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.  

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The Greatest Love Story I’ve Never Told part 2


I was trying to feel something for someone, but I couldn’t muster up the excitement. This guy is six and a half feet tall. He is covered in Aquarius and Bhudda tattoos. His eyes are blue like a winter sky. He’s a reiki master for Christ’s sake. But I have declined the opportunities to meet him.  We just started talking on a dating site one day, back when I was living with my ex, post breakup.  

He’s the perfect guy to hookup with. He lives about an hour away. He is terrified of commitment. He has a beautiful penis. I’ve seen it in pictures and videos. And that’s what worries me, I guess.  He has only seen the perfectly orchestrated snapshots of my body. He has a really big idea about a very tiny piece of me. He doesn’t know the girl who flies into work with no makeup on, bags under my eyes, craters in the skin on my nose. And my hair always pulled in an ugly ass bun. He has only seen the side of me with perfectly done makeup and a snapchat filter. I’ve also figured out how to angle my camera in such a way, he has no idea that my stetchmarked, muffin topped belly looks like Freddy Crueger and the Michelin man made a baby. It’s terrifying to reveal your real self, your entire self, to an Internet friend.  


On top of my slightly enhanced photos, I’m also terrified of his bedroom expectations.  I have talked some shit with this guy. He and I had some very intense conversations.  I would sneak out to the garage where my kids couldn’t hear me, and have orgasm after orgasm, just listening to his dark sexy voice say the very dirtiest things through my phone.  The garage was my happy place, towards the end of that situation. Please don’t judge me. I had been held captive for the past year by an asexual man. I couldn’t really date while I was living there.  So I sought out exactly what I needed from the vast reaches of the Internet.  And the internet delivered.  This guy would talk about doing reiki on my pussy.  Could you imagine?!  This old hippie was completely hooked! 


The thing is though, I couldn’t have dreamed up a more perfect man for myself. The height, the eyes, the mind. His brain is the kind of brain that creeps into the deepest crevices in my heart. He loves astrology so much, he tattooed his ruling planet on his arm. Who fucking does that? My fucking soulmate. That’s who.  

But I don’t believe in soulmates. And I don’t even know this guy. And guess what his fucking ruling planet is? That’s right. Uranus. Fucking Uranus. In my seventh house. And that’s why this will be the greatest love story I’ve never told. Because it’s not happening.  I don’t need this anymore.

The Greatest Love Story I’ve Never Told


The first time I can remember feeling beautiful was the first time I read what it meant to be a Libra. I do believe that moment sparked my lifelong love affair with astrology. There are a million reasons why I grew up feeling like the ugliest girl in the world. But when I saw myself through the eyes of the stars, I was Venus, the Goddess of love.  It was the first time I didn’t feel invisible.  I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself.  Astrology has always been my warm blanket on a cold night. When I can’t rationalize the razor blades of life, when my heart is in pieces, when my foundation is crumbling… I look to the stars.  The night sky pours reason and hope into my empty little life, filling my soul with infinite possibilities.

The fact that Uranus has been in my seventh house of relationships for the past few years is one of those situations. Uranus is the planet of surprises. And every guy I have dated during this transit has been full of fucking surprises.  Knowing that I am supposed to be going through this helps me to learn.  It’s proof that my life is a course in soul evolution.

One guy had a family that I didn’t know about.  Another guy kept up a fake personality for two and a half years, only to reveal his true self after I moved my children into his home.  But there’s one guy who shocked me more than anyone else.  A guy who’s sweet soul still lingers in my bones.  

I met him the day before Christmas Eve. We had been talking online for more than a while and I really couldn’t believe how easily our conversations gushed and poured into each other.  Our correspondence could have been a best selling novel.  He was beautiful inside and out. A red headed, blue eyed beast of a man with a huge gleaming smile. On our first date, he showed up with homemade DVDs of the old Beetlejuice cartoons because I told him my kids loved that movie. He was sweet like that. He talked a lot, but I liked that about him, because I don’t like to talk when I’m nervous. 

Of course I had looked his birthday up before meeting him. I’m an astrologer, that’s what I do.  Of all the things that I had learned about him, his astrology chart had me intrigued like a mad scientist in a morgue. On the day this guy was born, the sun, the moon, Mercury, Venus, and Mars were all in Scorpio. My natal Mercury and Mars are in Scorpio too. Scorpio is one of my favorite signs. The energy is highly intuitive. When two people with heavy Scorpio energy come together, they form a bond that cuts directly through the bullshit and right into the soul. This was exactly how my relationship with this guy unfolded. Scorpio is intense. It’s the strange, the weird, the marvelous!  I knew there was something different about him, as soon as I saw his chart. I was hoping for a ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ situation. That’s not quite how it panned out.  

