Feeding the Monster 

I grew up with extreme parents. They tried, with everything they had, to keep me on a short leash. I have never been one to submit to authority.  

I have tried. I was extremely devoted in my marriage. I tried my best to be domesticated, but there’s a monster inside of me that freaks the fuck out when my life falls into the mundane. I crave excitement. I have to push boundaries. I get restless for adventure.  I need to break rules.

This is precisely why I have always had commitment issues. I’ve tried to settle down with the good guys, I’ve tried to stick with the straight and narrow. But after so long, my inner monster wants to get out and mingle with the dark side.

I spent last weekend with the drug dealer from my previous post. He isn’t a bad guy, in fact he is very sweet and has kind of a nerdy side. He tells me stories of a domesticated past that once held him captive. But to my family, he is forbidden because of his race. And his phone was ringing constantly with disappointed customers looking for a fix while he was out of town visiting me.

This is not a guy who I should be sharing my time with. But my inner monster is completely enthralled with the rebellion of sleeping with a guy who doesn’t fit into my world at all.

My good side, the part of me that always sees the best in people, had a good time too. I enjoyed the excitement on his face, as we drove past a deer grazing on the riverside with the sunset falling behind us. He was like a little kid watching the storms roll in on the wide open farm fields.  His eyes lit up with every stroke of lightning that blasted across the black sky.  And the sex was just as amazing as the last time. 

Is it really better to settle down with weekend shopping trips to Home Depot and arguing about the household chores? Is this truly how we should be spending the little time we have here…chaining ourselves to the picket fence and a golden retriever?  That’s the American dream, not mine.  I’m quite content to immerse myself into wild little flings with men who understand my monsters, because they have them too.  And now that he’s gone back to the city, I can handle the monotony of my 9 to 5 and running the kids around to dentist appointments and cheerleading tryouts.  I am in love with the contrast of my life.


Sex in the City

If you have read my other posts, you will realize that I have been stuck in a bit of a dry spell. I’m a single mom who works full time and until recently, I spent my Saturdays in school. Even before my breakup last summer, it was three years of really bad, passionless sex that didn’t happen very often. So my love life has been on the back burner. Somewhere along this journey of finding myself, I lost interest in others. I tried to date, but the couple of guys that I had gone out with just couldn’t catch my attention. I sort of lost my mojo, which is a bit of a tragedy for me. My mars is in Scorpio, so sex has always been a really big part of my life.  

This past weekend, I set some time aside to take care of this business. I finally had some time to meet up with a guy that I had met at a concert a couple months ago. He is an adorable biracial man with lots of charm and a big interest in me.  He is ten years older and has the sexiest set of lips that I have ever seen.  The night that I met him, we chatted quite a bit, and the more I talked with him, the more attracted to him I became. So we made plans.  I drove to his house and he took me around his little neighborhood in the big city. He knew a lot of history about the old buildings we wandered past. He was very sweet, full of compliments, and I kind of got the impression that he is a little bit of a local celebrity because he knew a lot of people at every bar we stopped in.  He introduced me to a very interesting group of characters along the way, and explained that he works in sales with all of these businesses.

He also sat me down to tell me that he liked me a lot and needed to be honest. (This conversation starter always happens to me…the ‘I’m married,’ or ‘I’m a cross dresser’ conversation. Nothing surprises me anymore.) His big secret was that his sales job extended beyond the items that he originally told me about. His side job was moving cocaine and various other controlled substances. Honestly, I know this should have bothered me. I’m a mom, and I have never even done cocaine. But I really didn’t mind. In fact, I thought it was kind of hot. I liked that he has a bit of a dark side. I have one too. I was never nervous or scared around him. We even made a delivery together, along our way. And it was quite pleasant. His customers were very nice and interesting people. One guy even offered me a line, to which I politely declined.  I really enjoyed adventuring around through this guys life, that is so very different from mine.  It was quite the adventure for this small town girl.

