Learning To Fly

I quit my day job this week. The one I’ve had for fourteen years. The job with stability and benefits and generous vacation time. The job that helped me to become the independent woman that I am. I gave a month’s notice. I’m going to cash out my retirement fund and I am going to focus on growing my creative projects. I have a lot of them. Something is bound to pan out!

That cubicle feels like the very last part of the cocoon that I have been crawling out of. It represents the last piece of the old me. The new me was suffocating inside of those fabric walls. The new me is going to do whatever the fuck I want to do, from now on. I have no one around me to tell me, “No!” Finally…. For the very first time in my life, I am free. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier or more confident in myself.

I’m amazed at how people have reacted to this news. I announced it on Facebook without telling my parents. I’m thirty-seven damn years old. I have learned not to seek counsel from my parents. They will lecture me quite loudly, for hours on end. And if I refuse their unsolicited advice, as I usually do, they will resort to punishing me or threatening every bad scenario that they can think of in an attempt to scare me into their expectations. I have spent years in therapy, trying to get their voices out of my head. I don’t have the desire to witness their bullying in person anymore. I could feel their raging disappointment when I shared my news. And I don’t care. Their opinions have no power over me, now.

Friends and colleagues have told me that they are proud of me. My unempathetic boss even cried a little and hugged me, when I told her the news. She offered to do whatever she could to help me stay. I was a little surprised. I didn’t think she liked me. But I declined her offers and explained that I needed to take this leap of faith. It was the most vulnerability either one of us had ever shown in the office.

Others have seemed worried about me, and asked what I plan to do when I retire. I have $9,000.00 in my retirement account right now. Even if I multiplied that by 10 over the next thirty years, I would still be too broke to retire. I’m not going to work in a job that I hate for thirty more years, only to retire and still have to eat ramen noodles!

My self love game has ascended to a whole new level, so I could never bare to let my precious life be wasted away in a cubicle, dealing with insurance companies who spend millions of dollars to come up with clever new ways not to pay for claims.. And then have to deal with the repercussions from my boss when I have claims that won’t get paid. Medical billing is hell on earth, and if you all would have voted for Bernie Sanders, the whole shit storm of insurance companies would have come to an abrupt end. I’m still feeling the Bern. I was not feeling that job.

So, I jumped. I’m taking all the money I had in the 401k that I could never afford to adequately contribute to, and I am going to be gambling it on myself. I’m not stupid. I have options.

This town that I live in is about to become the stoner capital of Michigan. A new dispensary opened up down town. We have large scale grow factories popping up everywhere, and I have been blessed with the opportunity to work at one. Spending my days with natural light and beautiful green plants sounds like an amazing opportunity! And it’s right around the corner from my house. Beyond that opportunity, I also just formed an LLC with some friends and we’re organizing a Music Festival. We’ve also discussed doing women’s retreats. I have a massage table in my living room. And I have spent the past year learning to add tarot card readings to my list of fortune telling specialties. All of these things bring in money and I enjoy them. I also have Jupiter transiting my second house. Money is coming in.

If someone would have told me five years ago, that I was going to end up quitting my job to be a weed farmer/festival organizer/astrologer/and massage therapist… I never would have believed them. Oddly enough, if someone would have told me that twenty years ago, I would absolutely have believed them. Funny how we always come back around, full circle.

And that is precisely why I have decided to retire at thirty-seven years old. Who knows where I will be in thirty years? It seems silly to suffer for so long. I’m going to focus on the moment right now. But I can promise one thing… In thirty years, I will not be sitting in a life-sucking cubicle, wishing that I would have lived a braver life. In thirty years, I will look back and remember the time when my cocoon fell away and my wings spread out and I flew away into a future with endlessness.

And just like that, I have emerged from my ashes. I am a little disoriented, but free at last.



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.

Dear Bitch: A letter to my daughter’s bully

Dear Bitch,

Are you a good bitch or a bad bitch? You have got to get your shit straight. This is projection. This is about your ego being so fucking emaciated, that you were forced to trade in your empathy for blood.

And you think you own her. You think she is yours. You think you can just crawl up to the surface of your empty shell and help yourself to my daughter’s bones? You should have looked closer. I was watching, just like you. But I have time on my side and I knew what to look for. You have overestimated yourself. You need to correct yourself, Bitch. You are not the first troll to cross our path.

I will sweep you out of our lives, like a broom sweeping the dirt out of your empty soul. This isn’t about you or that swamp you come from. This is about your need to polish your dirty ass ego with my daughter’s sparkle. You think she is yours to terrorize and feed off of. But it would be a cold day in hell if I let you mop up that scum of yours with my girl’s heart. You are nothing more than a leech, a swamp thing parasite. You will never shine like she does. And that is what really bothers you, isn’t it?

Don’t worry, she will be long gone from your life, and you will find another and another. Some will stick around and feed you forever, it gives them validation. Who I am I to decide if that is fair trade? But that’s not my girl. Her blood is too sweet for your vicious fangs.

