The pursuit of happiness.

This expert from Walt Whitman’s I Sing the Body Electric seems fitting today.
This is the female form,
A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot,
It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction,
I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it,
Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed,
Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable,
Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused,
Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching,
Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice,
Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn,
Undulating into the willing and yielding day,
Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day.
This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman,
This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again.
Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul.
The female contains all qualities and tempers them,
She is in her place and moves with perfect balance,
She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active,
She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters.
As I see my soul reflected in Nature,
As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty,
See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see.
Febraury Photofest
Sinful Sunday

I am too still.

I have spent the bulk of the weekend in my pajamas save for the 6 hours I spent drinking last night with girlfriends.  Two women 5 and 10 years my junior; jaded and burnt out on men and overly sensitive about making sure we all kept our expenses the same.

My Old Fashioned drinks burned and smoked down my throat as their magic addled my brain.  Then the sadness crept in.

I hadn’t wanted to go out in the first place; I’d offered to see Rex, but I didn’t hear from him and so I’d made other plans, naturally.

Tina chatted up a beautiful man who somehow epitomized Brooklyn New York and her friend, Sina, cozied up with a handsome and grizzly older fellow.  I spent my time trying to give them each space.

I awoke on Tina’s couch alone and with an aching back.  This back ache is a symbol of my stillness, my general paralysis, and I hate it.  I need to move more, sweat more.  All this sedentary bullshit is literally breaking me.

Good thing tomorrow is a new day and I can start anew.  Thank god for the never-ending turning of our world.

My general state of being.

 

 

Febraury Photofest
Sinful Sunday

I am altered.

We’re forever altered from the healing, from the pain, from the experience of life and love.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve healed at all; I am so marred, so mangled, so marked.

I am a walking, talking scoreboard of my life.

So much to see.

 

 

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Sinful Sunday

I’m free.

I have officially admitted to myself that I would like to find love.  I have ceased taking on any new men.  I have changed profiles to fit the new standard.  I have spoken with men on the phone.  I have written lengthy reply emails.  I am also unprepared.

There are so many layers to my life that I believe opts me out of any sane man’s world.  Hy, my need to expose myself, my writing, my kinks.  Do you know of any guy who wants to partner up with a woman who’s into triple digit lovers now, who shares intimate details of her sex life and thoughts, has thousands of Instagram followers for her alter ego, and who is comfortable living a double life for as long as necessary?

The special thing about Luke is that he met me as Hy first.  The hard part is done.  He accepts me for who and what I am.  The real life aspects are all just a bonus — my career, my child, my life — but going the other direction feels like rubbing a cat from tail to head.  It’s just awkward, unfulfilling, and might get you bitten.  In other words: hard.

I feel trapped by who I am and by my fear of rejection.

Nothing has happened — everything is calm — it’s just a waiting game now to see where all these trails go with the men currently in my life.  The lawyer, the martial artist, the sub PhD, the sweet Lothario, the sugar daddy, the dom, the mother lover, the special ops guy, the baby soldier.  The handful of others whom have yet to make a stronger impression.

Love enters our lives, right?  We don’t force it to happen, yet I find myself not willing to change much about my own self in order to find it.  Giving up Hy and this writing would be a colossal mistake. Giving up on my desires and wants and curiosities, too.  My deeply felt connections.  They’re all me, after all, and if I hide one aspect from a potential mate it feels disingenuous, like a charade.  I only want a man who wants all of me and not one layer less.

I’m terrified to discover I’m as alone as I feel, but there’s only one way of testing my theory and it isn’t cocooned in my little fuck-buddy-bubble.  It’s out there.

And so I wait in my gilded cage.  A longing woman behind her own self-imposed bars who watches the world with sad, old eyes.  Who sees the youthful couples plunge headlong into lifelong promises of love and babies, the lucky others hold tight to their nice-smelling, kind and strong, matching pieces, and the rest who bump along either indifferent or longing, like me.  Perhaps I’ll figure a way out on my own.  Perhaps someone will show me the way.

No where to go.

 

In and behind the light.

Such a metaphor for my life.

Bathed in shadow.

 

Covered in light.

Both me.

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Sinful Sunday

A different view.

Secret buttons.

 

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Sinful Sunday

Sundays alone.

I woke up with the animals tucked around me, but otherwise human-free.

I haven’t taken many photos lately; some here and there, but I havent’ been feeling all that sexy.

I’ve felt womanly, full, bouncy, strong.  But not sexy.  Sexy is how I feel when I know someone is looking and I have been avoiding the gazes of many the past several days.

This morning I decided to see how I’d feel if I started to snap.

It always amazes me to see myself through the lens.  It’s like it’s another woman completely.  That’s not me.

I’m boring, relatively out of shape as I am in shape, middle aged.

I peeled back the covers and rolled and stretched.

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*click*

*click*

*click*

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There was a knock at the door: the neighbor girl asking for Pey, but I’m alone and sent her away with a smile and a wave.

Back in bed with the hastily thrown-on robe.

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*click*

*click*

*click*

And then, suddenly, as if by magic, I feel sexy again.  Alone on a Sunday.

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Sinful Sunday

I am alone.

Alone in a crowd, with a man inside of me, bathed in the bright light of morning.

Alone beside a chatting friend, next to my mother, across from the velvet couch.

Alone behind the panting dog, buried beneath my troubles, alongside my half empty glass.

Alone atop my life and in my bed.

Alone with myself.

 

Sinful Sunday

Take me as I am.

I laid upon my dark sheets, a pale doll0p of cream on a blackberry compote, and imagined what his big bear hands would feel like.

Warm, strong, the pads on his fingertips slightly rougher from years worth of the kind of manual labor all able-bodied males are roped into doing.

I hiked up my shirt and grabbed a mound of breast.  Perhaps he would do the same.  I smiled, stretched, got out of bed.  The shirt caught on my breasts.

Then there was a knock at the door.  That would be him.

 

Hy coming for you

I am marked.

I am marked by so many things.

The sun in my freckles and time in my wrinkles.

Life in my curves and the aches in my body.

The wind that dances in my hair and across my skin, the rumble of purrs against my palm and the licks on my calves.

By men in my heart and my parents on my soul.

Sour, salty, sweet and bitter.  Umami on my tongue.

I am marked by my child, a scoring on my existence, and the moon in my eyes when I open them at night.

I am a canvas, once blank, but forever tattooed.

If I hold still long enough, you’ll see for yourself.

Hy and her marks
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Sinful Sunday