I grew up in the country with a dad who I love very much in spite of his right wing political beliefs and extreme racism.  He is stubborn and flawed, but he really does have a lot of good qualities.  I’ve written about him a couple of times.  But I have always been a girl with a mind of my own. I’m a bleeding heart liberal who always follows the beat of my own heart. That being said, if my dad knew what happened after the big city tour with my biracial friend, he would never speak to me again. He doesn’t believe that biracial relationships are acceptable. I disagree with him. And I find my new friend to be incredibly attractive.

After a few drinks, we went to the grocery store, where he stopped to introduce me to a few more friends, and grabbed some items so he could make us dinner. He was very proud of his cooking skills. I always enjoy a man who can cook.

I was sitting at the table, smoking a joint, listening to Marvin Gaye, and watching this sweet and beautiful man cook for me. He walked over to kiss me, in a way that I have not been kissed in a very long time. It was those lips!  What started as a flirty little kiss turned into me just completely ravaging this guy.  Things escalated quite quickly. He turned the stove off, with burgers half cooked and lead me to his bedroom where we stripped each other down and he bent me over the bed. He leaned over my prone body, and whispered in my ear, with his hand on the back of my neck, ‘Do you know how lions fuck?’ I was paralyzed with anticipation. ‘They fuck every fifteen minutes for twenty four hours straight. And that’s what I’m going to do with you. I’m a Leo.’ He knows about my thing for astrology.  

And that’s precisely what happened. We had a full on passion fest all night long and well into the next day. He never stopped touching me. He never stopped talking about how beautiful I was, how good I felt to him, how much he liked me. When the thunder storm rolled in, he opened the window and we had very passionate sex to the soundtrack of lightning strikes and the Hall and Oates radio station on Pandora.  I would have never thought of Hall and Oates for the bedroom, but apparently he and I had a conversation about them the night we met and I thought it was sweet of him to think of me.  Oddly enough, it was a very sexy combination.  I have been listening to Hall and Oates for three damn days now.  Also, thunderstorm sex is my favorite.

I lost count of the orgasms he gave me. He was an absolute pussy whisperer. It was the greatest sexual experience of my life. And that is saying a lot, because I have had a lot of experience in that department. But this guy had a very rare and special blend of dominance and submission. He would smack my ass and then kiss my forehead and tell me he loved my eyes and lips. I don’t even know what he was doing to me at certain points, but whatever it was, it had me drowning in ecstasy.  He turned the lights on and stared at me, just laying naked and vulnerable across his bed.  He told me he wanted to see me.  And then he crawled back inside me again and again.  Seriously… I had just won the sexual lottery.  When I told him that I had never been with anyone who had a sex drive higher than mine, he laughed and told me that he could fuck me all night and all day, and then masturbate about me after I left.  This guy is a literal manifestation of exactly what I needed.

I woke up the next morning and checked my Facebook while Mr. Wonderful made us breakfast. The first thing I saw on my phone was a tagged photo shoot from my mom. She and my dad were visiting Tennessee for a reunion with a couple of veterans that served with my dad in Vietnam. I was very proud of him for taking the trip. And there he was, dressed in a white confederate officer uniform, draped in a confederate flag, with a sword in his hand and his buddies dressed up like confederate soldiers by his side. It looked like a fucking klan meeting.  This is my life…  I was humiliated. Just as I have not told my dad about my new biracial friend…I also left the whole racist dad thing out when sharing my life story to Mr. Wonderful. I untagged myself as quickly as possible and prayed that he didn’t see it. He didn’t mention it if he did. He just cooked me an amazing breakfast, told me that I was beautiful, and then proceeded to give me more orgasms all day long. Even after he complained about his hips hurting from the night before, he still managed to spend all of Sunday afternoon servicing my body in ways I didn’t even know existed. I could not have picked a better guy to jump back into the saddle with.  

My whole body is sore and it still hurts when I pee, but that was one of the best weekends I have ever experienced. I know I should worry about what my racist dad would think if he knew I was now completely addicted to the affections a half black cocaine dealer from the city…but I don’t care about any of that. I care that I found someone who excites me and has awakened the beast of desire that had long been sleeping inside me. I care that I spent the weekend with a stranger who made me feel really good about myself. I care that I have finally moved the fuck on with my life.  And nothing else really matters.  

