Posts Tagged ‘sexuality’

What’s Next?

September 9, 2015

Today it was getting up an hour before my alarm went off and getting myself sorted out.

I didn’t have to go into work until 1p.m.

Which was nice and also a touch annoying.

It was a later start than I was anticipating and I am going to probably have to dial it back at least a half hour with the family to work with my schedule.

Suffice to say I still got my deal in tonight, zipping up 18th Street to get right with God and hang out at the Castro Country Club for an hour.

Not a place I get too much, but a space I am grateful for.

All the rooms.

All the recovery.

All the change that is about to happen in my life as my school semester starts officially on Friday.

That’s three days from today.

Eeep.

I don’t even know what I am supposed to have read for this weekend.

I am not behind on my writing, having done it all before heading out to that thing in the desert, but I haven’t looked at the reading that I need to do in preparation for the first weekend in school.

I already feel behind.

However, since I didn’t have to be at work until 1p.m. today I did get my ass down to Copy Central on Mission and 2nd and pick up my last reader for the semester.  I also sorted out my student loan deferment paperwork and got that all summarily taken care of.

My ducks are sort of in a row.

I have an idea of what needs doing, but I have yet to crack open the syllabus on three of my classes to be completely clear.

I suppose I will do that after I finish doing this blog.

I am grateful I got the reader, and even more grateful that when I did look at the syllabus for the class there was the delightful notation for the first class that said, “no reading necessary for first class.”

Hallelujah.

Ack.

The more I think about it, the less time I have.

I was supposed to get back to San Francisco on Saturday, that was the original plans.

You know what God does when you plan?

Laughs.

And I will chuckle right along with God as I was given a pretty awesome playa experience, loads of magic, lots of all the things and I have nary a regret.

Although, despite what some thought upon reading my last blog post, I am NOT dating anyone.

I had a playa romance, I suppose you could call it, but I didn’t marry the man.

I am still a free and single lady.

A busy as fuck lady.

A lady who would happily date the gentleman who I spent time with, there is no question there, but a lady who is not pursuing.

“Be the ball, Martines,” he said to me.

I am doing just that.

I am done pursuing.

I get to be pursued.

I am fucking well worth it.

And in the spirit of said worth and in the spirit of having taken the events of the weekend in stride, with sweetness and kindness, with all the deep sexual connection and the magic of the moment, I have changed the header on my blog.

It no longer reads “Girl On The Go.”

I have changed it to.

“Woman Of The World.”

My partner in crime during the last days of the burn mentioned on more than one occasion how I was so obviously a woman, and, a wise woman at that.

It didn’t make me feel old or wizened.

Rather, experienced and grateful.

I am a woman.

Sometimes, most times, more often than I would like, I have to ask for help–but that is a mature thing to do and acknowledge.

That I cannot do it all alone, that I cannot be entirely self-sufficient.

For not only is it impossible for me to figure it all out, I just fucking can’t, it takes away the service of allowing someone else to share with me their experience and in turn allow them the sacred expression of sharing their experience with me.

Nothing I have been through is wasted.

Every pain.

Every sorrow.

Every trial, tribulation, and challenge.

Has given me an experience through which I can objectively view with compassion and gentleness, to be given so many experiences so that I may help another may truly be the greatest gift I have been given.

In that vein.

Then.

I continue forward.

As soft and sweet and open as I can be.

There is something luscious in the acknowledgement, finally, of being fully alive to myself as a woman.

“Before you travel and do something momentous, take a photo of yourself, then take another when you have gotten back and compare the two,” he told me as I prepared to launch out on my first solo trip to Paris in 2007.

“You will see that you have changed.”

I looked at myself in the rest stop bathroom at Donner Pass and I smiled in awe.

I had changed.

There it was.

This new openness and sincerity on my face.

I was not hiding behind any mask.

Of course, it may have been the lack of makeup, the surfeit of hormones from having been bathed in sexual attention for days, or the tan skin from being out in the desert for over a week.

I cannot say with any certainty.

But the change was evident and it made me happy to see and acknowledge it.

I was comfortable in my skin and delighted in my life and grateful.

Oh.

So grateful.

For the man, for the moment, for the movement of my heart, the ticking hands on the face of the world, this life, this ability to see through another lens of self and self-discovery and beauty.

The beauty of connection.

With myself.

With another person.

With the Universe and the world that I walk about in.

I don’t need to know what’s next.

I just need to show up for it.

I show up to the page.

I write my blog.

I show up to work.

I am of service.

I do the deal.

I help my ladies.

I ask for help from my people.

I go to class and do the best I can.

I let go of all the results.

I can’t do it.

Maybe God can.

I think I’ll let him.

In short hand.

I am powerless over outcomes.

I am only capable of taking action.

I don’t need to know what’s next.

Except that I have faith in becoming more me.

