I’m all about bloody messes!
That was the response I got in a text after I told him I was on my period—a warning—just in case he’s one of those.
I was already certain he wasn’t going to mind as I’ve become fairly apt at spotting the open-minded, body- and sex-positive ones off the bat. Still, you never really know with someone new until you ask. Had my period been a problem for him, on the other hand, I doubt we would have met again.
I guess you could say my warning was a bit of a test.
Hi there! First, I want to thank you so much for being here—I appreciate you immensely.
I’ve been a storyteller of sorts my whole life. Starting as a graphic designer, I moved into creative/art direction, set dressing, event styling, and more. Writing was something I occasionally did, mostly by default, as I handled the content of clients, propositioned for gigs, and ran a design blog.
It was first in October 2019 that I decided to start writing full time. Before that, a growing voice inside had been pleading with me to write since I left a toxic relationship with a…
In the words of my favorite erotica writer Anais Nin: “We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.” And what better part to relive than our sex-lives?
I do love writing about sex and sexuality, but it wasn’t until I sat down to complete this list that I realized just how many stories I’ve published on the topic since I started here in October 2019: N̶i̶n̶e̶t̶y̶-̶n̶i̶n̶e̶ one-hundred-and-eight so far (updated 11.02.21)!
I write about sexuality, not just for my own enjoyment, but because I believe it’s important. I believe we must normalize having an open, honest…
Over the last year, I’ve written many stories about my experiences in a relationship with a verbally abusive narcissist, as well as my process of healing and dealing with the aftermath.
Through this process, I’ve connected with many who share similar experiences, in search of resources to make sense of their own situations. The stories I’ve written on this topic continue to be some of my most read and it’s clear to me that this kind of content is sought after.
For those looking to read more—to make sense of, heal and move on from a toxic, abusive, and/or narcissistic…
The longer you have to wait for something, the more you will appreciate it when it finally arrives.
My working title of this article was Penetration is Overrated, until I realized that this wasn’t precisely the message I wanted to convey.
As I was flipping through a recent set of photos from a shibari rope suspension I became acutely aware of my rigger’s gaze and how it’s fixed on me the whole time. He looks at my body and how I move, back up to where I’m secured, and down at me again. Most of the time he looks at my face, and into my eyes whenever they’re not closed. This is how he reads me. …
Sorry seems to be the hardest word, said Elton, but for me, it comes easy. Too easy! Being able to apologize, sincerely, when we’ve hurt someone or done something wrong is vital, but far too often, I attempt to excuse the inexcusable. Or, in this case; that not in need of redress.
Just the other day I posted a funny meme only to backtrack and start explaining myself when I received a comment from a friend. I worried he read it wrong and I proceeded to ask for atonement.
Stop it, he said, to my surprise. No need to remiss!
—I don’t understand what’s going on. I feel so incredibly sad…
—Oh, honey! I don’t think you EVER said that to me. You wanna talk about it?
This was a text between my best friend and me earlier this week, and when I read her answer, I almost cried.
Notice how I say almost.
Morgan and I have shared our losses, victories, and all in between over the past twelve years—and we tell each other everything. …
Do you believe in love at first sight? he asks, sliding a blind for her eyes.
Is it still called falling if you’re caught before you hit the ground? she responds, tightly trapped in his tentacles.
Then he turns her, heels over her head in a heartbeat, to place a hand on her throat. Let me take your breath away!
You may already have, she ponders, painfully aware of her pounding heart, sleeveless and exposed.
To start, she got down on two knees, took her life into her hands, placed them in his. He accepted. Tied the knot.
I remember it as if it were yesterday; the day I sat down to join Fetlife. It was a bright summer morning, on the porch of a café in Mitte, Berlin. My hands quivering as I typed the URL into my browser, I was nuzzled in a corner to make sure no one could catch a glimpse of my screen when the glaring black and red welcome page popped up: Sign up now! Sensing I was about to enter uncharted territory, I took a deep breath—click—and down the rabbit-hole I went.
Now, after roaming the burrows for a few years…