dedicated to the first girls lap I ever sat on.

Aside from anomalies, there are about 2000 to 4000 taste buds in an adult’s mouth. Give or take a thousand. And while I may not know the exact amount my mouth contains, I do know that each sensory cell has never felt the excitement that it did when the burst of salty umami taste from the gentle pressing of my tongue against your upper hamstring. The mixture of sweat and lotion created an insatiable experience for my senses. 

………….………….………….………….………….………….………….………….………….…………. 

Alice found this instructor for a spin class for us all to try out, but it’s at a new studio on College Street. Allegedly, anyways. I’m having difficulties finding it.  It was supposed to be coming up, but I might have been on the wrong side of the road. I find myself so often caught in the minute, that I have to constantly second-guess my general trajectory. I took a glance on the other side, just to check, and that’s when you, miss Dahlia, caught my attention. Smile so god damn wide.

Middle of June, you must be on break from school. Are you home for the summer? Or do you attend the university? I don’t frequent this area so I wouldn’t have been able to guess, but I do wish I would have sooner. There was mention of walking into uncharted water with my co-star today, maybe this is what the universe was referring to.

It didn’t even look real. You looked like one of those demo filters. Like I was scrolling through VSCO and there you were, Sun-Kissed. Your natural bronze skin highlighted in all the right places. 

You opened your lips up off the demitasse cup. I didn’t need to be present in that space with you to know that after you allowed that caffeine to find its way down your esophagus, allowing for your quick fix to pleasure the fiend inside you, that your laughter would quickly light that entire room like it must always when you’re around.

The girls you were with had their own crack-drinks in front of them, but what they were really addicted to was you. Inhaling your very presence. Enamored and exulting, they revelled in your presence. I could practically see them leaning forward, into you, desperately reaching out for you. Taking in every moment with you, extending out as much as they possibly could because they did not know when they would get more. 

I raised my hand as if to extend up to brush the strands of earth tone Goddess-locks that were obstructing everyone’s view of you. Obstructing my view of you.

Your skirt was at that length that, when you switched which leg was on top when they were crossed, it had to be pulled down each time. Adjusting a little back into position to find your comfortable configuration once again. And those legs, I could see the shimmer from the lotion you applied after your morning shower. Down to the Blossom socks and Mary Janes, you shimmered and shined. 

Sip after sip, your espresso began to wipe away the gloss that once caked your lips. You reached into your Prada Black Nylon, fumbled around in the crumpled receipts and one-hitter to grab the NYX gloss to pucker up your kisser once more. 

You looked like those girls I watched on television growing up: girls I always wanted to be, but couldn’t.  I didn’t and do not exude that type of aesthetic naturally enough to fit into the right standards of beauty.

“You look like sex.” Is what an ex’s friend said about me. What he meant was I looked like I was down to fuck. 

Sex. To look like sex, can be flattery in the right context.

Even as the light dimmed, I couldn’t find a bad angle. You twisted and turned as you obnoxiously cavorted. You wore each new expression better than the last. Constantly becoming a better version of yourself as time passes.

You don’t just look like sex, honey, you are sex. You are sex.

Your naivety has prevented you from fully comprehending what you truly have. It has prevented you from understanding who you really are. We can chalk it up to privilege, your sheltered youth. We can just slowly strip that privilege away. All of it, honestly. The privilege, every ounce of dignity your precious vessel holds, and then we can move to the tangible items. 

Stockings, the oversized boyfriend t-shirt with under-the-bust corset tightly wrapped around your waist, and the little of what I would probably find underneath. You’re such a whore, but you already knew that. That, you already knew. You’ve just been waiting for someone to make you more comfortable in that skin of yours.

Fuck, that skin.

Fuck that skin.

Your thighs lead into the curvature of your hips and waist; you are art. 

I wanted to run my fingers down your spine to the small of your back to feel the chills form on the top layers of your body. I wanted you to experience something you never have before, new sensations. I was going to play you like an instrument. I was going to play you until–

“THEO! I’ve been walking up and down this street for like 72 hours looking for this damn studio!” 

Replete in her activewear, fit and svelte, Jeanette invades our time together. I smell her Chanel no. 5, a timeless classic. The coconut oil in her hair is a tropical miasma as she pulls me close for a hug, and the Starbucks on her breath is palpable. But all I can taste is that mango papaya lotion.

A mother’s testament to herself and against what she is ‘supposed’ to be.

