Posts Tagged ‘masturbation’

Take The Fucking Drama

June 17, 2016

Out of it.

Oh my god.

What a fucking concept.

I laughed and almost slapped my own forehead.

Instead of getting worked up about work, I just thought, fuck, all I have to do is show up and be of service, I don’t have to ask anything, I don’t have to do anything, I don’t have to be stupid and pushy, I can ask for what I need the next time it comes around.

No need to do it today.

Just having done the work around it, the internal re-arranging of my perspective was the relief.

My boss doesn’t have to change.

My boss is never going to change.

She doesn’t have to.

I do.

I change.

And today I decided that creating unnecessary drama before a three day weekend was stupid.

Idiotic really.

When I was going to get off work early today and be eating out with my boys and drinking pricey iced coffees.

Oh Stumptown how do I love thee.

Yeah, I know, it’s not San Francisco based, but fuck, they have good ass coffee.

I am all out of the coffee I bought in New York.

Frankly, I have to say I was disappointed with the Gorilla Coffee I got, the roast was far darker than I like and just a tiny bit charred to my taste.

The coffee I had at the cafe when I popped into it was great, but they were out of the beans that I wanted.

Now.

Variety, in Williamsburg, that stood up to the test.

In fact.

It was like being transported back to the cafe and the talk I had with the barista and then the getting together with my friend and doing that thing I like to do in church basements that evening.

It was a sweet reminder every time I ground up a batch of the Variety beans I brought back.

Maybe I’ll find some hipster coffee in New Orleans.

Fuck me.

Total digression.

I’m all over the place.

Like always.

But.

I’m a tiny bit at loose ends.

Having a clear three day weekend ahead of me.

I got free of jury duty for tomorrow and the family is out of town visiting aunts and uncles and grandparents in the Midwest.

I spent the day keeping the boys on the move and out of the house, hence the Stumptown, I popped into Atlas Cafe on Alabama and 20th.

I have so many fond, and not so fond, memories of the cafe.

It was my first heavily visited cafe, being a block and a half away from the first place I lived in the city, 20th and York.

The first time I go there I ran into someone from Madison who had moved to San Francisco years before me and I had had a class with at University, a TS Eliot class that was amazing and also challenging beyond comprehension, most of the class dropped, including the guy I ran into at the cafe, but I stuck it out and though it may seem odd, that was were I began to believe in God.

That coupled with the course on fairy tales I took the next summer and there, a chink in my armor.

A place where the light got in.

Not for a while though.

Just ask my dealer.

He made a few deliveries to me at Atlas Cafe as well.

I have a nodding acquaintance with the bathroom there.

And a fondness tinged with nicotine nostalgia for the back patio where once upon a time a lady could smoke a cigarette with her espresso romano–a shot of espresso with a lemon twist.

God damn.

I don’t smoke anymore.

I forget that sometimes.

I can forget many things easily.

Use to weigh over 80lbs heavier.

Forgot that.

Used to do drink every day.

Forgot that.

Used to not be able to not spend the money on the bag or pick up the phone to call my dealer to do a little delivery.

“Fuck, you’re guys faster than pizza delivery,” a friend “complained” as he had to scramble to get to the cash machine when my dealer showed up less than fifteen minutes after I had placed my “order.”

He was pretty quick.

Grateful for other things today.

Explained how grateful to be less of what I was and somehow so much more, humbled by the grace that I have been given, bowed head, loved, shined on so that I can turn it out and shine it forward.

That this body is no less and no more than a conveyance for love.

And hopefully sex once in a while.

Oh my God.

43.

STAWP with the hormones.

Oh.

I suppose I’ll rue the day when they go away, but seriously, the sexy sex chemicals in my blood stream.

I don’t have the screaming baby keening ache that I had for a few years, no, it’s been replaced by a last ditch ovarian siege where I am smoking out any guy with the testosterone to hang with me.

FUCK ME!

That’s what it feels like all the time.

ALL THE TIME.

Ok.

