I love being a massage therapist. I love every fucking thing about it. I love chatting with my clients who like to chat. I love the peace and quiet with my clients who don’t like to chat. I love that I get to actively participate in the very best part of someone’s day.

I love to smoke a little bit of pot and then mix my routine with some chill music. I’m getting comfortable in my routine now, and my clientele is growing. I am very good at what I do. I know this, because my clients come back. And they bring friends. My clients drive from a forty mile radius to experience my massage. I love what I do, and that shows.

Last week, I had my first male client, that I was legitimately attracted to. I’ve massaged men that I’m not interested in before… But this is the first guy that I’ve massaged, who inspired some very unholy thoughts in my mind. I was both concerned that he might be a creep, and also ashamed that I was in fact the creepy one, as I wrapped my fingers around his giant, beautiful, sausage-shaped fingers… nonchalantly searching for a wedding band, which I did not find. I have no shame.

I don’t get a lot of male clients. The retreat center, where I work, is for females only, but we’re blessed with the use of massage rooms for our personal clientele. It’s a perfect set up and I am very thankful for it.

I consciously hold back on advertising, because I don’t want random, creepy guys trying to book massages with me. A chiropractor, where I interviewed a few months ago, had to install panic buttons in all of her massage rooms. I’ve had heavy breathing men call and ask what type of massages I give. In less than one day of launching my Facebook page for my massage business, I had a private message from a stranger, asking how much a happy ending would cost. As much as I despise this fact, massage therapy has been a scapegoat for prostitution, and that reputation has been difficult to discredit. So I am much more comfortable massaging female clients. But I’m not going to turn my back on $60/hour when a legitimate man books a legitimate massage.

Last week, a very legitimate, very tall, very handsome guy booked a massage with me. I noticed his eyes immediately, they were sapphire blue.

I had actually met this man before. He had some good friends in common with my ex boyfriend. I didn’t feel like talking about any of those people though, so I introduced myself and acted as if I had never met him before. I’m not sure if he recognized me or not. I will admit, I put some makeup on and straightened my hair in preparation for this appointment. I do believe he noticed.

The massage went really well, but I kept thinking about how attractive he was. I enjoyed every minute of adventuring around every landmark of his very nice body. He smelled good. He felt good. He looked good. I would never jeopardize my career, but I would be lying if I told you that it didn’t cross my mind.

When I rolled him over, face up, he tipped his head back to look at me while I worked on his shoulders from the top of the table. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smile. He just watched me as I massaged his head, arms, and hands. It was weird to be watched, that doesn’t normally happen. I giggled nervously, not knowing what to do, whenever my eyes would check in with his. I started to get nervous as I focused intently on my task at hand. I could feel his gaze on me, and I’m certain that had I made eye contact with him, he would have made a move. I’m certain that he was waiting for any inkling that I would allow it. I tried not to make eye contact with him. I did not want to be put in the position of having to defend my career, my dream. This job is very important to me. I would never risk losing everything that I have worked for. I would never act on that attraction. I would never throw my dream away, after all the years it took for me to find it. But I sure as hell wanted to lick that guys fingers, and that was very confusing for me. He was thankfully respectful, and I was relieved that I didn’t have to have that conversation with him.

When the session was over, he tipped me well and said that he would definitely be in touch. I am definitely looking forward to it.


Forbidden Fruit

Racism is such a heavy topic in my life. I can’t remember the last time that I had a conversation with my dad that didn’t include racial slurs. I’ve been told since I was little that I would be banned from the family if I ever had a relationship with a black man. My sister was disowned for having a biracial child. My family is ridiculous.

So naturally, I am very, very attracted to black men. In fact, I have only dated one white guy in the past year. I dumped him because his lips were too thin. It was annoying to kiss a face with thin lips. Shallow, I know… But I like what I like. I’m not going to apologize for that.

I spent the night with a beautiful set of lips this past weekend. I can’t even begin to describe how sexy it was, watching the contrast of our bodies intertwine in the large mirror across from the bed. It almost feels like a fetish for me. Like, I don’t think that I could ever commit to a white guy, because I enjoy black men so much. It’s like the opposite of racism. And the fact that I pick men based on the color of their skin feels wrong. But again, I like what I like. And the black men that I’ve encountered don’t seem to mind at all. This guy was very happy to oblige.