• Instagram

The decision to have a child is the decision to give your entire life up for this new, little human.

You are no longer you; Your body is no longer yours.

Can someone explain the logic to this ideology society lives and feeds off of?

The whole idea that women have to give themselves up, entirely and forever, to have children is ludicrous.

When did having a child mean women had to lose their atonomy?

I remember a time when I thought every conversation I had, picture I posted, and decision I made absolutely, and without a doubt, concerned by two boys.

In my head, that’s what a mother was. That’s what I was told a mother was.

What I wasn’t told was a mother isn’t just a mother.

I realized after losing myself entirely, what the problem was. I’m not just a mother.

I’m a fucking woman.

I am a FUCKING woman.

In that moment, I decided I was no longer conforming to societies standards and expectations of a woman and her role in society as a mother.

We shouldn’t have to change our comfortability and sense of self for another person, regardless of who they are.

Women should be allowed to partake in activities that don’t involve our children.

Our physical appearance does not need to adhere to patriarchal standards on what is appropriate for a mother to and not to wear.

The stigma around motherhood is absolute bullshit. It needs to change.

We are not bad mothers if we do not cook every meal for our kids.

It is possible to be a good mother without volunteering for every school activity.

Mothers can drink, smoke, get high, and still be good mothers.

Moms can engage in sexual escapades, show their nipples, and swear like a sailor while still being a good role model for their children.

I can talk about fucking and orgasms and show my ass on social media and still be a good example for my boys.

I can love myself whole while still providing the best life for my kids.

Mothers are not just mothers. We are people, too. We are ourselves, first and foremost.

it is very unfortunate that i grew up embarrassed to the level i did. i know we all grew up feeling some amount of embarrassment. there was just a particular subject that, for me, was cringe worthy.

f u c k i n g.

i would have people around me talk about their dirty deeds while i would sit in silence, maybe nod and smile to contribute.

it wasn’t until recently that i was even comfortable saying ‘penis’ and ‘vagina’ in front of someone. which i know, sounds silly, but it made me extremely uncomfortable. <similar to the word ‘cunt’.> i did what i could to avoid calling them by their anatomical names.

sex with the lights on? AHA. even in the best shape of my life i found it a little out of place. and it has nothing to do with confidence. more so because i felt dirty having someone look at me naked. i felt like it’s something that was just very private. i was able to convince myself to engage in sexual encounters with the lights off. alcohol definitely helped.

because of this, it wasn’t until the last few years that i started to understand sex more. specifically in regards to pleasure. **self pleasure**

tell me WHY my 28 year old self has barely understood how to make myself orgasm? it’s legit my body, my person, and i haven’t known how it works?

sex or not, i was as vanilla as they came.

i’m not ashamed to say i’ve spent some time trying to educate myself. i have done some reading on different fetishes and of course even self exploration to figure out what I need in the bedroom.

it’s not that i have little to no experience in the bedroom. just uneducated and unfamiliar with how to maximize my pleasure.

it’s that we are literally taught that (in a heterosexual relationship) the male orgasm is what matters. clearly no one just said, ‘the man is the only one that matters’. well, that’s another discussion. you understand what i’m saying though.

giving birth. periods. orgasms. taboooooooo.

you’re almost made to feel kind of dirty? society as a whole did this. i say ‘did’ because my generation and those after are making these subjects acceptable to talk about now. where as growing up, not so much.

at a certain point, i started feeling better about it.

why can’t i be open about sex? why do i have to feel guilty asking for certain things in the bedroom? never made sense why i should feel ashamed giving myself a little love.

honestly, masturbation (there’s that cringe word) is super healthy. who here can’t tell me they aren’t high as a fucking kite after they’ve received pleasure? like you could be in a pissed off mood, but after a little play time, your attitude has done a 180??

if you aren’t already, take time to regularly give yourself that attention you’re craving. try some sheeet out with your partner, see what works and what doesn’t.

I Could Lie And Say I Like It Like That.

It’s not often I let people in.

lol I’m kind of already started off on a bad note because I honestly don’t let people in. At all. Ever. I give the illusion of letting people in.

It is the reason why I can count the number of relationships I have had a single hand.

Honestly, I can say for certain it’s not even in my chest. It is locked far away where sometimes I cannot even find it.

It’s most likely somewhere in the deep sea. You know, where those terrifying creatures you see on like those Netflix series? With the light on it’s head – The angler fish? Yeah. Probably floating around down there with those.