My Girl 


I watched you playing tennis at the school yesterday. There you were, all grown up and blossoming into someone I can’t help but to admire. Your life was the greatest surprise I have ever experienced. You were sweet and beautiful from day one.  

Dad and I always joked that you got the very best of our genetics. It’s true! Your beauty is almost obnoxious. Your sweet soul shines around you and I sit in awe with the thought that you came from me.  

Watching you grow, seeing the world through your big green eyes, has been the adventure of a lifetime. Your first steps, the first time you tasted a lemon, watching you learn to swim, to ride a bike, it has all been the sweet golden syrup on the pancake of my life.  

I feel guilty sometimes because you have been the very best part of my life, and I have just done the best I can to be your mom. I had no idea what I was doing when we brought you home from the hospital. We sort of figured out the whole mom and daughter thing as we’ve gone along. I suppose we’re both still learning.  

It is surreal to see you all grown up, doing the same teenager stuff that I used to do. I remember being the age you are now, and I could never have imagined that I would grow up and have a daughter as amazing as you.  I hope you live a fearless life and you experience adventures that set your soul on fire. I hope you always see yourself the way I see you, as absolute perfection. I hope you never lose your sense of compassion, it is one of my favorite things about you. I hope your life is exactly what you want it to be. And I hope you keep your heart and mind open, always.    

I know your life hasn’t been easy. I know you have had to deal with my life never being ‘together.’ And I hope you know that every morning when I wake up, I try to get it right, for you.  

I hope you will always think of me when you see the moon, and remember our long talks under the stars. Hearing your stories and listening as you figure yourself out and your ideas about life…those are my favorite things.  Those are the sweetest memories that I will carry with me forever.

Thank you for being the unexpected little light in my life.  I love you.  

Where The Wrong Roads Lead

When I was in high school, my friend was dating a guy in his early twenties. We would hang out at his friend’s apartment.  I’m not really sure who lived there, but it was dark and empty, like a bad movie. There was always a couple of strung out girls with babies on their hips. The furniture was always mismatched. It looked like a place that people were half moved into or half moved out of. There was nothing on the walls. Even the bedrooms were empty.  
I met some real characters at that place. A skinny guy with messy black hair and eyes that matched. He had piercings all over his face and bad tattoos painted across his entire chest. If I was to see this guy today, I would definitely keep my distance. But at sixteen, I was intrigued and entertained by his dark and mysterious tendencies.  

There was a duo of goofballs who always hung out. I have no idea what their real names were. We called them Frog Man and Chaz. They had to have been in their thirties, a couple of dried up, old school eighties rock protégés. They had good pot.  

And then there was a guy who sort of stole the spotlight. He was a very big dude with a Cheshire Cat smile. He was always smiling. He always made everyone feel like family. He was the kind of guy who used charm as a tool for survival. He was good at it, and I always got the impression that he had to be.  He had nothing.  That guy grew up in a completely different world than I did.

 One night while I was over there, that guy went around hugging everyone goodbye and then took off with a backpack and a couple of people I had never seen before. About twenty minutes later, seven cops went barging through the apartment looking for them. Apparently the girl was a run away. I didn’t see him again until a few years later. I was nineteen and he had hired into the furniture factory that I worked at. He and a few of his buddies hired in through a temp agency to help with some increased production demands.

His face lit up when he saw me.  Still smiling as always, but his eyes had changed since the last time I saw him. He had taken on a predatory gaze behind his deceiving smile. 

Working at that factory was one of the best times in my life. All my friends were still working fast food and retail gigs while finishing up college. 

I didn’t go to college.  I used my open house money to move into a shitty apartment with my high school drop out friend. We were drunk the entire time we lived there, which was about a summer. She ended up getting pregnant. I moved home. My parents were disgusted in me. Not because I didn’t go to college, but because I had whored around all summer and caught a bad reputation for my family.  

