Deeply, You Can Smell It!

Sometimes, a strange, invisible force drives me to do things that I already know will make me sad, break my throbbing heart, just to be sure. That is what I have chosen to do and I am sure that my inquisitive nature will spare me no suffering. Nonetheless, I like to be absolutely sure of things, Situations fluctuate depending on your vantage point. Looking at things from far away makes me doubt my vision. Changing perspectives helps me to see clearly. In theory anyway.

Like a puppy, I need to meet my blunders snout to the ground. I like to smell it. From a distance, I can show proof of strength, dignity even. A false dignity. When I have propelled myself into the middle of things…my inner power seems to evaporate, like spit on a hot sidewalk in July. I search for the place that my resilience has cleverly hidden itself and it is nowhere to be found. None of this comes as a surprise to me. My will, capricious infant, has always forced my hand. I am ruled by my desires, and really, even though it hurts sometimes, I wouldn’t want to be any other way.

There is a lot to be said for saving face.
For keeping a stiff upper-lip.
For never forgiving.
For always having the last word.
For sticking obstinately to principles.
For burning bridges.
For never looking back.

Yet somehow, I have the feeling that in doing so, a person easily misses out on a different clarity, possibly closer to the elusive truth of the matter. Sometimes I need to back up in order to keep on moving forward. Nose grinding into the pavement, it is far less possible to deceive myself, to paint beautiful pictures of what could have been. In a backwards kind of way, humiliating myself, putting myself out on a limb, not protecting myself nor my shaky self-image makes me not even want to deceive myself anymore, to give up painting all together, which is positive really. Illusions are lovely but reality must be faced at some point. The more I avoid it the shittier it becomes.

My eternal mental masturbation usually pays off sooner or later. In the event that my research is never really conclusive, I think that I will stop painting, writing, searching, fornicating, living. I will consecrate my time to watching tele-reality and drinking cheap wine. In the meantime….


(I’m already drinking cheap wine, I’m half way there.)


Photo by Brett Walker

The majority of her life passed in a dreamlike trance. Everyone around her noticed her lack of solidity, something intangible about her like a silver stream running through your fingers. Evasive as a cloud, always changing forms. She alternated between floating from one situation to the next, gingerly touching the surface every once in a while or laboriously dredging the black bottom of the murky pond of life. Ruled by the moon and the tides, her moods fluctuated madly, rising to impressive heights and then crashing back down into the lowest, darkest holes of existence. As a result of this perpetual lack of consistency, no one really took her very seriously.

She could not resist analyzing every situation that concerned herself in any way and even most other situations that had nothing to do with her. Luckily, she was blessed with a strong streak of pragmatism, well-disguised under her heavy robe of incongruity. The lapse of time necessary for her to finally take action, to put her pragmatic nature to use, varied immensely.

Sometimes years, decades silently slipped away. The voices, urging her to move forward, yelling at the tops of their frail lungs, could be heard by her alone. She was a bit like a duck, gliding effortlessly on the surface, paddling like hell only inches under the water.

Yet sometimes, in the blink of an eye, she took the most direct path towards what she wanted, hungry crab on a sandy beach, protected by her hard shell, all her softness and vulnerability cleverly dissimulated on the inside.

Chaire de Poule, Tout Bascule

Photo by Brett Walker

Une si grande main
Témoignage silencieux
D’une vie
Des heures
Posée avec une douceur
Sur une nuque frêle
Lien fragile
Entre cœur et corps
Et cerveau aussi


Le corps prend le dessus
Dévoilant un léger frissonnement
Qui parcourt l’ensemble
Trahissant l’intellect gonflé
De mots sans signification
Et le cœur meurtri aussi
De mille blessures éparses
Tous les deux
Logés silencieusement
Presque imperceptible
Mais bien présents
Dans l’enveloppe charnelle
Terrain privilègé
Livré avec permis de construire
La chaire de poule

Just an ordinary moment
The earth spinning in it’s usual manner
Nothing really out of the ordinary

It often occurs after drinks and words
Shared in the knowledge
Of what is to come
Yet somehow it startles me every time
Because something as magical
Seems unlikely
I assume that every time is the last
And I am pleasantly surprised
To be mistaken

In the blink of an eye
Reality shifts
Sudden landslide
Out of everyday life
And into something infinitely better

I would like to seize that moment
Confine it briefly into words
To be able to describe it somehow

This is how it feels to me
More or less

Someone has turned off the sound
No more voices
Not even ours
Replaced by a hard bass sound
An amplifier at a concert on a hot summer afternoon
A sound of energy caught in a prism
Seeking release
The lighting changes
Fading in and out
Frantic like strobe lights
We become positives and negatives
An erotic X-ray
Our bodies pulsating
Animated solely by desire

This is only the beginning
Of what is truly extraordinary
Just around the next corner

People on the street continue to go about their business
The earth does not actually stop spinning
Just an ordinary moment


Continue reading



“Virtue! A fig! ‘Tis in ourselves that we are thus and thus. Our bodies are gardens to which our wills are gardeners;”. Shakespeare, Othello.