And hope that I will not wall up behind the fear of everyday life and the expectations therein.

Woman of the world indeed.

Officially a grown up.

Who knew it would be so.

Well.

Nice.

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Simultaneously*

February 6, 2015

Too much.

And not enough.

I am too flamboyant.

And I am not kinky enough.

Now if you know me, and a few of you do, you know that though the latter is not true, and so too is the former.

Yet.

I am critical of myself.

I am not enough.

And I am too much.

There is no middle ground, there is no one who is going to put up with this and there is not enough for me.

I am too much to handle.

But not enough heat in the kitchen.

I mean, really, I could go on in this vein for some time and not get myself anywhere but perhaps in a head ache state of mind.

I had a really good talk and a great check in tonight and I was informed I am more than enough and I am perfectly, imperfectly, my sexiest self.

Let me remind myself that I really am in the best place in my life.

I am honest and open and communicative, I am learning where I can be more of that, mostly through not with holding my honest response.

I can be manipulative and a bit of a people pleaser.

Which is never in anyone’s best interest.

Oh.

God.

I love me some house music.

Sorry, just got totally swept up in the beat on my stereo, I’m even typing in rhythm.

Haha.

This lady needs to go out dancing.

I’m this close to getting tickets to Basement Jaxx at Public Works with David Harness opening, next Saturday, the 14th.

I don’t suspect that I will have a Valentine’s date that night and I could really use a shake it out on the dance floor evening.

Fuck, I’ll even get dressed up for it, sexy for myself.

That’s where I have gone back to, again, and again as the process of the break up spools it way out.

Be sexy for me.

Dress for me.

Dance for me.

“You are magnificent,” a friend commented to me recently after expounding on my sexuality and expressions thereof.

Thanks man, I needed to hear that.

I believe it, I do, even when the doubts try to crowd into my head.

I have had such a habit of hiding my light under a bushel that when I do let it shine I tend to be rather overpowering.

I am finding a balance, a fabulous one, I am fabulous, I am, and I won’t argue that limitation.

I love clothes.

I love makeup.

I love dressing up.

I wish I did it a little bit more.

I’m not the greatest at shopping, but I am getting better.

All these things running around in my head and really, they do me no good up there.

What actions can I take?

That’s where I need to go, my thoughts are not my person, my person is made of my actions.

And I know I can take action.

Yesterday my actions were really simple, sit still, don’t respond, hold on tight to your chair and keep your counsel.

Not reaching out was the action.

Acceptance, awareness, action.

Or lack thereof.

Sometimes its hurry up and wait.

I am so glad I did.

I still had some moments of sadness and a couple of moments of hot-headed anger, but for the most part I rode them out.

I kept my side of the street clean.

Squeaky motherfucking clean.

Bitches.

I was thinking tonight as I wheeled through the park on my way home, what actions do I take next?

Get out there and date it up lady.

That’s the answer I got.

Now the question to myself is do I get back on the interwebs and do the OkStupid again?

Or do I just look within the fellowship and communities I am a part of?

The key is not to think too much about it, but to take action.

If I get back into online dating, cool, open the account back up and post and see what happens.

And I also realized after I turned down the inquiry last night about hanging out at the cafe and going to fellowship, that yes, damn it, I have to do that too.

I turned down two invitations this week to do just that and I realized after both that I don’t have to go crazy with it, if I have been invited to dinner and have already eaten, I can still go.

I just don’t eat.

Have a cup of tea.

If it’s a late night go out on a school night for me.

I can still go.

I just stay for a half hour instead of rolling for two hours.

I can squeeze it in.

Besides if I’m not out there, I’m not out there.

I also have to look up and out and not navel gaze.

Who is looking?

Take my blinders off, really pay attention, there are people, guys looking, and they are not always the skeezy pants ones that I notice, there are guys out there, decent, smart, cute guys, I know it, who see me.

But maybe I am too busy being in my head.

So look up, I admonish myself, look out.

See what there is.

I’m not banging my head on the closed-door.

I am walking through to the open door.

And it may be that the hallway is shorter than I think, I just have to walk the walk.

Not talk the talk.

Willingness without action is fantasy.

A girl can fantasize about Mister Right, or Right Now as the case may be, but if I don’t accept and acknowledge to myself that I am Ms. Right and a damn fine one at that, Mister Right is going to walk right by when I am focusing on what I think I don’t have.

I am so grateful for this dating experience with my ex, in case you were wondering, he’s a great guy and I hope the very best for him, he’s just not the guy for me.

And I wasn’t the girl for him.

But I am for someone and I know it.

So I get to act like it.

Embrace it.

Be it.

I am my own.

Fuck Yeah Girl.

 

 

*This blog officially written evening of 2/5/2015, pesky internet went down last night.  There will be another blog to follow today.  Thanks for your patience!*

I’ll Be Your Arbiter

February 4, 2015

Baby.

