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The conduct of the fear

Introduction to the function

of life from the conception of conduct.

His caress catches me off guard.

Wanton to stay in his embrace.

Yet my inner scars compel me to flee.

Does he get me?

Does he see my plea?

Forever  etched into my life –  part of  my unforgettable history.

Scared to be loved for fear of the ‘let down’.

Don’t condemn a man to exile without giving him the chance

to make up for past hurts betwixt by fear.

Is its so hard to believe in my inner beauty?

No wonder  I can’t fathom if I have something to offer

without waivering.

Constantly wondering if I have what it takes to make me believe in

love.

I am the walking dead caught in a blizzard

Desperately trying to believe warmth lies in the body of another.

Line of Deliverance

In the shadowed shades of my blues.

I tenderly look for another who I can summon as one who lives life in honor,

Of all that is true.

Those who speak the spoken word in all its iridescent hues.

Colors drape my inner wardrobe.

Yet, I clamber for my grey, nuances of noir.

Catastrophizing all the whites for showing up my yellow gnashers.

Against a blustery pale backdrop of mountain blanketed by capped ice.

Brazen, I stand on the highest peak.

Cheeks misted by tears.

Contemplative in being joyful for the moments of inner peace.

Cast out this unwanted wardrobe.

No more to colours in clandestine!

The drab shabby (not so chic) curtains concealing my true identity.

My make up is not for every entity.

I’m asked to write the truest sentence I know.

Hemingway knew a way to interweave words worth more than bread made from the finest patisserie dough.

Scraping pennies to get by the hard knocks.

We do what we gotta do to get by.

Poverty causes ‘bros before hoes’ and ‘chicks before pricks’.

Keeping my pins steady as balls curve to nebulant sides — it incites fear into my inner stream of consciousness, dialogue conflicts –

Savaged by doubt and insecurity.

I’m on a trip with a Make believe demeanor.

One to conjure up more stamina and longevity-

To warn my inner Hecate to hesitate before she dare pro-curate.

Write to recover through seeping, bandaged wounds.

Riddling the mind with infectious curiosity,

To want knowledge is the power I crave.

It’s my security.

Droplets of lonely anguish torments my darkest spell.

I am the white temptress tempted to awaken the beast inside.

Though, I know it will be the catalyst to an eternity of mocking turmoil.

My final destination is not the country I occupy.

I’m an immigrant

I’m a traitor.

Colonized and imprisoned by outdated Imperialists.

The world is full of egoistical folk in full throws of the delirium tremors.

Murmurs of fragile Life keeps me close to the fire.

It scintillates what I know is inside — lying dormant.

Ready to drive out the cancers multiplying with faces frozen,

In that blissful look of the ignorant .

I raise my sword.

It bleeds ink.

It is my heart : my deliverance.

I can’t fathom another way to jolt my instincts to kick out, and rise to take another breath.

I’m the one who needs these murky waters to survive . Forget I too need oxygen and gills to stabilize my Eco system.

If my world was captured by a drone;

I would want it to show me evolved into a hybridized pro-humanity amphibian.

Swimming side by side

dolphins & whales ad infinitum.

Not a rant

known for ranting about the men who do me wrong.

Today

I don’t care enough to write about men who clearly hear beats from some other song.

Usually my posts carry into at least 900 words.

Today –

Daisy , me – 37 year old, divorced and a mum with heart and

played,riffes strummed ,

duh dum!

Okay.. throw in a hum.

Thank you men who are wonderfully crazy

Ive been their hazy daisy

Now is my time to pull back the sheets

and embrace my beauty ,my flaws without hearing insults thrown mid discourse.

Not an easy caveat

I’m a lover ,Im’ a fighter ,I’m passionate,

I’m not a  pliable little girl.

I cry

I pick myself

Im fierce.

A mama bear has fire

baby bear follows

in hesitant paws.

A Shrug.

My love.

My loved.

My loves

are bigger than the swell of the Titanic

Meet the match you’ve stroked.

Daisy grew up.

Forever wild and passionate.

I know my worth.

I let men talk.

I let men walk.

Some men just want a woman to be who they need them to be.

Hey, I see the good –

I love the good in the men I’ve opened my heart to.

I would give my last penny or hug to someone even when i know it s not going to work out.

Call me whatever you want .

Yes, I have a cunt.

I can bitch at times.

I’m possibly possessed ,fiery

even a witch.