Maybe I exaggerate a little, but seriously, the body and the brain in collusion are trying real hard to get this lady some action.

Let’s go out and find some trouble….nothing’s sexier than regret.

Heh.

Were I to stumble upon that I might be smote.

So.

Until then.

The yoga.

The masturbation.

Thank you rechargeable Hitachi Magic Wand.

The hair geographic, which will happen Saturday.

I have a tentative date, blind date, Tinder date, not to hook up, which he made that clear, thanks, I think, but hey, you know, just trying, and I wonder if I should warn him about the impending pink hair or just spring it on him.

Fuck.

Who cares?

The drama.

There is none.

If my worst fucking problem is that I want to get laid and no one has thrown their hat in the ring, then my life is a fucking cake walk.

Rent is paid.

The phone is paid.

I got a yoga membership at the studio.

I got that thing in the church basements doing it’s deal for me.

I got happy, joyous, free.

I got friends.

I got good coffee in the cupboard.

Light in the soul.

Shine on my heart.

I ain’t got worries.

All I got.

Is three day weekend and endless fun.

Let’s see what kind of silly I can get up to.

Want to come along?

I promise.

Good times.

Seriously.

It Was The Perfect Storm

March 27, 2014

Until my vibrator broke.

ARGH!

Shakes fist at heavens.

Looks at hand.

Meh.

I guess we got to go the old fashion way.

Which is not so bad, it just takes longer and I did not know how much time I had.

I don’t normally have a little knookie when I get home from work, I have other things to do, blogs to write, etc.

However, the car was not in the driveway, the house was dark, and there was no one home.

Upstairs.

The housemate et al, were away.

Do I have enough time?

I ran about setting the stage.

Oh, come now, don’t you set the stage?

I mean, first of all, you got to be in the mood.

I was in the mood, have been for a few days, months, ahem, always, but especially right about now, it’s the time of the month when nature has dropped a little bomb into my system and all systems are suddenly a go and that guy I never would have looked at twice, suddenly looks cute.

All men look cute.

Ok, I exagerrate, not all, how about a lot more than normal.

I have not been on birth control since I was in my mid-twenties, hate what it did to my system and vowed I would not go back to it.  So, I know my cycle really well and what it means to feel what I feel at this time of month–ie sexually aroused.

I use condoms and until I am in a committed relationship, that’s what is going to happen.  I am not going on the pill again.  It sucks.

So, I am alone, the house is quiet and no one is around upstairs.

I am not so worried about them hearing me, although I have been known to be operatatic and I won’t hesistate to say that being vocal or expressing myself vocally is part of the fun.

Don’t try to shush me, please.

It’s more that hearing the upstairs neighbors is not putting me into a sexy good mood, rather quashes it, it does.

A seven year old banging around the house and jumping up and down whilst singing Katy Perry songs does not do it for me.

So when I saw the perfect storm, I took advantage, or tried to.

I mean, I don’t know why I am teasing you, it did happen.

It’s just funny how I felt momentarily betrayed by my vibrator.

NOOOOOOOooooooooo.

Shakes fist at ceiling?

Why?

Why now?

Ugh.

The motor wasn’t broken, but the connection was not working and after a few attempts, half-hearted I admit, I knew it was done for.

Damn you Hitachi Magic Wand.

Third one of my career.

Grr.

I am disinclined to buy another.

Same thing happened with the last two.

They do last a while, I won’t say they don’t but I expect a longer shelf life than what I have gotten from the last two.

I tossed it in the trash and went to the next best option in my bag of tricks.

And yes, mission accomplished, and all before the house hold returned to the homestead upstairs.

Heck, I even got in a shower before the noise started up.

It was a nice little diversion, then to the task at hand, some writing.

Ah, my little sweet blog.

Ever here for me, rain or shine.

I took the train into work today as it was downpouring this morning and I had no inclination to ride my bicycle in.

I did consider it for a few moments, packed my bag like I would, then I looked at the clock and looked out the door, even opening it to really gauge the deluge, and there was no second thought after I saw the rain falling.