I would say I am subconsciously protecting myself, but at this point in my life, I am very much aware of the whats and the whys.

All aspects of my person are given, at my discretion to others. And they are, at that, dispersed out no more than just a morsel. (Other than physically, but I’ll touch base with that one in a little.)

My personality may say otherwise; I am outgoing and exceedingly charming. You can see me dancing on Instagram to just about any song from artists such as the Beastie Boys to Kanye West.

I will also initiate a conversation with just about anyone. Which I probably get from my mother’s side, honestly. You’ll catch her conversing with the person bagging your groceries at the local grocery store. It’s super annoying when you’re trying to get the hell out of there, but you can’t say she doesn’t have phenomenal people skills.

I’ll even start telling you tidbits about a random trauma that perhaps happened a while back, but not enough for you to get to know anything truly personal about myself.

Nothing though that will establish a real connection between us.

I can’t do that.

I can’t just allow you into my person… in any way. If I create a genuine connection with anyone, that makes me vulnerable. I can’t have that.

The concept of vulnerability petrifies me. 

At this point I can envision you rolling your eyes and saying to yourself, “Well, who isn’t scared to be vulnerable?”

Stay with me….keep reading on. 

With the sexually encounters I have had with men and with women, you would presume I wouldn’t have an issue with vulnerability. The thing is, I don’t view sex the same as most people do.

Or in any way that society would say is “acceptable”.

What I am saying is that I can separate sex from love and love from sex. Well. That’s a story for another time. For now, I can separate the two.

You could attribute that to past sexual abuse. Or even with why I’ve had sex in the past (validation). Regardless, I do not have to be in love to have sex.

And to prevent myself from lacking any candor, I will tell you I haven’t fully let myself go entirely during a sexually experience because of my vulnerability issues. 

Here is an example –

I feel that when people lock eyes during sex, it has moved passed that physical connection. And that is when that uncomfortable feeling with me starts to set in. So depending on where my comfort level with that person is, is how long I can lock eyes with them. 

Truthfully, it typically is not very long.

And even when comfort level comes into play, I keep it short. I would rather not have it be too long. When it does, I start to disassociate myself entirely. Which ruins the entire mood for me.

I would rather just work my way to the orgasm.

There’s also another factor that comes into play. If I can feel them, actually feel them in any way, I let my eyes roll back into my head.

I consider myself somewhat of an empath (I just shut that part of myself off because it can become too much. I already have too much going on in my own head most of the time).

If my eyes are closed, I focus on the state of arousal. I can can be present in the moment; I can be one with my body instead of my mind or soul or heart. I can separate sex and love. Sex goes back to being just physical. And then I am fine.

My mind is safe. My soul is safe. I am safe.

I feel as if I am safe.

Well. I am single. A one woman show.

Alone.

Nothing hurts when I am alone

What can be better than being alone?

With love, comes heartbreak. Devastation. Melancholy. Regret. . and knowing myself, self destructive behavior. That list is endless.

And I anticipate this. I am unfortunately not without flaw, and let my feelings overwhelm my better judgment.

So as a recourse, I have developed defense mechanisms to prevent myself from feeling the sadness that soon follows the goodbyes.

While the last few years I have made attempts to connect with people by letting them in, I have failed miserably because I only gave them fractions. Whereas in my adolescent years, it was all fucking bullshit.

Trying to let people into my soul l i t e r a l l y feels like my soul is being taken from me.

It is impossible to find a way to describe the feeling without it sounding too fucking cliche.

It hurts.

terribly so.

I can say that I didn’t lock my mind, soul, and heart away like Aurora without reason.

Don’t read into that thinking I am saying I am some fucking damsel in distress. 

I can take .. Well, I am learning to take care of myself. I am learning to love myself. 

Slowly.

I have been hurt. I’m not saying any of you haven’t been dragged through the fucking trenches.

We have all been through our own fucking shit that we have to work through. It hasn’t been easy for anyone.

I just haven’t healed yet. And until I learn to work through the pain I have been through, my physical body is going to be the only part of my leaving the cottage.

. . . . . . . .

There were parts I omitted from this. I had it all typed and ready to go. Then went back to delete that shit. Why, you may ask, would I even include this in here?

Because it has everything to do with my level of vulnerability. I can only give so much at this point of my life. Social media has allowed me to do this, but at the same time, I can’t yet give my all. I am hoping at some point I will be able to put it all out there. 

Though I feel the least I can do is be honest about that.