The Heart Tapestry

knitheart.jpg

I don’t know what motivates other people to do things–or not to do them. Nor do I pretend to believe that all hearts work the same way. I’m not here to judge why or how somebody does or doesn’t respond to me. How somebody does or doesn’t connect to me. I put it out into the universe, and if a thread comes back and weaves into the tapestry of my life, it will be all the more rich and colorful. All the more complex and beautiful.

What I don’t really have time for at this point in my life are those who can’t be bothered to connect, or worse, pick at the tapestry, snagging, leaving tears and frayed ends. My life is full of wonderful, beautiful, talented, insightful, caring people. If I never made another friend for the rest of my life, many beautiful connections would remain and sustain me.

Why am I writing about this? I saw a Timehop that reminded me of this topic. I had had a couple of really big hurts in my life, starting with a teen pregnancy, but 2009-2011 were the worst by far. I was reminded of how hard it was to recover from that kind of damage. It reminded me how much I had turned in on myself – for almost three years. I decided I didn’t want or need any new friends. It felt to vulnerable to open up to that. I closed up. Put up a wall. That is something I had never done before. Sure, I had some short-term hurts that made me withdraw for a bit, but being an optimist at heart, I always bounced back pretty quickly. I felt the risk was worth the payoff of a connection and a friend – before.

For the new friendships I’ve formed–I’m glad I dismantled the wall a bit – brick by brick, leaving a small space for people who really wanted to squeeze through. For those who chose the other side of the wall, or who I walled out, our time has passed, I guess. For my part, I’ve always been as authentic as I could. And I trusted–until I couldn’t–for reasons.

I didn’t always respond or behave the way I wish I would have–but I’m human. I’ve hopefully learned and evolved over the time with each bump and boulder in my path. Whatever mistakes I made, you got me honestly, and my honesty, and the sincerest bits of my heart.

Sensual Sunday – Valentine’s Edition

Valentine’s Day happened to fall on a Sunday this year. So, I was determined to do a Sensual Sunday post today. Here it is. Happy Valentine’s Day all of you lovers out there.

❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤ ❤

wchofhlb

He writes. He observes. Quietly. Warmly. Kindly.

I woke up to his whispers.

“You looked so soft,” he said.

He used words like “elegant” and “curvy” and “lovely.”

“I took a photo of you. Look, here…see.” He shows me. I like it. I used to hate every photo of myself. Now I’m more selective with my hate of things, self and otherwise.

All freckled shoulders and my face buried in pillows. My pixie cut obviously well on its way past bob length. Look at that flip in my hair, I thought. It’s nice that the sheet decided to drape that way.

It’s sweet. And loving. And the kind of thing I always wanted in a lover. Somebody who would look at me when I am sleeping and think that I’m beautiful. When I’m not vying for attention or trying to be seductive, he still notices.

“It looks kind of like a ball gown,” he says. “Low in the back, of course. Elegant. You just look so beautiful.” His face searched mine and I saw a flash, that momentary request for approval – that I didn’t hate it and that it was ok that he took it.

I feel my face go soft. I smile.

“Yeah, I guess it does. The way it’s draped like that,” I say.

And I watch him, watching me. Messy hair and barrette falling out. But I don’t feel like a disaster. I feel like I am glowing. And the sheets are so soft and warm. The sun glow is even cooperative, diffuse and comforting. And he puts a hand to my leg and strokes it and then leans in to kiss me. I am at peace in that moment. All of myself focused on that kiss. It’s all I have to offer at this moment in time and I guess, for now, it’s enough.

Happy Valentine’s Day – A Racing Brain At 4am

wchbwLaying there, one fleshy pale leg resting on top of yours. Layers of blankets hugging us to the bed, I pretzel and twist – one of my arms over my head, one of yours, over yours. I find your fingers with my left hand and you squeeze them, even though you are mostly asleep. I try to touch as much of my skin to yours as I can, curved like a bean next to you. I lay my head in the sweet spot that your body has made for it. Was made for it, long before I met you. When you were born, maybe. I put my right arm across your chest. I know you love this – a woman resting on your chest. “There is something so…satisfying…beautiful, about it,” you once said. Or something like it.  And even years later there is an impression there, and an image in my head. It’s faded like a washed-out photograph. You know the one. And it doesn’t hurt anymore, but it’s there. Maybe it always will be. I decide it doesn’t matter and I start a poem in my head. God, it’s almost 4 a.m. and I am composing words as I feel you breathe. None of the words are good enough. Some of them don’t even make sense. I will never be good enough, my brain says. But you already are, I counter. Your thigh is twice the circumference as his. And it feels good for that not to be something I hate. It’s a non-issue. I take that back. It’s a celebration.