I had more than enough time, I would take the train.

And I did.

Making it in to work a few minutes early and dry.

Heck I even got the train back and didn’t have to wait long at all to scoot out here.

The sunset was still happening when I hopped off the N-Judah.

I thought about going down to the ocean to watch the sunset, but I had an intuition, I suppose, or just a scratch to itch, and I went home to find the house delightfully quiet.

I looked at my scooter with much appreciation when I came through the door and thought about when I will go out again, probably next Tuesday in the early evening once again with my friend in the park.

I had aspirations to be riding it this weekend, but I see that it’s too soon for me to make a trip up and over to Noe Valley on Saturday, though I have to be there to meet more than one person.

I booked some back to back ladies for tea and then I have the 8:30 p.m. commitment up the hill.  It would definitely be convenient to not have to take MUNI there or back, but I am not quite ready to do that.  I want another lesson, perhaps two and a guided ride with my friend before I commit myself to leaping aboard and going out by myself.

But that time will come.

I am excited for it.

I had a friend make a sweet comment about how fast it happened and how I am amazing at manifesting things and as I was standing underneath my heart shaped umbrella waiting for the train to pull in I laughed.

Can’t seem to manifest a boyfriend.

But then I thought, exactly how hard have I tried.

I did really go after the scooter.

I took action and took direction and got the license and kept showing up for it.

Not that I am looking to manifest a boyfriend, it was a fleeting thought that made me chuckle.

Boyfriends are not objects or things or vibrators.

They kiss better than vibrators for sure.

I can however, continue to take actions that manifest things in my life, while clearing out old ideas, and sometimes old object, ahem, Magic Wand, and tossing them in the trash to make way for what is next.

What is better.

And what suits me.

It’s always so much nicer than my own ideas.

Best thing I can do.

Clean house.

Opens me up for being of service, not in that way, you pervert you, but to allow in that which makes me happier.

And I as I was told today.

“Go, enjoy your life, you just have today.”

Enjoyment was had.

Really.

And What Did You Do Today?

November 21, 2013

Not much.

Came home and ate a roasted Japanese sweet potato.

Took a hot, hot, hot shower.

Masturbated.

Yeah.

I know.

What ever, it’s there in my “about page” it happens.

Don’t tell me you don’t.

Liar.

“Oh where did that come from?”  I thought,” then, “whoa, who cares, that works.”

And let’s get off.

Ah.

I was going to go do the deal in the Inner Sunset, but I got done with work a bit earlier than I expected, I was in the Castro and I turned down 18th toward Good Vibes, I had an errand to do that had been on my plate for a little while.

Well.

Hello.

Aren’t you all clean and tidy and re-arranged.

The store has been re-organized since I last visited their outpost on Valencia.

“Oh that’s a great one, but don’t put it in your mouth,” the clerk said, “it tastes horrible.”

Good to know.

Not that I have ever squirted any lube in my mouth.

Yick.

That’s what saliva is for, people, duh.

“Have you tried,” insert some name I have never heard before, “it’s great!”

The clerk, a young gay man, blonde hair, horn rimmed glasses, tidy little beard, jeans with a slight sag, but skinny at the ankles, your basic “gipster” look, gay hipster,  showed me another little bottle at the register.

We talked shop for a few minutes, but I was in and out, no pun intended, heh, and just got what I needed.

I am pretty set up at home.

“Uh, yeah, I saw a light on in there,” he said with a nervous laugh underneath the words.

Oops.

I just was directing him to the condoms, but he stumbled across the rechargeable vibrator.

God bless the Germans, kinky fucks they are, rechargeable and with a handle.

“Only the Germans would come up with the idea of putting a handle on a vibrator,” my lover said to me once, half-joking, half serious, insert dash of admiration.

I suppose I should have put my disclaimer in at the beginning, but…

IF YOU’RE RELATED TO ME STOP FUCKING READING.

Thanks.