I often wonder how I went from being an honor student who was involved in all the nerdy after school activities, to literally drinking myself through near death experiences and random sex with some shady ass men. Looking back, I wonder why my parents didn’t see that drastic change as something to be concerned about, something to sit down and lovingly discuss with me. I am certain now, looking back, that my extreme rebellion was a result of nearly dying from a burst appendix. I remember thinking that my life would have been such a waste, had I died. Because I had never really lived.  

Why did my idea of living consist of following the worst behaved people into a life of drunken promiscuity? Why didn’t I see college and a career as a goal, rather than getting high and running around with strange people?

I thought working in the furniture factory was a legitimate career choice. And I loved it. I made a lot of friends there that I am still friends with today. I found a few guys to share some after work romance with. We used to pitch in for a shitty hotel room to party in on the weekends. We all got high together at lunch. And I got the summers off with unemployment benefits. It really was a good gig at the time. But everything changed when those predatory eyes and that big deceiving smile hired in.  

He was trouble, and I could smell it. And I was right. He and his friends had been dealing crystal meth in the factory. He tried to blend in, but his aura had a stench to it.  People recognized that he was not a good guy.  But he still tried to blend in.  He even heard about our hotel parties and decided to host one himself. I was the only original who showed up. I walked in the door of the hotel room and looked around at the scariest bunch of dead-eyed guys that I had never seen before. I was the only female, a nineteen year old blonde with a rack worth bragging about. I knew the moment I walked through that door that those guys were going to hurt me.  

I began to plan my escape. I acted happy to see him and ready to party. I told him that I would be right back, that I had left my cigarettes in the car. I walked out of the door, got into my car, and drove the fuck out of there as fast as I could.  

The next Monday, one of his friends walked up to me, and laughingly told me I was lucky I didn’t stick around that night because they had some big plans for me. That guy robbed the local KFC a few weeks later, by bashing the managers head in with a baseball bat. He is now in prison.  The guy who had big plans for me is in prison now too.  

A couple years after I had escaped whatever plans he had made for me, I saw him walking down the sidewalk in my hometown. He recognized my car and flagged me down. He told me to stop by later that night. I didn’t go, but a girl who went to high school with me did.  According to a witness’ testimony, she had been sitting on the couch, smoking some pot with him. The witness who lived in the house had gone to the bathroom, and when he came out, she was being rolled up in a rug, thrown over his shoulder, and carried out of the house. They found her body a few weeks later, in a thicket just north of town.  

It took ten years for the investigation to wrap up with a conviction.  He was already serving time for some other crime.  He will be in there for the rest of his life.  I don’t think he acted alone.  He supposedly wanted to murder someone simply for the experience of it.  It’s hard to speculate since I wasn’t there, but the story never made sense to me.  I remember seeing him a few weeks after she went missing.  He hugged me and my body froze with fear as I was wrapped in his big deadly arms.  My body could sense the danger in him, the primal dance of predator and prey. 

I grew up in a town like Mayberry. It was quaint and quiet. We had one bar and three churches. Nothing bad had ever happened in my town before. It is still hard for me to wrap my head around. The sweet gothic girl who shared an art class with me, who had taken her talent to art college and was just home for a vacation and to visit old friends…the girl who pulled off the goth look before it was cool, and she did it with absolute elegance. She was a beautiful person. She was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister. She didn’t deserve to leave this world so young, so violently. She was a person. And he killed with his bare hands. My world was never the same after that experience.  The kids I grew up with were never the same after that.  Our innocent little town had been diseased with murder and heartache.

It never escapes my mind, when I think of her, when I think of him, how easily that could have been my body in the thicket on the side of the road. It never escapes my mind, that I once called a cold blooded killer, ‘friend.’

I will never forget her.                                         

Stupid Tulips 

I took my kids to Holland, Michigan for a weekend getaway. I haven’t had a full weekend with them in a while because of school, so I wanted to do something special.  

The weather was crappy. I had cramps. My kids fought the entire time. They complained about going to the little island of tulips tourist trap because it wasn’t very exciting.  

‘We drove two and a half hours to look at stupid tulips,’ my fourteen year old muttered with disgust.  