I have never in my life been treated the way this guy treated me. If he could have afforded red carpet and rose pedals upon my arrival, they would have been there. Every time I went to his house, he would cook an amazing dinner for me, he was an incredible chef.  He had playlists prepared with my favorite music. He had a little silver dish filled with joints rolled up and ready for my lungs.  He made me feel as if his whole life revolved around me.  No one had ever made me feel that way before. It was uncomfortable at first, being treated like a queen. But I’m not going to lie, I got used to it real fast. My time with him was exactly what I needed. He was the first guy I fell for after my divorce. And the only guy whom I have ever confessed my love to first. I didn’t mean to say it. But the first time we made love, it just came out. It’s all I could think about while in the throes of the most amazing sex I’ve ever had.  

The first kiss came the first night we made love, about a month after our first date. I thought it was strange that he didn’t kiss me at first. I couldn’t figure it out. Every other guy I’ve ever gone out with spends all of their time trying to get into my pants. Not this guy. If he hadn’t treated me like such royalty, I would have wondered if he even liked me at all. This mysterious form of seduction had me hypnotized with desire.  His ability to worship me while holding his space was a direct and precise shot into my heart.  I was obsessed with the mystery of him.  It all soon made sense after the night that he slipped a letter into my purse.  

We had spent another long night of getting high, listening to music, and talking. We had finished the last of the series, “The Pacific,” about World War II. I absolutely loved watching that series with him. He had always been fascinated by history and was a living encyclopedia of that war. In a weird way, I felt like he had helped me to better understand my dad’s experience in combat, with his commentary about the show and the backstory behind every character.

When I got in my car that night, I could not wait to open his letter. He had asked me to wait until I got home to read it. I couldn’t.  I pulled into the parking lot of a church down the street and ripped that envelope apart. I began to read his first few words of the hand-written six page letter. My heart was pounding, reading about how he was starting to fall for me. I knew it!  He adored me as much as I adored him. He went into detail about why he liked me. This was his way of proving to me that his words were real. And then he started to write about his childhood. He told me about crying in the corner of his bedroom, wishing his real dad was around to save his mom from the stepfather who had abused his mom.  He told me about the men in his life that he saw as heroes and the men in his life who terrorized his young heart.  And he told me that as a child, he had liked to dress up as a pirate because he liked the way he felt in his mother’s clothes. He told me that he has worn women’s clothes in the privacy of his own home throughout his entire life. He told me that he wanted to look into taking hormones to grow breasts and live as a woman full time. He told me that he wanted to keep his penis. He told me that he had only shared this part of himself with only a few other people.  He told me that he had never been with a man, but had fantasized about it.  And he told me that he would understand if I never wanted to see him again.  That moment was surreal for me. That was Uranus in my seventh house. I was definitely shocked.  Speechless.

He seemed so masculine to me. He wore work boots and a torn up Carhartt jacket. He was obsessed with sports and war and guy stuff. His rough, edgy manliness was what attracted me to him.  

My emotions were on fire. I was heartbroken. I thought I had found the love of my life, only to learn that I knew nothing about him. And yet I was honored that he cared so deeply for me, that he gently tucked his darkest secret into the palm of my hand.  His vulnerability was beautiful and sacred.  
I thought about my family, how they would react to this. I thought about my daughters, how they would feel about it. But what I thought about the most is how much I wanted to hold him. His letter was so full of shame about his secret. I felt an emotional pull to comfort him.  That was all I could feel.  
So I sent him a message…
‘We should definitely talk more about this. But I’m not going anywhere.’

And the next time I saw him, we held each other. We kissed. We made the most beautiful kind of love. I had more orgasms in that one night, than I had throughout my entire eight years of marriage. Scorpio rules sex and connection. And together, we had so much Scorpio going on. It was like we had traveled to another dimension, where we moved through our bodies by sharing them. It was hot. It was steamy. It was raw and real and spiritual. To this day, I have never experienced anything like it. He went down on me so perfectly, I came faster than if I had done it myself. And he slurped it up, swallowing every drip of me he could get to. I now understand why men want to know if you swallow. It’s fucking sexy to have someone ingest the pleasure they just gave you. We went at it all night long, over and over. He cried a little when he told me how much it meant for me to be in his arms. And at 4am, after he thought I had fallen asleep, he got up to scrub his bathtub so that I would have a clean place to shower in the morning. No one has ever taken better care of me.  I have never felt more like a Goddess than I did when I was in his arms.