Go ahead. Step right up and feast your eyes on what you will never be. You will never glow so brightly, no matter how many shadows you cast away. She is divine and guided by love and strength. She is Sublime. You are not even reggae. You are subpar and it shows in the way that you carry yourself, always hungry for more. This is projection, Bitch. It’s a game that I can play very well. Projection is my specialty. Rejection is yours, so get used to it. My girl will blaze past you in the game of life. And again, you are swept away in her dust.

Later, Bitch.

I don’t have the time or the energy to spend on this fucking Lifetime original drama anymore. I am working three jobs and I am so fucking tired of your high school bull shit. I’m too exhausted to bother with trolls. But you fucked with my kid, and that’s not okay with me. And you think that you are going to keep fucking with her, because it’s a game for you.

That game is over, Bitch.

You don’t matter to us. You don’t matter at all. And as soon as you realize this, you will see how stupid you have been.

I tried to tell you, I thought you knew. We don’t negotiate with terrorists or trolls. I’m not scared. I know that your stories fall short of the truth, just like your beauty falls short beyond that pretty little shell you hide inside of.

You thought you could break her, but you were not even close. You can’t even touch her. I’ve broken my back laying the bricks for that pedestal she stands on, a pedestal that you thought you were entitled to. Stupid bitch. You see, I grew up building pedestals for everyone else, and I made sure that she never will. So go on and step on your own cracks, bitch. You are not welcome in this house.

You have no power here. Be gone before she drops a house on you, too.

But before you go, take some gratitude on the way out. Thank you for showing up while I am still here to teach her how to bite down on the first taste of betrayal. She carries a weapon now, your knife that she pulled from her stiffening spine. You know, that spine that you had mistaken for a ladder. Your mother should have told you, it’s a long way down from the top.

Mom Issues

I went to visit my parents yesterday. I reached out and invited them to meet for dinner. Then I invited myself to use their hot tub. I needed to submerge my exhausted self in the warm bubbly water of my parent’s materialistic love.

It’s not so bad, having parents like mine. I am beginning to understand their frustration with me, now that I have a teenager myself. It’s not easy in this phase of life, trying to balance the holding on with the letting go. I remember struggling from the other side of this, not so long ago.

I think they were expecting a down home “all American girl,” when I was born. I think they dreamed that I would grow up and embrace their very conservative right-wing principles. I think they were a little heartbroken when I turned out to be myself instead. I was born with an instinct towards compassion and a very strong mind of my own. I’m definitely the oddball of my family.

I think the most difficult thing for me is that I can’t just ignore their bullying. I try to let it roll off. It never has. It always weighs heavy on my shoulders and coils around my neck until I write it all out. I hate that I am so sensitive. I hate that I’m thirty-seven and still writing about my mom issues.

Yesterday, my mom actively tried to instigate trouble between my daughter and I. She made a snarky comment about my oldest daughter having to help babysit my younger daughter because of the extra work I’ve taken on. She reminded me that I never had to help out like my daughter does. And I tried to kindly explain to her, that she had the privilege of being a stay at home mom. She was lucky to be completely supported emotionally and financially by my dad. She doesn’t understand that I’m raising my kids with much less than what she had. Her response was…

“Well that’s because I kept my husband.”

I think my dad could sense that in that moment, I was fantasizing about slamming my mother’s face into the pizza that had just been delivered to our table. A part of me wanted to accept her invitation to war. I’ve been working on the conservation of my energy and decided against it. My dad spoke up and advised her to knock it off before I could even say a word.

Mom issues are the worst. Because even though I have grown to expect disappointment from her…even though I can’t stand her condescending bull shit… I still want nothing more than for her to love me. I still crave her approval, knowing that the odds are pretty strong against that wish ever being granted.

I don’t understand why she can’t just say, “I see you trying so hard and I am proud of you.” Why is it so fucking hard for her to be nice?

I sat in their hot tub after dinner. The contrast of cold, wet raindrops hitting my face with the hot steam rising around my chin sent me straight into zen mode. Their hot tub is my consolation prize. It is my warm hug.

I sat in the womb like water and wondered if the warmth would ever have felt so sweet on my skin had the cold rain not been slapping me in the face. Would I be where I am at right now, had my parents not driven me towards a quest to be loved? Would I have found my chosen family, had I not been driven away from my biological family? Wondering can sometimes be a waste of energy as well.

Eclipse Trips

My daughters and I decided to drive 539 miles to see the eclipse in totality.  It was a trip that I really couldn’t afford, but I couldn’t really afford not to see it either.  

My girls and I make a point to go out and see every full moon.  It’s our thing.   When we were living with my ex boyfriend on the prairie, the full moon was our saving grace.  We would gather out under the willow tree and stare in amazement at the beautiful clear sky.  And we would talk.  It was beautiful.  You could see the Milky Way so clearly out there.  But the full moon in that setting was a sacred sight.  It became our little tradition and we have kept it up even now that we live amongst trees.  We just drive around the prairie to see it.  This tradition is what I named this blog after.  Our ‘little moon talks’ were one of a few good things that came from the experience of moving my kids into a man’s home who had no intention of loving us or being a part of our family.  Ironically, my little family grew a lot closer because of that experience.  Those talks were the needle and thread, that stitched together the fabric of our bond.  