No more interest in the chase – stop caring to write words about men who make less sense than my stream of consciousness works.

I’ll settle for a man who knows how to deal with a grown ass women.

Flawed, beautiful , funny,weird ,crazy, dazed, Drugged ,sober , quiet , over talkative skinny ,curvy, ill behaved, lovable, ditzy, smart -a conundrum of premium star dust fulfilled.

If Men are afraid its cos she- me knows what she wants.

run away and give way for a man I can adore.

This isn’t poetry it ‘s me – never hide behind a front.

Daisy speaks her c’est la vie.

Cassidy – a mind butchered

Go with the flow.

Instigate the wrong blow.

Cassidy never knows that what she reaps is what she will sew

Calamity caught stitching — a bleeding heart— on the floor in the kitchen

Screams and howls.

 Blowing off steam.

If only this was some form of dream.

Think not .

Think nothing — don’t go over each scale unless you are  retuning for the next —strumming.

Take a hammer to dead cartilage

 What’s the point in discriminating?

We all dine in silence  secretly trading  under the table of  Carthage.

Dead mothers — don’t miss them when they disappear.

Lucky girl-she is the true foe.

Deny a  credible witness but accept one day of fake snow at Christmas.

If there is a will there is way-understand the burden is useless-all that we inhale.

Heads talk of the grand hubris of being impaled.

Brain dead wrote this amongst a pesticide raid.

Shades of locust.  Supposed to be more focused.

Blanks fill this page.  The dud is conscripted to engage.

Failed .

Nailed.

Breath wanton to exhale.

*Just something I knocked up when I was in a bad head space a couple of months ago 

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Random thought on a Monday morning

I see a lot of articles about relationships and other people giving you tips/advice if you are dating the right person if that person loves you etc..

The last one I saw – not on here , I will mention.

18 signs you have a good man  and a keeper!

A thought suddenly  occurred to me:

If I need to go through a checklist of 18 signs written by someone else that I am with the right man/partner, then I must be with the wrong man because I am already doubting I am with a good man.

I decided to trust my gut instinct and scroll past the article.

I already know the answer.

I have a good man. I don’t need another person to tell me 1/10/18 or even 100 reasons why I know I have a good man.

I get it that people do fall into bad relationships and sometimes don’t feel able to Trust their own mind.

I have learned to trust my instinct and go with it.

A true journey of self-growth has bloomed in the Willows.

How liberating.

” Trust in yourself- the first thought that seems right is usually the right one- don’t second guess your ability to know what and who is best for you” 

DAISY WILLOWS

Just a thought.

Back off to read Blogs.

Have a grand week and trust in yourself and your own decisions

The vessel- a short story by Daisy Willows

“What is this ban on abortion—it is a survival of the veiled face, of the barred window and the locked door, burning, branding, mutilation, stoning, of all the grip of ownership and superstition come down on woman, thousands of years ago.” 
—Stella Brown

“Against abortion? Don’t have one.”
—Anonymous

“Every day innocent lives are been taken by war and still there are so many countries where it is illegal to have an Abortion. This does not stop Abortions. It just increases poor health risks to women who then have to have Illegal Abortions. Where is the social justice?” DAISY

‘Miss Sainte!’ the travel consultant’s hands twitch like a bees feelers, ‘let me get your tickets for London.’ and she is off. I’ve always found it amusing how people assume that your life is more exciting than theirs. My life had taken on the acrid taste of bourbon. Hard decisions require liquor. There I was bobbing up and down like a buoy in a sea of bitter. Disconnected from all sources of life. Waves of nausea threatened to bury me, deep, in an unrefined grave. This was my existence until I sobered up.

The hairs on my arms prick up like ears on stalks, straining to confirm what they’ve heard. Shivers rush down my spine. Impulsively my hand goes to feel the smooth outline of the documents in my handbag, confirming that the surgery will go ahead. I look up from the tropical brochure and nearly fall head first into a pair of dung coloured eyes. She’s that close. I quickly murmur my thanks and bolt out the door, the wind slamming the door for me

My life tends to go from one oblivious moment to the next. One ginger bastard is all it takes for the state of my jagged ignorance to be shattered. Now all I can see is my former ignorance smirking everywhere. All of a sudden its: Ginger beer, Ginger bread, Ginger cats, Ginger biscuits, Ginger nuts, Ginger pubes, Ginger! Ginger! Everywhere! I’ve reasoned that it’s not too avaricious to want more than ‘current-girlfriend’ status. Why would a heathen (his -word) such as myself, all tits hanging loose, wild hair and barefoot, want certainty and commitment? Why indeed?! Every time it’s the same watery twaddle:

 ‘I’m a married man… A Catholic!’ –with a bellyful of 24 hour bargain booze. It’s all driftwood. I’m Odyssey’s ‘Scylla ‘or ‘Charybdis’. If he wants to treat me as a necessary evil then instinctively I will lure him to my grotto and devour him.  Men have this habit of changing anything they see as mystifying into the female form

Yesterday his spinal support kicked in and he decides to call me. It went something like this:

‘Babe, things are … complicated. I’m here for you.’ he said.