The next day, I told him that he could wear panties if he wanted. And I offered to let him wear mine. It was a little kinky and kind of hot. He was turned on beyond belief that I would go along with his desires. I was turned on beyond belief that he was so turned on by me.  

I was mystified by this guy. I’m writing this, wondering why the hell I ever walked away from him. There were a few reasons I guess. The first is that old fear of commitment that came creeping back when I had mentioned wanting to buy a house and I could see disappointment in his face because he obviously had thoughts of a life together.  I couldn’t handle that level of commitment at that time in my life. But I think the biggest reason I walked away was that I didn’t want to be the girl who held him back from pursuing his curiosity about being with men. I really did love this guy. And I wanted him to fly. I couldn’t live with myself, had I been the girl to cut his wings.  I wanted him to adventure through this hidden piece of himself, to discover his heart’s desires.  I guess you could say that my love for him was unconditional, because his happiness meant more to me than my possession of him.  I also had some concerns about the effect my family would have on him.  

Though our time together was rather short, his love for me was strong enough to impact my heart to this day.  He set the bar rather high and for that I am forever grateful.  And wherever he’s at on his journey, I often wish him the very best of love and light.  

We were together only a short time after that first night of passion. Life carried me away and he had some adventures to explore for himself. We’re still Facebook friends today. He still likes my pictures.  I still like his.

I saw him for the first time since we split a few months ago. It hurt a little bit to look into his beautiful eyes again.  

Love is not


Soulmates are stupid.  Wine is not.

I’m at the point in my life where I get more butterflies in my stomach from walking through the wine isle at my local grocery store than I do when I see a hot guy.  

I don’t believe in Soulmates. In fact, I find myself wanting to throat punch my friends when ever one of them suddenly “finds” their soulmate. Believing that someone is your soulmate is absolutely an indicator of that relationship blowing up in your fucking face, usually within a three month period.  

Expectations are the birthplace of heartache. And hanging soulmate expectations on anyone is a quick road to disappointment.  I believe that the belief in soulmates is the number one cause of divorce. 
And every little girl who has watched a princess movie, along with every grown-assed woman who disappears into romantic comedies can tell you that at one point or another, they truly believed in soulmates. I never have. I am thirty-six years old and I have yet to know any.

But I do believe in love. That belief left me for a while, but is starting to come back into focus for me now. I believe that love is as simple as caring about someone and accepting them for everything that they are, exactly where they are at, in any given moment. I have given this type of love to many. I have received it from few. But I have hope that one day this will change. I also have the confidence to know that I will be perfectly okay if it doesn’t.  

Love is not the same as commitment. I love my ex-husband, but I don’t want to be married to him. I really, truly enjoy spending time with him, but only in small doses. I understand that my love for him is non possessive and true.  

I still love the guy who broke my heart and moved to Georgia when I was nineteen. He is now married with two adorable boys. I slept with him a couple years ago. He cheated on his wife. I cheated on my boyfriend at the time. It wasn’t about hurting anyone or being selfish. I ran into him, and I loved him. It was as simple and as complicated as that.  I would never dream of breaking up his marriage, but I am thankful for the opportunity to know his heart.

People intertwine these two ideas, love and commitment. I think most people would agree that when you love someone, it is natural to want to share your life with that person, exclusively. But I believe that love lives longer when it’s allowed to roam free. My feelings in my past relationships have fallen like the dorsal fin of a whale in captivity. When I myself am in captivity, I feel doomed. I feel like my story is over and the adventure has died. And when I finally break free from my commitments, I am catapulted into happiness and contentment. Love comes easy for me. Commitment is a tall mountain that I am too tired to climb.

I am an expert on breakups. I know exactly how to nurture myself into the sweet space of healing and self love. I have even taught others how to thrive on solitude.  I think that is what scares me the most. I am too comfortable being alone. I feel like a freak. Like I don’t fit in with society because I have no interest in sharing my life with another person. I also feel like a coward. Underneath all these opinions is a girl who has had her heart ripped out, several times. I am absolutely terrified to try it again.   

I have always lived better on my own. When I do wander off into relationships, I have the uncanny ability to give myself away in pieces until I have no pieces left. And when I’m on my own, I take those pieces back and take care of them like no one else can. And yet, there’s a part of me who truly wants to believe that someone out there is capable of loving and accepting the many versions of me that I have worked so vigorously to love and accept myself.  I want to believe that someone out there is capable of giving me the type of love that I give out. I want to believe, but at this moment, I don’t. 

So I sit back in my pajamas with a good book, a glass of wine, and a bowl of fine greens.   I have nothing but gratitude for the relationship I have with myself.  And then I think maybe a little attention wouldn’t kill me.