I think of him, a swat on the bottom in the kitchen – I laugh and turn to kiss him. The way he takes handfuls of me like worship. Nothing but praise for my flesh ever passes his lips. It’s the way it always should have been. It’s what I needed when I was a teen. To be given the message that I am good the way I am.  Hell, it’s what I needed as a young woman who’s wounds were rubbed raw by a man. One I don’t talk about or know anymore. Though he ends up in my Timehop sometimes. Like yesterday. What was it? Oh – something about his love of the word “nefarious.” The day before I think it was something about science fiction and the day before that, a discussion on love, seven years ago.

Ghosts. Ghosts of ghosts, because they don’t haunt any longer. They are sluggish, thin versions of themselves.

So I just lay there, warm, feeling you breathe and I let things flood in as I try to find sleep. I don’t even know all of what they mean. I hope they become jumbled and incoherent and lull me to peace.

I am all dry bones and wet lips. Hungry holes. You are warm skin and heartbeat.

Dry bones. Wet lips. Hungry holes.

Dry bones. Wet lips. Hungry holes.

Dry bones. Wet lips. Hungry holes.

It repeats in my brain. Dry bones? What does that even mean? I like the image. Bones, cleaned and dry. Down to the most basic of what I am built on. Dancing, clicking together. Maybe a bit macabre, but not the way it is coming to me, so warm and cozy and like the stem of a flower rather than a dead one. I can see them clanking about. Hear them in my head, making a funny wooden xylophone sort of a noise. Is there a special name for a wooden xylophone? Part of me wants to look it up. I swear I had a conversation about this very thing on Facebook recently with a friend…Rob I think. He’s a musician, that makes sense. I don’t know. It’s too late and I post too much. I’d never find it. I like to get it right, but surely you know what a wooden xylophone means, even if I don’t use the right word for it. If that isn’t the right word for it.

Is there such thing as responsible dairy? Is that chocolate made with child slave labor? You made sure it wasn’t. Because that’s who you are as a person. You’re better than me and I know it. But that doesn’t mean I’m bad. It just means I have something to aspire to.

Why did she lay across your chest like that, then take it back and blame me? I’m pretty sure she blames me. Even though she wrote to me and said she was not, and never would be mad at me. Why would she be mad at me, I wondered? I was never anything but sweet and enthusiastic. But she said a lot of things that turned out not to be true or real. Why am I still talking about this? I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’m not even mad anymore. Just, so confused. Still, so confused. Stop thinking about it. Why am I thinking about it? I’m just…ghostbusting? Do you have to bust ghosts that don’t haunt? I mean, the ghosts aren’t causing trouble anymore – not sliming anybody, or ruining chandeliers, or haunting paintings and stealing babies.  Is it too much to expect I won’t ever think of these things? Yes. It is. So they’ll be here, showing up like thin watercolors, barely coloring parts of my life, but there. Always, I guess.

Scalia is dead. So much division in this nation right now. It’s reached the point of inability to function under stress. Getting older isn’t what I thought it would be. “Nothing ever is,” the waitress says to Frenchie, flicking the light switch with her elbow and missing it by a mile.

I inhale you once more, kiss that spot right at the top of your breast, before your shoulder – there really needs to be a name for that part. If there is one, I don’t know what it is. I throw off the covers and here I am. 4:21 am. Thinking about how much I’ve let go and moved on from the hurt and resentment and being grateful there is nothing left but a ghost impression. Glad I’m here celebrating us. You tell me all the time, how glad you are at the way we stuck to it. I still am amazed at how happy I am. This little nest we’ve feathered. Even errands aren’t a chore when I am with you. Too many red stop-lights? Doesn’t matter, it’s just more time to talk to you. Ok, I’m not so good at the hardware store. I turn into a child. But you don’t even hate it, and how can I not appreciate that gift that you have to love me that way?