Then, that familiar feeling, the tightening jerk on my voice chords, taut like a gymnast’s rope. Panic. The struggle to gulp in air. My throat is blitzed with grainy, arid sand. The beat. The beat in my heart starts clanging cacophonously and belches up into my throat. My instincts are shrill. Screeching: Caution! Do Not Proceed. This is what his voice does to me.

‘Babe, we’ve been through so much?’ Smelly feet. All I can smell is pongy feet; His feet! I’d rather go collecting cacti with my teeth than screw you. Yerr screw you: That’s what I should have said.

‘I’m on my way.’ C’mon you don’t wanna be loved? So instead he gets his way and I’m running like an Olympic sprinter to get to my car.

There I am sitting in the car about to gear it up. Panic. With my palms I start slamming the steering wheel. You stupid bitch. SLAM! Greedy stupid bitch.  SLAM!  Blasted tears form. I look into the rear-view mirror  and with a finger nail, I press down hard, scraping my cheek- only satisfied when I see the offensive, black line of soggy mascara tarnishing  it .Ugly Bitch! I pound the rear view mirror-over and over.

*

I can feel the gamut of my emotions and thoughts losing form. So fragile. One knock. One tiny crack is all it takes. When he opens the door all the innards of my mind start to scramble.

‘Neck this’, he says. He plays his part well. He picks me up like I’m a delicate fawn and gently lowers me onto his sofa. He waves a bag of coke in front of my face. My fucking dopamine receptors are giving you a standing ovation, mate! Trust an ex-army cadet to bring out the Bolivian marching powder. Several hours later, we’re both wading deep in over consumption. Billie Holliday is playing, her voice becomes the beat in my heart.

‘Love. Love her voice… so raw….so pure…but damaged like… Know what I mean?’

He just sits there, shakes his head mindlessly, not even one cobweb is disturbed. Great bulging eyes leer out at me. I might as well have a pair of fucking rabbit ears and a hat on with electrodes attached to my head.  One eye hanging precariously out of its socket. It is torture what he does to me. I want to scream: Why do you look at my pain? Consider it. Consider me! And then decide this bitch needs sterilizing?

He’s suddenly up and real close. His odour arrests my breath, it’s like taking in a whiff of a Parisian fish market at the end of a hot rough day. The hairs stand up on my body betraying my true feelings. Then he demands me to laugh.

‘Laugh. ‘He roars. Followed by frenzied laughter – Shit what’s he gonna do? He’s just laughing. Standing over me and laughing at me. Kick him in the gonads, quick!  He stops. Breathe. He moves up close again, our faces touching.

‘Boo! He whispers, slapping his hands together with glee, he grabs my arse –roughly. I’m smiling. My mind severs itself form my body. It too plays its part well. He then begins to undo his jeans.

                                                              *

A bloated smiling face. The receptionist takes my documents. The ballooned smiling face points us in the direction of the waiting area.

‘Whoa!  They must have known we were arriving, all the chairs are set up, ready for a blessed sermon. Wanna do the honours?’ What am I saying? I watch his fat turnip- shaped face go red. Blood red. He is simmering away like a stew but someone forgot to put the meat in. Jesus why the hell did I agree to this? The walls expand and shrink like I’m sucking on a plastic bag.  Panic. I’m in Plato’s allegorical cave. His shadow torments me, I’m convinced that Mother Nature has given him rights over oxygen.

            ‘Hope Sainte?’ a nurse’s voice booms. Jumped up like a leap frog. Crap joke but I got spooked. The nurse looks up at me, she raises her eyebrows which make her glasses slant downwards. He heaves his body upwards. I feel his skulking bristling my nerves. The Nurse ushers me into a cubicle.