We both laughed.

“I want little placards that read ‘straight pepper diet’ and ‘imperious urge’ and one small gavel.”  I then laughed uproariously.

I amuse my own self.

I have been asked to run a workshop on sexuality and body image in recovery and though so flattered, did I want to do it?

No.

Fuck no.

Hell no.

I think not.

“God alone can judge my sex situation,” I explained to her, “which means, I can’t judge my sex situation.”

Always a good thing to be reminded of.

“I just immediately thought of you and how you embody your body and you’re fabulousness, and you just seemed the right person for the job.”

Again.

So flattered.

Then I thought, well god damn, I best get me laid before the event on the 28th of the month.

What does that give me?

25 days.

Let’s go boys.

Bwahahaha.

Ah.

Chuckle.

I mean, yeah, hey, I’ll take some loving other than self lovin’.

I’m down for the latter too, but my vibrator isn’t really made for making out.

Ahem.

For me, however, it’s not just about sex, it’s about letting myself be sexy.

“You sort of ooze sex, I think a lot of people think you’re getting laid all the time,” he said to me.

“Not like that,” I slapped my leg, “Jesus, no wonder I don’t get approached.”

I may not get approached also because, well, I’m fucking flamboyant as hell and got up and it takes some balls to approach this woman.

Unless of course you’ve been smoking hella weed in the soccer court at Mission Pool and Playground, then it doesn’t even matter that I’m with two young boys under the age of five, I’ll get heckled.

Or leered at, same thing really.

This morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, no particular reason, I just did.

I tossed my grumpy ass in the shower and washed up and dried my hair and decided what I was going to wear and I climbed into my attire for the day.

I made my bed.

I read some things.

I said some things.

I ate breakfast.

I drank coffee.

I washed my breakfast dishes.

I pulled out my notebook, aqua blue glitter, thank you very much, and started to write.

I wrote about being cranky for no particular reason and what that brought to mind.

I drank my coffee and decided I had time for a half cup more, and time to do my make up and fuck it, I’m cranky, I’m going to fake it til I make it.

And I swept my hair up into flower clips.

Not one, but three.

Because why the fuck not?

Then, yes aqua blue eyeliner, and silver hoops in my ears and glitter aqua blue stars in my ears, the second and third piercings on the left ear, and why not, I’m not saving it any longer, the lipstick from the Monoprix in Paris on the Champs Elysees that I ducked into one day on my way to Charles de Gaulle Etoile Metro stop.

I was a wild mix of purple, glitter, aquamarine, and hair flowers with feathers and glitter.

I looked mad good, in case you were wondering.

And I felt fantastic.

I’m living the Burning Man dream, riding my sparkle pony up Lincoln Avenue with a big smile on my face.

If a little face paint and a few hair flowers can change my mood, then why the hell not embrace it.

I embraced the fuck out of it.

She smiled and said, “you’re so colorful.”

“Thank you,” I said and smiled, as I pushed the stroller through the gate at the front of Mission Pool and Playground on Valencia Street.

That is what sexy is for me.

When I am having fun with myself and being bold and not caring what the world thinks of me.

“I used to keep a hula hoop in my kitchen,” I said, laughing, “not because I really hula hooped all that much (although for a weekend I got into it), but because it was a good visual reminder (being oversized and vibrant lime green with dark green sparkles threading the outer edges of it) to keep the focus on me.”

“What is outside of the hula hoop is none of my business,” I said and made a circle with my arms to represent that.  “What’s inside is my business.”

“Who are you dressing up for,” my ex boyfriend asked the week before we broke up.

“Ah, nobody, I always dress like this,” I said.

Although, truth be told, I had been taming it down, my way of dressing and makeup weren’t to his taste.

Which in hindsight is a red flag, note to self.

How I attire myself is also a reflection of myself as an artist.

My body, my hair, my tattoos, my choice in makeup, my way of dressing, of expressing my sexuality, of allowing myself to be sexy, are done in ways that I believe, really, truly, in my heart, to be an artistic expression.

I am my own walking poem.

Sometimes the stanza is a dance move, a twist of the hip, a rotation of the foot, a twirl in my bedroom, listening to Daft Punk and grooving out to my own little dance party.

Sometimes it is the sweep and swoosh of eyeliner, I like a cat eye, or a retro glam look, or it could be that the color on my eyelid matches my shoelaces, which match the second heart glitter earring on my left ear.

I am a palette and I glow and fuck yeah.

Bring it.

I’ll run a workshop on sexuality and body image.

I may even wear my leopard print, pony skin, black platform heels and make everybody get up and shake their gorgeous booties to a hot track.

I just got to step into my body, my self and be the awesome creature that God made me.

You’re not the arbiter of my conduct.

God damn it.

I’m here to enjoy this life.

This body.

This everything.