He was holding my face, staring into my eyes, and kissing me. I was mystified by the intimacy of the moment, when he asked if he could put a little brown baby inside of me. I’m pretty sure my brain shorted out at that moment from the confusion of how that made me feel. First of all, that is a horrible idea. I know I recently decided that I was ready to fall in love again…but I am definitely not ready for that kind of commitment. And I don’t love this guy. I barely know him. At the same time, I don’t think that I have ever been more turned on in the history of my life. By the end of the night, I was practically begging him to put a little brown baby inside of me.

I really shouldn’t be allowed to make adult decisions, especially while a beautiful black man (and a lot of wine) is inside of me. I will anxiously be awaiting the start of my next period and hoping that my polycystic ovaries are still out of commission.

Man Overboard!

I blocked a guy today. It wasn’t easy and I know it’s immature. In some ways it hurt, because I really liked this guy and still do. But in other ways, I think it was easier than trying to explain the 5,000 knots in my mind to someone who could never make sense of the mess. I took the cowardly road. I know for a fact that he would never have done that to me. But in my defense, he was the guy who made me feel like a Godess one day and invisible nothing the next. And that is the cruelest shit you can do to a person.

My heart is a ship sailing into oblivious adventure. This guy was playing twister, with limbs stretching out from the shore, but never really giving up the sand.  

That guy mistook my kindness for weakness.  

Fuck that guy.


I’ve finally made my way to the road of least resistance. I’ve been spending a lot of time lately, trying to find the balance between detachment and contentment. I’ve been preparing myself for a life of solitude. I’ve been planning my life consciously as a single person.  
This doesn’t seem like such a crazy idea, but I can honestly say that I’m the only woman I know out of my friend group who is capable of this. Every friend I know spends their single time, looking for a husband. They might make plans for the summer, but they carefully schedule their lives around the possibility of a partner.  

I get it. I do. I understand the undercurrent of loneliness in the river of solitude. As humans, we are pulled towards love. And love is the precursor to sharing your life with another person. But I have the complicated chore of wanting love without the sharing of my life.  

So I have been researching the idea of love without commitment. I’ve decided that I don’t want a blended family. I don’t want to deal with a man trying to bond with my fourteen year old daughter or my eight year old who worships her father. She gets mad when I even mention how beautiful Johnny Depp is. She openly tells me regularly that she doesn’t want me to date. I can’t blame her. I don’t want me to date either. I’m not any good at it, and the last time I tried, I ended up living in a situation that was like Rainman meets Little House On The Prairie. It was awful and I promised both of us that I would never live with another guy. I am very well aware of the risk that promise holds with my daughter. I wouldn’t have made that promise if I didn’t intend to keep it. I’m all done with cohabitation in relationships. My family is sacred and I don’t want anyone interfering with it again.

But I do want love. I want someone to talk to about my day. I want to feel the sweet warm light of being loved. I want someone I can share my kidfree weekends with, who won’t try to merge into our lives. I want someone who can accept that my family time is not on the table anymore. I want a deep and transformative connection with someone, but I need that person to know that they will only ever experience the mother side of me through my stories and conversation. I want amazing sex and weekend getaways. I want smoking pot and looking at the stars. I want good morning texts and compliments. I want a genuine interest in each other. But I want these things with someone who is willing to squeeze a really big love into a very small space in my life.  
My options are limited at best. I can be a mistress. I can fall madly in love with a married man. I could be the other woman, who helps to fulfill the empty, mundane life of a forty something married man, going through his midlife crisis.  

I could break up all the love I have to give into passionate little one night stands. It is tempting to enjoy some stringless intimacy with complete strangers.  

Or I could date until I find some equally complex guy who would want to share my very unique boundaries in love.  

But options are expectations. And a life of detachment has no space for expectations. A detached life is more of a choice than anything. It’s not an easy choice either. Detachment requires the ability to live day by day, taking in whatever life hands you, and then just as easily, leaving it behind. Detachment is hope without expectation. Detachment is counting on only yourself, true independence.  

Detachment is planning the summer I want, without compromise. I have planned a marvelous summer for myself and my children. The itinerary consists of moonlight kayaking, weekends in a pink beach house, A Dave Matthews concert with a bunch of beautiful hippies and a motor home, reiki classes, Girls Weekend in Traverse City, an RV adventure with my ex husband, hiking the waterfall trails in the beautiful upper peninsula of Michigan, going to an Amos Lee concert with a complete stranger, and whatever else I feel like doing. Because detachment is making the choice to create your own life, one day at a time.  

I have not had a single summer in over three years. I’m going to enjoy this one.  