I have been debating on and off for a little while about starting another blog, just a secret say it all blog.

But then I realized I just don’t have the time.

Or the energy.

That’s what my morning pages are for, the absolute honesty, although, even there I find myself lapsing, as though if I write it down I will be discovered.

Oh, I still have feelings for…

Oh, I want…

Oh, I don’t want to think about that…

I sometimes don’t write about something as well because I have such a solid picture of it in my mind that I don’t need to.

I can look at the date or the page and know, just know what happened and how I felt.

This afternoon as the rain was falling and I was sitting scrolling through my old Instagram feed, I looked over all sorts of photographs I took while I was in Paris.

Home of the sexy sexy.

Although I never did hook up with a Frenchman.

I had a crush on an English man and a Scots man.

There was that.

And another American I met right before I left.

The possibility of hooking up was often negated by living in such a close space with my room-mate.

Though I know him pretty well and I hazard had I asked he would have vacated the premises to give me some privacy.

It never happened though.

“French men just don’t know what to do with you,” an acquaintance said to me, “you’re too much, so colorful, the tattoos, the hair, I think they are just too afraid to pursue it.” He was occupied in a relationship with a, in his words, challenging French woman, but I knew he had always admire me, and I him.

I suppose that may have been true.

I think that’s just the aura I put out there which, face facts, is just subterfuge.

I am just a big scared pussycat.

But as I scrolled through those photographs I wondered how many other things marked me the way those photos do.

Music.

I also set a tone when I take care of the self and I like to listen to some music, some times it’s rock and roll, I don’t know why, but Rolling Stones Emotional Rescue album gets to me.

Underworld, Dubnobasswithmyheadman, is also a hot standby.

Brings all sorts of old dreamy fantasies to mind.

Music, photographs, love.

Sex.

All wrapped up in piles of words as I sort through them and wonder when, and if that, then, or could be, or hmmm, how about.

The weather did hold on my ride back to the Sunset, although the fog was dense and heavy, the rain did not fall again and were I not carrying precious cargo with me and pre-occupied with what I was going to do with it, I was tempted to walk down to the ocean.

I could hear the ocean crashing from the street and the wild smell of eucalyptus from the last arm of the park mingled with the dark ocean scent was über compelling.

I slowed for the last turn on Lincoln Avenue, thinking suddenly that I was going to get hit from behind, a car sliding on the wet pavement, making that sound, that squeal that seems to presage hydroplaning and I felt my stomach clench.

“I don’t want to die before knowing love,” I thought.

A voice sang out in me, “you have experienced more love than you know what to do with, love of parents, father, mother, love of a sibling, sister, love of grandparents, love of boyfriends, lovers, friends, self, the children you take care of, how many have had the love you have had?”

I could not argue with that.

I felt blessed suddenly and slowed a little to take the turn in a safe way.

I still did not cotton to the idea of being hit on a fog slick street with the high-beams of the on coming traffic gliding up Lincoln, but as  turned, the truth of the wind at my back and the flat pockmarked street on 46th greeted me cheerful even in the waning light.

Here to live another day of love.

What I had meant, and the little voice knew it, but I needed to hear what had been said in my heart.

What I meant was.

I meant I want to be partnered before I die.

Is that a lot to ask?

But then, too, I realize I have known so much love that to foolishly believe that just because I was coming home alone to come alone, ahem, did not mean that state was a permanent state.

It is just a way to care for myself while in this hallway.

“Have you thought about forgiving yourself for being single,” she asked.

It just is an act of self-love and it just meant that I was in for the night, safe to take a hot shower and have a hot meal after a little hot action.

Heh.

Anyway.

Before this heads further south, oops, uh, I should sign off.

Make some tea, relax with my music, go to bed a little early.

The rain is passing for the rest of the week and I look forward to being busy.

Not just getting busy.

Filling my life with more love and taking it, gratefully, greedily, and thankfully, from where ever it comes from.

Me.

Myself.

And I.

Or from you.

And you and you and you.

And yes, oh yes, you.


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