Theo “organic fair trade” chocolate – thanks love. Salted. Almonds. It was for today anyway, right? Needs bourbon on the side. And probably some sleep.

Happy Valentine’s Day, lover. We are what we are. All of these things are part of us and live alongside us. How lucky we are.

 

Reading in Baltimore – 3 and 4 of 4

These are excerpts from the book Red August, by H.L. Brooks – read by actors Erica Smith and Will Hardy. It is available at Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Nobel and iBooks, among other places. Links can be found at http://www.hlbrooks.com

In this scene Red/August has been meeting her handsome neighbor near the stream that runs down their properties. They read books and discuss them.

******

This reading took place at Scarborough Fair Bed & Breakfast in Baltimore, Maryland.

http://www.scarboroughfairbandb.com/

*This is an abridged version meant to be read out loud.

Book Synopsis

What if you found out that you were descended from a long line of clandestine fighters, and that your family was still at war? Or that the love of your life was something other than human? August Archer thinks she’s a normal teenage girl—even though she has been having disturbing and erotic dreams about wolves lately. Still grieving over the loss of her bookish, charming father, and wondering over his final gift of a red hooded cloak, August is uprooted from her New York City apartment to a tiny town in Maryland, and the rambling Victorian house where he grew up. There she meets a wise woman with a gift for herbal medicine, the gentle old man who keeps the house in repair and the grounds thriving, and her new neighbor: an enigmatic, irresistibly fascinating man who refuses to talk to her, yet who seems to know her better than she knows herself, and fuels her most intense romantic fantasies. But it’s when August begins to coax her feisty Scottish grandmother out of her self-imposed catatonia that a strange tale of werewolves and hunters emerges—one in which the man of her dreams may be her family’s oldest enemy—in this modern-day telling of the Red Riding Hood story.

 

Reading in Baltimore – 1

There was a reading of Red August at Scarborough Fair Bed & Breakfast in Baltimore this past Saturday.  Actors Erica Smith and Will Hardy read excerpts from the book and we enjoyed warm cider with a tiny audience.

This particular excerpt is one of about four I will post.

The excerpts I chose include those where August and Faolan have interaction.  I came to realize that the excerpts may give the impression that the book is straight romance, but it’s a fairy tale adaption of Red Riding Hood set in 1980s small town Maryland.

Find out where to buy Red August by visiting HLBrooks.com.

VIDEO INFO

This is an excerpt from the book Red August, by H.L. Brooks – read by actors Erica Smith and Will Hardy.  It is available at Amazon, Smashwords, Barnes & Nobel and iBooks, among other places.  Links can be found at http://www.hlbrooks.com

In this scene Red and her handsome neighbor meet for the first time.  She is new to town.  She’s had a rough several months, including having been assaulted by somebody, which she is trying to heal from.  On this night she watches something kind of naughty on TV and falls asleep and wakes up restless in the middle of the night, so goes for a walk along her property.

This reading took place at Scarborough Fair Bed & Breakfast in Baltimore, Maryland.

http://www.scarboroughfairbandb.com/

*This is an abridged version meant to be read out loud.

Book Synopsis

What if you found out that you were descended from a long line of clandestine fighters, and that your family was still at war? Or that the love of your life was something other than human? August Archer thinks she’s a normal teenage girl—even though she has been having disturbing and erotic dreams about wolves lately. Still grieving over the loss of her bookish, charming father, and wondering over his final gift of a red hooded cloak, August is uprooted from her New York City apartment to a tiny town in Maryland, and the rambling Victorian house where he grew up. There she meets a wise woman with a gift for herbal medicine, the gentle old man who keeps the house in repair and the grounds thriving, and her new neighbor: an enigmatic, irresistibly fascinating man who refuses to talk to her, yet who seems to know her better than she knows herself, and fuels her most intense romantic fantasies. But it’s when August begins to coax her feisty Scottish grandmother out of her self-imposed catatonia that a strange tale of werewolves and hunters emerges—one in which the man of her dreams may be her family’s oldest enemy—in this modern-day telling of the Red Riding Hood story.