Bring on the dating.

I got 25 days to practice.

Giggle.

Break a girl off.

 

 I want a little sugar in my bowl
I want a little sweetness down in my soul
I could stand some lovin’, oh so bad

 

 

Full Moon Fever

November 7, 2014

Is it really the moon being full or is it an excuse to act like a loony?

Does it actually matter?

For instance, having been recently visited by the monthly due I pay for being a woman, I wondered, would I have had as much chemistry happening for me if my body hadn’t been screaming to be impregnated?

And, was it really God’s protection, the rejection?

Would I have gotten carried away?

I mean you don’t have to believe that prayer works, the efficacy is proven and written about and yes, I do, but no you don’t have to, and so it doesn’t really matter that last Saturday when I felt abandoned and went to the loo after ward to catch my breath it was no wonder that there was a small red dot floating in the water.

I believe in hormones, but I also believe in chemistry.

There’s something to be said for pheromones.

Moan.

And sexy seems to be oozing out of my pores at times, as it was so fondly related to me from an outside observer.

“You two are too much tall, dark, and sexy.”

It hit me today.

Whoa.

I mean, ok, it hits me more and more often, but shit, ma, I am sexy.

I know revelation.

What?

“Women would kill to look like you,” a past date said to me once over watermelon radish salad at Maverick’s in the Mission.

I was hoping he would just kiss me again.

I spend too much time wondering if he will just kiss me again.

All the he’s all over the place.

All the moon and the hormones and the chemistry and the pretty faces.

I can have it all.

I was sharing this evening and it really struck me, wait, I do attract god damn attractive people, so I needn’t be shy about asking attractive men out.

I know.

REVELATORY.

Not that I have spent a lot of time to fantasize about any one in particular, but I sacked up, I asked out a really attractive man.

He said yes.

Which means, I know, you are laughing at me, I am attractive to attractive men.

Which means, go for it.

I don’t know if it was the flirting I was doing with one of the vendors at the Bartlett Street Farmer’s Market in the Mission (totally harmless, but fun, I’m not about to date someone who lives in Watsonville.  I mean, where is that anyway?) or it was the late afternoon Americano I had before hitting the market.

Or perhaps that fateful, full, creamy moon rising over me.

It sang me out the door of work tonight and I noticed a lot of heady, giddy, crazy drivers, taxi cabs, bicyclists, happy hour folks being wooed by the great disk in the sky.

Did we all notice it at the same time?

Did it give permission to be sassy and sexy and wound up?

I don’t know.

But that self-same moon followed my home on my bicycle, singing in my blood, urging me on, pulling me forward, down, down, down to the sea.

I wanted someone to go barefoot walking on the beach with that moon bright as neon kisses over my head.

I don’t often want someone to go walking on the beach with me, it seems trite, clichéd, and over done, but tonight, I could almost feel the cool sand on my bare feet.

I could certainly feel the cool air from my bicycle ride in my hair when I got back to the house and pulled it up into a top knot.

I wanted someone’s hands in that coolness, until it wasn’t cool anymore.

And that’s when my little sexy epiphany struck, somewhere between pulling up my hair and folding my clothes (I was super sneaky and got in a load of laundry last night, so nice to squeeze that in early), I could ask out other really attractive, to me, men.

Guys that I might have previously, erroneously, thought, nah, he’s out of my league.

I tried to summon someone to mind and no one sprang fully formed like Athena from Zeus’s brow, but that was ok too.

Just the knowledge was enough.

“You are learning all sorts of things about you.”

That’s what dating is about.

Learning about myself.

As though I haven’t learned enough already, here again, more to learn, more things to sort through and grow around.

Awesome.

I mean annoying.

I mean awesome.

I am learning that I don’t want to date people, men, whom I am not attracted to.

So that dude that I met at Decompression who kissed me with stale Tecate mouth, NOT attracted to.  Don’t give out phone number, even if I said I would try to date and do one a week, there’s no point in going out with someone who leaves me cold.

What else am I learning?

Not to go on super big dates.

Start small.

No big theatrical stuff, start with a cup of coffee.

I sort of already knew this, but I have to stick to my guns.

First date is chill.

Sort of like an interview.

And if the guy interviews well, than second date can be decided upon.

Communication is super important and I have to say what I need.

So.

I am having a whole heap of learning.

Good stuff.

The moon is still full-out there and I am obviously full of myself, but that’s ok, if I don’t get a little full of myself occasionally, who the fuck will?

I might do something wrong, I might go fuck it up some more, but hey, I am living.

The trees in the park, the giant wide trunks, the breadth and circumference of them, the reach of limbs toward the yellow moon of buttery love, they were here before me, they will be here after me.

What care the trees for my foibles?

In the great, grand scheme of it all.

I am just a tiny drop in the bucket of life.

A sexy drop.

But a drop none the less.

 

 


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