Men are like rabbit holes. You crawl inside, because you are curious. And then the next thing you know, you plunge into another world, where you are constantly being told that you are too big or too small. And you start to question your own sanity.  So you drink tea, smoke a hookah, and you find yourself.  And then you get the fuck out of there.

Curiosity is going to kill me.

Stellium Guys 

Here’s what sucks about being an astrologer. My friends always make fun of me because I am really good at relationship compatibility…for other people. But I am really bad at picking out men for myself.  

For example, I knew that my ex-boyfriend was emotionally detached. His Sun, Moon, and Mercury are all in Gemini. That is called a stellium, where you have three or more personal planets in the same sign. Oddly enough, my ex husband had a Stellium in Leo. He was admittedly narcissistic.  The guy I wrote about in a previous post had a stellium in Scorpio. He was very intense. The guy I almost met up with the other night, who called and casually mentioned that he had chlamydia a few months ago and then proceeded to tell me every detail about it for twenty minutes… Stellium in Aquarius. And no, that story will never happen. One time I went out with a 5 planet stellium Aries man. One date was all I could handle.  

There’s something about people with Stelliums. There’s something off about them, different but difficult to pinpoint. Some of these men are incredible people. But there is always something strange and unique about them. And unless you look closely, you can’t quite narrow it down.  I think that’s why I’m always attracted to them. My mars is in Scorpio, so I get excited about eccentric men. But depending on the aspects to their outer planets, some of these men have very serious personality disorders.  

I do believe that these men came into my life, or perhaps I sought them out, for a reason. Dating stellium men has taught me more about astrology than any book, video, or class has come close. 

I was able to feel the energy for each sign who came into my life. When someone has a stellium, it’s like they are an extracted flavor of human. They are out of balance. Their planets and energy are all focused in one vibration that plays too loudly for the other energies to be heard. Any interaction with these men allowed me to immerse myself in the song of their vibration, and those melodies taught me astrology.  If I have anything going for me at all, ‘astrology career wise’ in the future, it is because I am one of the few astrologers who has not only studied the zodiac…I have experienced it.  

If my nerves could handle it, I’d date all the stellium variations and then write a book about each experience. All I need to complete my collection would be Cancer, Virgo, Capricorn, and Pisces. But like I said, stellium men are a lot to handle. The Cancer man probably never leaves his house. The Virgo reminds me too much of myself. The Capricorn guy probably works too much. And the Pisces guy is definitely in rehab right now. 

No more stellium guys for me.

No guys at all.  Venus is retrograde right now in my seventh house.  Or as the astrology world sees it, a time to go back to old love. Unfortunately, all of my old loves are stellium guys.  The retrograde is also a time to change direction with relationships, but I’m not in one.  For me, Venus retrograde is a time to take a break because She rules my sun and rising. She is a version of me, an illusion in the sky. And when she naps, I nap.  

I love how my relationship house has been lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, during the one time in my life where I have no interest in love at all. Old love? No thank you. New love? Nah, I’m good. I’m dead on the tracks while the zodiac train is headed straight for my 7th house. Luckily, my ruling planet is retrograde, so I have an excuse to opt out of this love train.  
Venus retrograde in the 7th is also a time to focus on your relationship with yourself. To move your energy inward, crawl back into your cocoon, and rest your tired soul.  Now that sounds more like me.
When a planet is retrograde, it is actually moving closer to the earth, giving it the illusion of backward motion. Right before the start of the retrograde, in what we call a shadow period, the planet is vibrating the loudest and closest to us.  For Mercury, this is when the electronics and communication get all jumbled up. For Venus, it’s women, love, beauty, and of course, me. And at the end of the shadow period, the planet goes to sleep, replenishing the burst of energy that came with a higher vibration.  
So far in 2017, I’ve started a new job. I’ve settled into a new house. I’ve nursed myself through a big break up. I’ve worked my way through most of massage school. I’ve worried about the health of friends and family who have stepped a little too closely to death. Including my dad, my rock, who had a blood clot in his lung last weekend along with the flu and possibly Cancer. Add to that raising my kids alone, and not sleeping anymore, I am exhausted!  As fun as it would be to get out and frolic among the twitterpated men of Spring time on Tinder, I just can’t!  I don’t have it in me. My tank is running low. And like Venus, I’m going to sleep through it until April 15th. That’s graduation day for me.  It’s also the day that Venus moves forward.  Wake me up on tax day.