Book Update

RedAugustwblurb_800widenewcover

I’ve updated my website HLBrooks.com to reflect all of the links that you need in order to purchase Red August.  The most recent addition is approval by Amazon yesterday.

The e-book is only $3.99.  There is not a print copy available as of yet.

Links for purchase:
Amazon
iBooks
Barnes & Nobel
Smashwords (you can read 33% of the book for free here)
Kobo

****
Synopsis

What if you found out that you were descended from a long line of clandestine fighters, and that your family was still at war? Or that the love of your life was something other than human? August Archer thinks she’s a normal teenage girl–even though she has been having disturbing and erotic dreams about wolves lately. Still grieving over the loss of her bookish, charming father, and wondering over his final gift of a red hooded cloak, August is uprooted from her New York City apartment to a tiny town in Maryland, and the rambling Victorian house where he grew up. There she meets a wise woman with a gift for herbal medicine, the gentle old man who keeps the house in repair and the grounds thriving, and her new neighbor: an enigmatic, irresistibly fascinating man who refuses to talk to her, yet who seems to know her better than she knows herself, and fuels her most intense romantic fantasies. But it’s when August begins to coax her feisty Scottish grandmother out of her self-imposed catatonia that a strange tale of werewolves and hunters emerges–one in which the man of her dreams may be her family’s oldest enemy–in this modern-day telling of the Red Riding Hood story.

A Place for Healing and Connecting

After I posted this image on my most recent Sensual Sunday post, I got a few comments on Facebook and Instagram about the image.  Then one person really liked what the image was pulled from, so I decided it might be worth it to be a bit open and vulnerable here and talk about it.

fireflies

This image is from a “couple’s journal” I share with my husband, Will.

The Sensual Sunday post I am referring to was inspired by the night we met.  Parts of it are total fiction, but the fireflies were real.  The kiss was real.  So, since that night in July almost thirteen years ago, fireflies have been sort of a symbol for us.

In the summer of 2011 I was having extreme depression and was beside myself with sadness and grief.  During a particularly bad meltdown of tears and feeling disconnected from the world and my partner, I was crying in the court out in front of our house, just feeling the world beneath me and trying to convince myself that reality had not disintegrated.  This was a time when the fireflies should have been gone and one came to me as I stood there crying.  It was like some kind of magical scene in a movie.  I could barely believe it.  A single firefly so late in the season, as if to comfort me.

Being a fan and writer of fairy tales, I saw this as some kind of magical beacon.  A signal that I needed to have hope.  There were times that hope actually felt like it was strangling me.  Hope can make you its slave, if you let it.  Sometimes it’s best to let go and keep your sanity.  But Will came out to the street and held me and we watched the firefly together as it drifted off.

Then two summers ago, at the end of the healing process, we happened across a magical scene of a thicket where the tall trees were just sparkling like glitter and stars beneath the branches.  We sat at the park and watched them for a little while.  We stood and kissed and marveled at them.  So, when we got home he drew the trees and I painted and we thought of what we wanted to say and he penned it.

We went to that same spot last night to watch the early fireflies.  Will pushed me on the swing and then we sat on the picnic table and watched as the sun faded and they sparkled a bit.  It’s still early for them, so even a few is nice.

This all started because I had been teaching visual journaling at a local craft store where I was also an employee and craft designer.  Which, by the way, I loved.  Working there was good for me and I also met two wonderful women there who I am now lucky to call my friends.  They were really there for me when I needed somebody to lean on.  Anyway, as I was teaching people how to make visual art and smash journals, I ruminated on how healing journaling is.  I’d been journaling for many years, but not like this.  Not a journal I could draw and paint in and also use as kind of a scrapbook.  The idea had so much appeal to me.  And I realized, that maybe doing a visual smash journal together, as a couple, might be healing and even fun.  So, I made one out of a spiral bound watercolor paper pad.  The paper is good for marker and watercolors, as well as ink and glue.

Since I first made the journal, we’ve filled it about a third of the way.  With poems and thoughts and drawings.  With ticket stubs, cut outs from magazines and books.  Any thought we had that we believed would help us come together again, we jotted it down and pasted it into the book.  When we shared bonding experiences, we recorded them.  It’s important to meditate on the positive things.  That’s a lot healthier than meditating on the negativity.