(I have lost hope in my ability to make links. The time I waste trying is time that I would rather be writing. This is Part 4 of my story…feel free to jump back or just take it from here.)

There I was under the fig tree, oozing, warm, thick like syrup. My Will was reaching incredible heights. Nothing could stop it. As for my Virtue, it was like a distant memory, fading away with every passing second. My Garden was ripe, a cornucopia, a bountiful offering. The Gardener begged for the harvest right at the very moment that the fertile soil yielded its reward. My will was to be labored like rutty soil and I must say that I really was. He worked my body like a farmer plows a field.

His strong hands cupped my ass, pulling me into him. My knees rose in a silent chorus around his waist. Feeling him so close to me brought tears to my eyes, the urgency of his gesture, the pulsating rhythm of our movements…the fierce desire bringing us together like magnets! We were fully clothed for a moment and then suddenly we were naked, in a park under a fig tree. Complete strangers riding a wave of lust, a tsunami ravaging the coast of my existence. As if everything else up until this moment had been taken out to sea, discarded like an old dress, still magnificent but somehow wrong on my silhouette. Outdated.

I clutched his shoulders, his ass. He was my pumped up life-vest and I was holding on to him in a sort of survival instinct. His fingers slid eagerly between my legs and the lush, slippery sensation made me gasp. It was as if he had known what I wanted before I even knew it myself. He sensed exactly how to touch me, and where, all doled out in varying intensity. He took me so far away and then dropped me abruptly and then swooped down to pick me back up. I was soaring on his wings yet I was firmly planted below him.

He penetrated me, my body and my soul all at once and then he fucked me with such raging fury that I lost myself in the frenzy of his forceful pumping. My hair was wet and sticking to the back of my neck, my body was slick in his hands. He dislodged something so painful hidden deep inside my heart and as it passed my eyes teared up and a small cry escaped me. Then I came and it was so beautiful that I was terrified by the happiness it procured. I knew that anything that exquisite was not intended for me, yet it was for me. Somewhere beyond my animal sounds there was a moment of deafening silence, a calm before the storm. His orgasm rose up and met me half-way. If I remember right, there were fireworks.

I will never imagine public transportation in the same way. Get out of your gas guzzler….the good life is waiting at the bus stop!

Terminus. End of Story

Public Transport III-Almost the End of the Line

We had been walking for at least a half an hour before it dawned on me that we had not spoken. His physical presence was so overpowering that he had somehow calmed my nervous, chatty nature into complete silence without me even realizing it. The idea that any verbal communication might be impossible darted across my mind like a shooting star and fell somewhere beyond the horizon. His hand in mine, his warmth spilling out onto my coldness, his very presence felt soothing like a warm bath. In his regard I was anointed .

We continued to ramble along, crossing train tracks and streets, going through tunnels and coming out on the other side. We approached a park. The temperature dropped slightly as we walked under giant, ancient trees. He put his arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer. A group of school children, trotting merrily along, two by two, crossed our path without giving us a second thought.

Tucked safely under his wing, I could smell him fully. I was breathing him in like a fine wine, retaining his scent in a feeble attempt at memorizing him for less exceptional days, for days that just pass by without leaving any trace. He smelled like everything good on this earth, like colorful spices in a market in Morocco, like an oasis in the middle of a sun-drenched desert, like a feast waiting to be consumed.

Under a leafy fig tree his full lips touched mine, lightly, furtively. Testing the water. In a heartbeat he plunged in, an exotic mixture of tenderness and sheer force. Although I had been waiting for this passionate embrace ever since I ran into him on the bus, I was startled when it actually occurred. He took my breath away, making me forget my will, my name. I was transformed from a solid human being into a liquid.

Oozing, warm, thick like syrup.

Public Transport Part 2

If you didn’t catch the beginning of my story, it is here, Public Transport…at least I think it is.

So, like the moment before a tornado touches ground, the chaotic world suddenly went silent. Everything around me, the immense stroller, the innocent baby, the dazed tourists, the hobbling elderly, the inexcusable teenagers, they all just disappeared.


The moment that the large expanse of my ass came into contact with the Erect Stranger, the moment that I realized I was somehow lodged under his armpit, the entire planet stopped spinning. He was far taller than I, which was unusual in itself. I believe that his chin was nearly posed on the top of my head. The surprise of being thrust into someone’s personal space combined with his throbbing maleness, planted firmly into the silky fabric of my dress, was almost too much for me. My stomach lurched into my throat. I felt faint with desire for him, like an inebriated sixteen year old on prom night

Without saying a word, he pushed the red button signaling to the driver that he wanted to get off of the bus at the next stop. He looked into my eyes, inquisitive. He flashed a winning smile. There was no use putting up a fight. He had already won the battle, the war and a place in my panties. Forever!

The bus came to a halt and we got off together, as if we had known each other our entire lives. I was far from my destination and I didn’t care. He had become the only destination I could think of. We crossed a busy intersection, hand in hand. We meandered through a dusty no-mans land, kicking stones and empty plastic bottles. He kissed my forehead from time to time, making me feel small and vulnerable and safe all at once. I did not know where we were going but I was elated to be heading in the same direction.