So this once in a lifetime eclipse was non-negotiable.  We had to see it in all of it’s glory.  On Sunday afternoon, we got in the car and started driving south.  It’s kind of scary to venture out on a big road trip as a single mom.  I grew up with a very safety conscious dad who used terrorism as a means to educate me about the world.  So my mind was repeatedly going through every possible disaster as I drove my old crappy car down the highway.

I had booked a hotel in a small town just a few hours from the eclipse destination.  I had googled the town and it looked adorable from the pictures.  We had our swimsuits packed and ready because this Southern Indiana hotel offered such amenities as an outdoor pool and continental breakfast!  It was a name brand hotel, so I figured we were safe.  Besides…I saw some pictures online and it looked cute! 

When we arrived to the hotel, a twelve year old boy took my credit card payment and advised that our room was around the corner from the office.  We drove around the building and my heart dropped.  The pool was full of trees.  Of the two cars in the parking lot, one of them was covered with bungee cords, duct tape, and spray paint.  I had the terrifying feeling that we would end up much the same way had we actually stayed there.  There were sketchy people inside one of the rooms, peaking out from the curtain, probably sizing up my children for human trafficking purposes.  We didn’t even go inside.  We went back to the office and asked for a refund, to which the twelve year old host acted as if he hands out refunds all day long.  I’m sure he does.  Unfortunately, he ended up charging my card again before issuing a double refund.

I panicked.  I was about 6 hours away from home.  I had very little money to work with, and the refund was going to take five days to process.  We drove around until we found another hotel that looked a little bit better from the outside.  When we walked in, an older gentleman with stained up sweatpants and a ripped up tshirt ignored us for a moment before looking up and offering a room for $68.00.  I didn’t see any other options, so we booked it.  This hotel smelled like burning garbage.  I’m not sure what a meth lab smells like, because I have never smelled one before, but I’m sure there were at least a few of them operating in that hotel.  We locked our door and I laid our own blankets on top of the bed.  I tried to remain calm, but inside I was panicking.  I couldn’t stand the smell, it was unlike anything I had ever smelled before.  

I posted my situation on Facebook, partly because I wanted people to know where we were in case we came up missing.  And partly because I thought my eight year old daughter nailed the situation when she said that hotel was straight out of the television show ‘My Name Is Earl.’  

I was ecstatic when my childhood best friend who I haven’t seen in more than a decade responded saying that she only lived 45 minutes from our hotel and to come over because she had spare bedrooms ready for us.  I had tears in my eyes from the relief I felt after hearing from her.  I didn’t even know she was living in Southern Indiana.  We gathered our belongings and b-lined out of that disgusting mess.  This time, a refund was refused.

It was surreal, arriving to my old friend’s house in the middle of the night.  Her house was beautiful and she had two safe, clean bedrooms ready for us.  I was so thankful.  I was also excited that my girls got to meet her.  The last time I saw her was at my baby shower when I was pregnant with my fourteen year old.  

In the morning, we headed out early.  We took all the back roads through rural Kentucky.  We drove through the mountains and down curvy roads that wound around through mountains and rivers.  We saw endless horse pastures and golden yellow tobacco fields and homes that should be in magazines.  We listened to good music and had conversations about the meaning behind their lyrics.  It was a glorious day.

When the eclipse came, we were in the parking lot of a high school in Bowling Green, Kentucky.  We had our glasses ready and spread a blanket out in the shade of some pine trees.  It was so cool to watch the sun disappear.  When the moon had covered the sun completely, and darkness fell into the daytime, and the birds went silent, and the crickets started chirping, I looked over at my girls.  They were smiling and enjoying the adventure of it all.  I thought for a moment about how far we had all come, not just in that crazy trip, but in life.  I got really emotional and started to cry.  I’m not sure what exactly I was releasing there in the big shadow hovering over Kentucky, but it felt good to let go.  And my girls got a good laugh at their sometimes overly sentimental mom who drove eight and a half hours to cry through the Great American Eclipse.  

The trip back took an extra four hours because of the heavy traffic.  My girls never argued.  I never had to yell at them.  They only ever complained about that hotel room, which was completely understandable.  

In the past couple of months, I’ve had certain people in my life question my abilities as a mom.  My own mother told me that driving to Kentucky was irresponsible of me.  My ex husband had tried to demand custody of my younger daughter, saying that he could do better than I do.  Sometimes I let these people get into my head.  But after taking this amazing trip with my girls, I really don’t care what anyone else thinks. Those little ladies are my family and I couldn’t ask for a better tribe.  We are complete and content, just as we are.  

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.  His deep raspy voice puts me in a trance when I hear it.

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 boring old mom.

I grew up on fifty acres of wilderness 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 was a good dad.  I’ve written about him a couple of times.  My dad has always been there for me, when no one else really has. That being said, if my dad knew what happened the other night 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 with his friends, 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. He continued to whisper, “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, baby.’ 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.

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.  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 completely 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…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.