After a couple years of journaling and therapy, we finally felt strong enough to stop looking at the journal as a way to repair the bond that snapped apart.  The weaving of these threads had strengthened us and we started recording things that made us feel connected or experiences that felt bonding.

There may be more difficult times ahead, but we are so much better equipped to handle them now.  Journaling, individually and as a couple, lets you ruminate on your successes and when you have something difficult, you can look back and see how far you’ve come.  It also reminds you of all of the good parts of each other.

It’s not a cure-all, of course.  Some people will meditate on misery and nurture the darkest parts of themselves, growing them like weeds that choke out everything beautiful.  But you can choose to remember the best parts of each other and forgive the things that hurt you.  You can choose to use the grief and pain as a rich soil to grow from.  I choose that.

Here are some images from our couple’s journal I feel comfortable enough to share.

FRONT

vjjourney01 vjjourney03 vjjourney02

BACK

vjjourney05 vjjourney04

I keep my journals in two vintage suitcases.  One was in bad shape and I covered it with decorative Duck tape.  The other is covered in travel stickers.  I keep the things I want to put into my smash art journals into the suitcases and when I have time, I compose the pages of my own, or Will and I work on the couple’s one together.

couplesjournal001

The frist pages are below.  The cards are cards that Will gave me when we were first going out.  The painting on the left is surrounded by affirmations about letting go and finding ways to walk forward.  I think it’s important when dealing with a relationship, that reminders of particularly good times, connecting moments and artifacts should be included.  It sets a nice tone.  Also, it sort of helps you see where you are as a couple, I think.  If one of the two of you isn’t about doing something together that’s healing, it might be an important red flag.  Maybe not journaling, exactly – but if you both aren’t willing to put forth an effort of 100% “in” this together, then there might be cause for concern that this kind of thing will become more of a centerpiece for resentment and a chore than a fun, connecting process of healing and connecting.

couplesjournal002

Here are some more pages from the journal – you can see I use envelopes, glue washi tape, tape, paint, markers, pens.   There is no end of things you can stick in, smash in, draw or tie onto the journal.  It’s meant to be tactile and interactive.   Kinda like love!

couplesjournal4 couplesjournal3 couplesjournal2

On an outing to some gardens last year we saw a wonderful display of bonsai at the National Arboretum.  We both love them and hope to have a nice one some day.  But we started talking about them, in detail.  And Will’s thoughts really struck me.  He doodled this bonsai on the back of a piece of mail.  I loved it so I glued it into the journal and he wrote down some of his thoughts, which came out  like a nice little poem.

couplesjournal1

It reads:

the little
tree may
grow
straight
but more likely,
something strong
will bend it
or twist it–
all but break it
So we tend it
trim it
snip it
feed it
Gently
with great patience
Until it seems
the bend
was always meant to be

Sensual Sunday – Bloom

SDF_flowers_gb_06

Soft pink petals, parting.  You pluck them.  Pastel hues, gathered into bunches.  An offering that makes me smile.  I say a tiny blessing that I trust this gift.  Once upon a time I used to get flowers from somebody else.   Receiving them never felt as pleasurable as this.  More often I felt the thorns in those offerings.  As though there was an apology in them, for things I didn’t know were happening.  Sad things, behind my back. I blink the unhappy thought away.

I smell the bouquet and and sneeze.  A tiny squeak that always elicits giggles from anybody nearby.  Your face is warm and your energy is open.  You wrap your arms around me and I bury my face in, inhaling your smells and feeling the texture of your cotton shirt against my cheek. I grasp a wrinkle of jersey in my free hand and press hard into you.

I take them to the sink and fill a faded blue glass antique jar with water.  The smell of green as I snip of blades to tidy the ends.  Dropping them into the vessel I parade them to the table, sitting them on the lace tablecloth near the tea cups resting in a puddle of sunshine.

There is beauty in these small things.  These gestures.  And the beauty blooms and grows in new ways inside of me now that so much pain is behind me.  I am not in a constant state of receiving apologies for things I don’t know that have occurred.  It is plain.  You offer a gift that you were thinking of me and I accept the gift with trust.