‘Change into this then hop on a bed’ she gestures to a bed. I touch the blue gown and put my fingers to my nose. Tainted, I gag. How can I put it? It’s like, I’m inhaling water. Panic has dropped her anchor.

 Lying horizontally I turn my head to the left and I look up into a pair of nostrils. It’s the Surgeon. His lips are moving like that singing bass fish that was all the rage in the nineties. I can’t hear jack shit- the porter wheels me into theatre.

                                                            *

 I open my eyes.  I exhale, the cubicle expands. He enters, drops his head. Doesn’t even bother to look at me. He stands in a corner and folds his arms He just stands in that corner reminding me of a scare crow. All stiff and glacial. Hours slither by, the silence hissing mercilessly. A hug. I want a hug. The silence is pierced. It’s me. I’m screaming. Little critters are scratching away at my insides. The attack is stabbing and sharp. The pain throbs with intent. Panic.

‘What the hell is happening?’ I look over and he’s fiddling with his fucking phone like he’s re-arranging his balls. Strap on cock-face! He turns around to face me. Did I say that out loud? He looks demonical enough.

‘Erm… well derr!’ He slaps my forehead, ‘you’re giving birth to our baby! Look at the state of ya!’ I follow his eyes. They settle on my well-formed bump.

‘You stupid murdering bitch!’ He then spits in my face and turns to leave.

‘Hey, where’re you going- we agreed on this?’ Panic. There’s more screaming.

‘Why? Why? Why?’ Each “why” growing in expectation and volume. Sobbing, through my tears I can just about make out a figure of the porter. Everything starts to slow down. No. Retardation is setting in, slowing me down. Panic. The surgeon appears again. It’s like I’m in a macabre pantomime

‘Now, please, count backward from ten, please.’ he smiles down at me.

‘I can hear you!’ I dribble out. The surgeon smiles and nods his head like one of those Chinese paw-waving cats.

‘Hey! Listen can you hear that?’ they’re playing music!  What kind of sick set up is this? Beethoven’s, ‘Moonlight sonata’ is playing in the background. I touch it. The bump. I’m pretty sure this has got to breech my human rights.

A voice punctuates the air. It’s mine.

‘Number one. Gotta look after number one!’ That’s what my Mum always used to say… “If ya can’t put yourself first, you’ll never be able to put ya child first .From now on I swear it. I’ll make each moment in my life count! Maybe one day I will be worthy being called a mum….sorry.’

My eyes close, a tear rolls down my cheek as I’m wheeled into theatre.

Be careful what you wish for.

Days go by and merge into one long never-ending Groundhog day at times. Well, it does for me -every now and then.

I create excitement in my life by signing up to do things that I think are going to get me out of the slump. Give my life a wardrobe of scenery changes and with that hopefully comes new feelings.

These feelings are my drug- the euphoria I crave. The rush of blood to the head.  Anything to make me feel worthy.

Be careful what you wish for.

 

 

In all the time I have wished for things to change and things to not stay the same. It is has had good outcomes and bad.

 I guess the crucial question is what is it I have been wishing for that I have created to become my reality. 

What about relationships?

We can all get into “are we doing enough” in our relationships?

Are we living life together and truly going for it?

Be Careful what you wish for.

Sometimes it is okay for things to stay the same.

 

What am I going on about?

Say someone you care about has an appointment for an eye test or a medical review.

You then get a phone call saying that person has to go to hospital to get another opinion on their health status.

Why didn’t this person tell me things could get so serious?  

I’m in shock. I don’t react.

This second opinion then turns into a third opinion.

No more mundane sameness. I have got my wish.

Am I prepared?

To do surgery or not?  This is two people I know and love now, one is definitely   having invasive surgery on Thursday and the other person  is to find out if they should have surgery.

You can’t buy health.

You can try…..

 When your health is steady and away -this is a good time to not wish that there was more going on in your life.

I would rather live the rest of my days partying hardly if it meant the health of the ones I adore didn’t go from not something to worry about, to

fuck what am I going to do if I lose you mode.

Accept that whatever/whomever you have in life  is a blessing.

So what if you don’t have a model’s clothing wardrobe , a TV. the size of an over-inflated sponge bob character?

So what if you don’t get a loads of  likes on your posts, status updates and profile pictures?

 

Yes, all of these things can give you that high we crave. The one that gets our heart beating like a wooden drum.

Success after hard work or not is an exhilarating feeling.

Personally, I just don’t think it would keep my happiness momentum going say, for as long as I had the people around me- well and in my life.