Public Transport

I was vaguely intoxicated, sitting on the bench at the bus stop. Drunk on too much rosé, the sweltering heat and the overpowering fragrance of jasmine in bloom. I silently cursed the architectural genius who opted for transparent plexiglass as a shelter for public transportation users like myself. I was frying like an egg in a pan. Beads of sweat welled up under my padded B-cup, trickling down behind my knees. The thin fabric of my summer dress began to cling to my skin. I imagined myself getting up to board the bus with my dress lodged tightly between my butt cheeks. I tried to come up with a plan as to how I would yank down my dress in an elegant way, or how I would pretend not to notice, as if it was fashionable to have clothing stuck in your ass. Then the bus came and interrupted my thought process.

If you have never had the pleasure of riding a bus in the south of France in the summertime, let me tell you, you don’t know what you’ve been missing. I live on the coast, a fairly thin strip of land between the Mediterranean and the Alps. Traffic is mostly east-west and since the geography of the region does not allow more roads, well, it is a challenge getting around. Even if you drive, which I don’t. The buses are packed with tourists who fear missing their stop, impolite teenagers who would rather lose their IPhone than give up their seat to an elderly woman A blind elderly woman! And other stragglers like myself, just normal people trying to get from one point to another.

I got on the bus and the general mayhem aboard made me forget about my “Dress in Ass Dilemma.” It was standing room only. Even the aisle was packed. A cacophony of several different languages being spoken all at once blended poorly with the strident cries of an angry toddler. I slid as delicately as possible between the damp bodies, my hand clutching the rail, my armpit and my ass both terribly exposed to the various faces they grazed, as the bus driver peeled out like a Formula One driver. Everyone was jolted a bit to the left. I managed to work my way to the middle of the bus next to the exit. A momentary haven.

A haven in public transport jargon just means that you have found adequate space to avoid smelling a fellow human being. I smoke a lot so I can find havens in rather small spaces. Smoking kills your sense of smell. Although I kept being trampled by people eager to get the hell off of that bus, I was feeling pretty optimistic. Life was good…and then a woman got on the bus through the exit door. She was pushing a huge stroller. Her baby might have been cute if he just once ceased to wail. As for her stroller, I immediately wondered if she was planning on taking it and her offspring on a trekking expedition in Nepal. Maybe she intended to introduce her progenitor to the beauty of Mount Everest. At any rate, she would have been prepared for the journey.

The bus driver then slammed on his brakes. The sturdy front wheel of the stroller careened towards me, biting into my calf. I was knocked off balance and suddenly, my back side was smashed against an incredibly promising variety of turgescent members. Despite my weakened sense of smell, I caught a whiff of virility. Then it was as if someone had turned off the volume. Everything went silent, everyone else on the bus, on the earth, on the entire planet just faded away.


Today I have been thinking about how I decide who I will trust. Or distrust. The more I think about it, the more it becomes clear to me that in many ways, gaining my trust is a fairly lengthy process. On the surface I appear to be extremely warm, open, trusting. Like a Golden Retriever. Partially because I am not very capable of concealing my short-coming. I am often inclined to point them out…I could easily write a novel about self-depreciation. I will spare humanity for the moment. It’s not a very interesting topic. People around me often mistake my behavior for compliment-fishing, but that is not my motive. In an odd way, I try to put people at ease. Maybe to cut through the bullshit as well.

It comes to me that when I am evaluating how much I can trust someone, I tend to size-up how much I think that person has hurt in their lifetime. I take some kind of rapid, mental inventory of how likely I am to be hurt by them and if it seems to me that their suffering has been equal or greater than mine, I trust them. Unfortunately, this process backfires on a regular basis.

In fact, my method probably even works against me. There are other people like me, easily startled, panicky like a horse on the hot pavement in a 4th of July parade. In New York. Although a horse like this would probably never intentionally hurt someone, it could inadvertently step on some toes or knock someone down.

Then there are people who bite because they have had one too many kicks in the gut. Like stray dogs at the Humane Society. The sad stories of heartbreak and mistreatment they could tell far outweigh any that I have to drone on about. Yet they cannot be trusted fully, like with a newborn baby, for the very same reason that I would decide to trust them.

There are tons of people who puff themselves up in social situations, like silly roosters in a dusty chicken coop. I see through their feathery camouflage. For them, I trust that they have hurt so much that they are obliged to trip others on purpose in order to appear stronger. Superior. In a backwards sort of way, I trust this type of person because they are usually incredibly predictable. This gives me ample time to protect myself. To cover my face before the impending explosion. You can see it coming like a car accident.

I guess the bottom-line is, everyone is trustworthy sometimes. There is no reliable criteria for measuring how likely it is that someone will betray you in some way or another. The key is to trust your own instincts and go with what your heart tells you. Getting hurt always makes me learn and I have no regrets. Not many. Ok, maybe a few.