We lay down together, spooning in our own ray of sun.  Your hand resting in the valley of my hip.   Your breath on the back of my neck.

“Tell me a story,” I say, only slightly childish.

“Once upon a time there was a mermaid…” you begin a tale made from familiar places and happy endings as I drift off to sleep.

SS_bloom

Daddy Issues

kissing

The following is regarding consensual interaction only.  It’s also just my opinion learned from life’s little lessons.  Also, I think “erotica”  and “porn” really falls outside the realm of this discussion.  Erotica is geared towards fetishes and fantasy.  If you’re trying to learn psychological lessons from erotica, you might be barking up the wrong tree.

******

I’ve been thinking about the way people’s sexual preferences are portrayed in a variety of media.  How some things are typically frowned upon, regardless of context.  Things like older men even noticing younger women are “dirty old men” and how young women who prefer older men have “daddy issues.”  Mind you, when those words come up they are usually with a negative bent.

I think that what is missing from this equation is the acknowledgement that all of us have sexual preferences for reasons.  Having “daddy issues” or “mommy issues” demeans the people who choose these relationships.  A younger person falls in love with somebody older, it implies they cannot make a sound decision based on the older person as a whole.  It also demeans the older person as well, as though they are taking advantage of the younger person.

I’ve seen arguments that older people and younger people cannot have an equal relationship.  Implying that only people who are totally equal can ever be in a consensual relationship together.  But how can we possibly quantify, beyond known power imbalance, that this is somehow detrimental to a relationship?

Therapists should not date their patients.  Teachers should not date their students.  Bosses should not date their subordinates.  These things make sense.  There is definite power imbalance in these situations.  But beyond these types of relationships, things get murky.

People have all kinds of psychological reasons for why they are attracted to other people.  They love big breasts or tiny feet.  They fall in love with singers or writers or military men (and women).  There are many reasons we feel attractions and they are all valid.  Some of them can be self destructive.  For example, people who only fall in love with married people.  Or people who fetishize something to the point they cannot have a bonding sexual experience, or possibly any sexual experience, without that fetish present. Or people have a fetish that hurts others, non-consensually.

So what exactly is an equal relationship?  Only professors with equal education levels?  Only people who speak the same language?  Only people who are making similar income levels?  Celebrities can only date celebrities?

We have long rolled our eyes at the professor who sleeps with the co-ed.  But these relationships happen time and time again for a reason.  Each person is attracted and having some need met.  The co-ed swoons over the smart handsome professor.  Or the young male student is interested in a sexy older woman.  This could also be female/female or male/male.  The possibilities are endless. The professors feel adored.  Who doesn’t like to feel smart and adored?  The student feels special.  Both parties are smart enough to know the cliche – so why does it keep happening (and often ending badly) over and over again?  Because these people are chemically and psychologically drawn to each other.  If it turns out that they learn something along the way – that’s called a lesson.  If these people have destructive, hurtful relationships that hurt other people each time, then maybe they learn to stop the harmful behavior.  But at least sometimes, it works out.  And that’s not a mistake.  It’s because some people are actually meeting each others needs.

Learning from sexual mistakes are like every other mistake we make as we grow.

I’ve mostly been thinking of this because of Monica Lewinsky’s TED Talk about bullying.  And the imbalance in the blame that went on in the fallout.  I was much younger then and I remember being angry at her as much a Bill Clinton.  Part of that was media driven madness.  So unfair.  But now that I’m a bit older I realize that their behavior isn’t so out of place in a world where all of us have needs and sometimes they aren’t being met and the next thing you know, the thing that can scratch your itch is right there.  It’s human.  There was definitely a power imbalance in that relationship, so in my feeling if there is blame to go around it should be laid squarely at Bill Clinton’s feet.  In retrospect, the only thing that really bothers me about all of that stuff now, is the lies he told – to his wife.  But that’s none of my business.

I think we get mad, not because we think Monica did something that is so wrong or out of the realm of fairly normal behavior for a young woman intoxicated by a powerful man.  I think we get mad because we don’t want our spouse cheating on us and embarrassing us in front of everybody.  Wounding our egos.  Feeling like somebody is going to take away the thing that made us feel safe when we were first together.  We were mad at Monica because we identified more with the wronged spouse.  If you identified more with Monica, then you were probably not the spouse in the scenario.  It’s all relative.