I too want to better myself and have everything better .Sometimes it’s alright if something is serving its purpose and is good enough.

I don’t believe we are put into the world to seek validation from others.

 Though I can’t tell you how many times and years I have wasted seeking it.

There is so much that is superficial – nobody knows what is real.

I watched a  documentary on the fashion industry last week. Watch the TRAILER if you can.  Us ladies and now men strive to achieve to fit into clothes made to look good on a  13/14 or 15 year old child. 

 

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POTENTIAL NEXT BIG SUPER-MODEL !
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NADJA -SAME GIRL AS ABOVE. WE STRIVE TO LOOK LIKE THIS

The targets are the coy lolita looking ones that , say a  girl  out of Siberia -living in a world of poverty at the back end of a communist regime era , with  the promise of earning loads of money and travelling the world off the back of their one playing card- their looks. 

There are children going over  to Asia or the West and can’t speak English and are children and get exploited. There is no glossing over it.

These girls start going to modelling schools as young as 5 years old learning to manipulate the camera –

Make love to it !

 

Isn’t it crazy that most of us humans in this world are  brainwashed into having sick minds?

Isn’t there enough disease and suffering for the taking?

 

We get older and still strive to dress in provocative clothes that  can only look good on a 13/14-year-old model!

That whole sentence is just incongruous.

 

This is the extent to how ill our society is.

How ill we all are.

We get older – fashion can’t survive on yesterdays’ image!

We don’t even have time to get the ‘today’ look off the hanger.

The fashion world and society won’t let us enjoy a moment that extends further than a sales transaction and a bag of goodies ,that mainly ends up as close to your body as,  that sinister lampshade you inherited from some distant relative.

It makes you  shudder every time you pass it or look at it. Epic impulse buy. I buy into it -a lot of us do

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So, we are always chasing the ‘look of tomorrow’,  usually a younger version of some ‘ideal image’ that could easily have found it’s way into the Deity section in the Roman world.

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It is an illusion.

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Our bodies and minds change in our lifetime.  Nature dictates and  so does society.

Often both are in conflict.

We are not meant to be trapped in a peter pan -esque body for the rest of our lives.

I’ve kind of digressed.

Well, I have made it less personal.

This is how the post started-  health and my loved ones as being something personal to me .

I guess I have taken the model industry and society as an example of what our t idea of what healthy and successful is.

 It then becomes something that is hopefully a post we can all relate too.

If it is personal to all of us, maybe we can understand or start to question what is the picture of  true health and success. 

 

What is true happiness?

What is true?

 

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There is no need to go chasing dreams and filling other’s pockets if it is going to make you ill.

Instead of being a small dot in soemone else’s story go and make your own. I’m sure you will get to the end of your story  in a better mental and physical state . HAPPY EVEN!

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Be Careful what you wish for.

 

I am sexy and I finally feel it

“Sex is a part of nature. I go along with nature” – Marilyn Monroe

WHY THIS QUOTE ?

We are all adults- at least I hope you are and if you are a teenager reading this post, it should empower you.

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I am not shy to speak about sex, my sexuality and my experiences. I won’t go into to loads of detail. So this is not a post that needs a adult only rating.

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I’ve not had any positive male role models in my life who have shown me how a  woman and her sexuality  should be treated: with respect.

My Dad and I had a distant relationship. I mean this in a role model way.

I can say that almost all of my life, I have felt like I have had to serve men. I’ve never thought about my own pleasure.  I always found myself needing to fake it ,to get through it as quick as possible ,so that whichever partner I was with at the time got what he wanted.

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I have never, in all my years experienced a sexual experience where I felt safe, sober,sexy,adventurous for my own gain and respected.

It is no secret that I have been exploited by men from the age of 5 years old. I’m not going into this now because this is not what this post is about.

However,  at this age , was  the starting point for where I set my bar for what I would allow a man to do to me sexually. I have never enjoyed being touched. I  have always felt unsatisfied.

 Before G,I can recall one occasion when I had sex and felt connected and fulfilled and respected

.One of those moments where I woke up naked in the arms of this person and all our parts fit together. Each body part found a way to be not two but one.

It feels like I have had this sexual exploitation radar switched on for 15 odd years.

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I didn’t know what I liked or how to enjoy myself. I attracted men who didn’t get me. In all fairness I  was a  a mighty glacier to contend with.