The whole trip was kind of a disaster. I lost my temper and told them that I would not be taking them on vacations anymore and that maybe they should go live with their dad.  I spit anger and called them spoiled and selfish.  I screamed that we might as well pack up and go home.  I told them they were acting like assholes because I spent the very last of my bank account on this trip for nothing at all.

As soon as those words came out, I instantly hated myself. I hurt them and I knew it. No matter how much I apologized, I couldn’t take those words back. I couldn’t make them feel wanted after telling them that they should live with their dad.  The guilt of my explosive emotions is haunting me today. I have thoughts creeping into my head that maybe I’m not cut out to be a single mom. I’ve lost my muchness, as the mad hatter would say. I’ve lost my worth as a single mom and I don’t know how to get it back.  

This is the type of thing that pushes the gates of depression wide open and it’s really hard to pull them back. I start thinking about the damage my mom has done to me, how I’m still working through those hurtful words well into my thirties. I think about how that painful inheritance is crawling through to another generation.  Maybe I can’t stop my mother’s disease from blooming inside my head, like an ugly weed that I keep pulling out but it keeps growing back. Maybe the girls would be better off living with their dad.  

I hate myself today. I hate that I hurt the people whom I love the most. I hate that a weekend away, filled with so much beauty will always be remembered as one of the ugliest times in my life. I hate that I have been pulling these weeds in my brain for so long now, and I am getting too tired to tend to my garden anymore. I am out of ideas on how to fix this.

Like A Prayer 

Give me something to believe in.  Or don’t.  I don’t care.  I don’t believe in Heaven or Hell. I don’t even believe in dirty or pure. I do believe that we are all just like the moon, shining bright but we all have a dark side.  I also believe that the purpose of life is to collect and share love.

If God is love, Satan is tragedy and loss, war and greed, waste and destruction.

And that’s kind of how it works, isn’t it? We as humans experience a series of personal tragedies throughout life, and the only way to overcome the pain of tragedy, destruction, or loss…is love.  Maybe that’s what religion is getting at.  I don’t claim to know any answers.  I pay much more attention to the questions, anyway.

I have no fucking clue what happens next. But I certainly enjoy daydreaming about it. I think that is why I’ve never chosen a religion. The commitment of tying my mind to a single belief, one that has been prepackaged by somebody else, is too much of a threat to my curiosity. I hold on to the ideas that resonate with me and leave behind the ones that don’t. And in between all of that, my mind is free to wander through the many rabbit holes of my consciousness.  

I could never give that up.  Maybe that’s the point.


So, I just spent my first weekend free from school in six months. I have never appreciated a good Saturday more. The warm spring sunshine was a welcome sight.  

I haven’t really had a weekend to myself in my new place. I moved just a few weeks after school started. This has been my fifth move in six years. I can’t seem to keep grounded.  

The gypsy life has landed me into some pretty intense spaces, each one representing a brief chapter in my life. My new place, my little trailer in the woods, has been my favorite chapter so far.  

I thought I would hate it here. I didn’t think I could make this place feel like home, but it’s the most at home I’ve felt in any of my other places.  

I didn’t have a lot of options. I was living in a very small house with an unstable person. He was manipulative, unsympathetic, and an alcoholic to boot. I literally took the first available rental in my modest budget. A 1970’s trailer in the country.  

It took me a minute to get over the carpet squares and the paneling. The faux brick wall paper in the bathroom was not exactly easy on the eyes, nor was the banana yellow bathtub. But soon I realized that the place had character for days. The gold plastic lights, tucked away in fake paneled ceiling beams bring me back to childhood memories in the smoke filled bowling alley with my mom. There is no better feeling than showering in the sunlight that pours into my very own shower window. I love falling asleep to the rhythm of rain drops tapping on my tin roof. I threw a rug over the carpet squares.

I basically won the real estate lottery with a property line that runs along the neighbors pasture full of pot bellied pigs. The view doesn’t get any cuter.

We have deer grazing in our yard every morning when I leave for work. We can hear coyotes screaming as they chase prey down the nearby river bed at night. I grew up on forty acres of woods, with a pond and river access. This feels like home to me.  

It’s amazing how your perspective can change. About houses, about people, about life.