Being with somebody who I totally trust has made all of the difference in the way I project my feelings onto these situations.  Growing up some, has given me perspective.  When you have a healthy self esteem and you totally trust that your spouse is truthful and always has your best interest at heart, you don’t worry about these things.  Therefore you don’t project your insecurities onto the people in these scenarios.  That doesn’t mean that your relationship will never suffer any serious blows.  Or that a lie can’t and won’t happen.  It just means that you’re more likely to get what you need from that relationship 98% of the time and you’re not going to go around being mad at things that have nothing to do with you.

I said all of that to say this:  we should stop portraying some sexual desires as gross or stupid.  Sure, we can have characters in stories that think some things are gross or stupid.  But it would be nice to see it stop being validated within the story.  An older woman and a younger man is always a “cougar.”  Sure, that’s fun and wink-wink, nod-nod.  And sometimes that is fine and appropriate.  But it’s become a trope and it sort of removes the humanity from the people involved.

Old men noticing young women isn’t always “dirty old man” situation.  Remember, every young man who came of age and was into young women isn’t going to just stop finding young women attractive because his body ages.  He may make the choice to only date older women or more mature women, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to stop his attraction younger women.

We seem to be at war with our humanness.  Rather than accept those parts that are normal and ingrained and then building on them to make better decisions.  Controlling our behavior for healthier happier outcomes.  Rather than build up from the foundation we’ve laid, we tear other things down so we feel better.  We have a culture of this sort of thing.  From the magazines at the check-out aisle where we can see which successful person who is richer than we are has cellulite so we feel better about our cellulite, to viewing senior citizens as funny little non-sexual entities. Some day we will be staring at a seventy year old lover, if we are lucky enough to be having sex well into our old age.

We all are attracted to what we are attracted to because it meets some need inside of us.  I don’t mean our sexual orientation.  That’s just part of what you are born with.  I mean the aspects and features of others that we are attracted to.   And even if you think somebody else has weird needs and attractions, so long as things are consensual and not hurting their lives or the life of somebody else, it’s ok.  They’re ok.  You’re ok.  And it’s none of your business. Just don’t stop growing.  The more honest we can be about these things, the more we can grow.

So buy that new whip for your dungeon room and put on that tu-tu and dance around.  Spank or get spanked.  Put on that superhero spandex.  Role-play.  Kiss.  Fuck.  Lick chocolate off of each other.  Have fun.  Healthy sex is fun, satisfying sex.

Sensual Sunday – Candy Apple Kisses

Sensual Sunday is a weekly sensual observation or short story.


SS_carnival

He bought me a candy apple.  The kind with the hard glossy coating and I smiled coyly as he presented it to me.  It was fancy, for a carnival apple, wrapped elegantly with a bow closing it at the top.  I stuck my finger inside one of the red and white gingham loops and traced it with my finger.  I twirled one of the loose ends and tugged, popping the ribbon free.  He held his hand out and I dropped it into his palm, as though it were a pair of my panties.  As he watched, I peeled the sticking wrapper away from the treat, enjoying the crinkle of the genuine cellophane.  My smile was toothy and joyful now, as I felt my teasing kitten routine falter for a moment.  As soon as I put tongue to the apple’s sweet coating, I turned my eyes up at him.  He smiled, proud he’d pleased me.  I thought about kneeling right there on the pavement and unzipping his jeans.  Pulling him out and putting candy apple kisses all over it.  My tender knees on the bumpy biting asphalt.  People stopping to stare.  Couples getting turned on and rushing home to fuck each others’ brains out.  I ran my lips across the damp sticky lollipop surface and stepped in to kiss him.  We stood there, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy, the lights and whirling sounds and chatter of people all around us.  He pressed against me so hard I thought I would fall over.  I could feel him hard, right through his jeans, and I was aching to touch him there.  We held each other tightly as he licked the sticky cherry flavoring from my lips.  He’s usually a shy boy, so he pulled away when he noticed people stopping, furrowing their brows and giving us disapproving looks.  Not much later that evening we would sneak into my basement rec-room while my parents slept innocently two floors above us.