Some men tried to be patient but I gave nothing of myself. I didn’t know how to give anything. It all felt unnatural. They tried to chip away the ice but mostly ended up chipping away more of my self esteem and confidence.   Their words always sounded  a bit like this to me

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I COULD ALWAYS SEE THROUGH WORDS DRESSED UP WITH FLOWER FOLIAGE

 

 I forced myself to buy into to it but I never felt the urge to just go with that feeling.

In all honesty, the feeling of losing myself and expressing myself sexually terrified me, in some ways it still  does.  Saying that, these days I am not so afraid to express myself.

We are all different.

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What I thought I enjoyed sexually, was aggressive and all for the taking. I gave and the men took everything they could. This power over me usually trickled over into the areas of my life.

I found that because I was not treated as an equal in bed.  Men picked up on my lack of confidence  and this automatically took away more respect they had for me as a  person, outside of the sexual arena. I was constantly mind fucked and used.

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I allowed all this.

If sex were likened to golf .I didn’t know my handicap score  – I didn’t know where or how to measure it so, I lost frequently.

In ditches,

sand pits,

places that went way yonder in a forest somewhere.

Forever lost.

It became  harder and harder  to even think of trying to find my sexuality.

So, I shut down.

I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD EVER BE A CREATURE WHO DESIRES SEX.

I’ve realised that respect and patience can’t be time limited with me.

I am that really difficult oyster that refuses to be prised open . I finally realise I  am the one with the pearl inside that has the most potential to mould and solidify into  a Somebody to be valued.

We all have varying degrees of states of sexual confidence.

All oysters have the potential to become a fully formed pearl so do humans. It is a process and a process cannot be rushed. That is unnatural . I don’t like anything fake.

 Trust and true love can’t be rushed.

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so here is what I have learned about me and my sexuality

  • I can’t enjoy myself knowing there are heavy expectations on me with sex as the end product. 

  • I get turned on by the mind. Banter and talking and allowing another to open up their mind and emotions to me is sexy. It turns me on.

  • Laughter and not taking sexual innuendos too seriously is my kind of foreplay. This fore play is not time specified.

  • It is more of a build up. It has no expiry date or use by date on it. 

  • I need too feel relaxed and I need to feel safe and this takes time. 

  • I don’t use drugs or alcohol when I want to be sexually satisfied.

  • I don’t want to miss a thing (thanks Steve Tyler) I want to be fully present.

  • I only enjoy taking control when I feel like I am taking control to make sure I fee I am getting something out of it by making love or a quickie and then I find I naturally become a flirt and a bit of a tease – I do deliver but on my terms. 

  • Taking control in my way makes me feel sexy.

  • Sex doesn’t have to be aggressive. It is more fun when it is playful. 

  • I don’t enjoy gadgets and movies and lying motionless.

  • I want to move .

  • I love to be dominated.  

  • I am not turned on by  TOO much  oral sex. It is not for me. As my sexuality and experimentation grows things may change.

They may not.

I know I am having sex for me when I am asked if we should carry on. If I kiss back -pull away and kiss back and then pull away  again then I’m usually turned on and the foreplay can start moving forwards.

I didn’t realise how hard it would be to write this post.

The body and mind is a fascinating machine. It can  re learn to trust and respond.

I love to close my eyes and lay back and just enjoy the direction of  where my  body takes me.

Yes, I have had issues but all the other men (bar one)have made me feel an oddity because of it.

 The sad truth is some women never get to experience what a truly equal sexual experience is.  They may think the way they play out their sex live is truly what they want.

I have felt this too in my life. my gut instincts told me I was wrong.

If you are not getting an orgasm or somewhere close to it – bearing in mind that an orgasm doesn’t always have to be physical ,it can take place  in your mind.

If none of this is happening most of the time,then in my experience, the sexual pleasure is one sided.

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DON’T LOSE FAITH LADIES!

To want to reciprocate for myself has been my biggest indicator yet that I am owning my sexuality and enjoying the reaction  I get from getting naked and being touched.

 I know I am loved  unconditionally.

There have never been bribes or guilt trips or “let’s try this” to elicit some response(even if it is pretend on my part) so it feels like “we” are both getting something good out of the experience.

I’ve had to go through my share of men – consented and not –to get to this point in my life.

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I never ever thought, I would desire and lust and  want  to  look and feel in control. I’ve never felt sexy until now and it has been worth  been 100% worth it.

Fuck me, this was a hard post to write.. 😀

If you reading this I kind of hit publish !

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