Flower Power

I dreamt last night that a flower and succulents were growing in my groin.

( how’s that for an opening sentence?)

there was a single flower, short stemmed with a blue crocus like blossom – it’s center was yellow and button like. it’s petals fat and juicy, much  like that of an engorged jade. it looked like a pussy.

next to the flower there a large cluster of pure white plants. each had three small leaves. unlike most succulents they were soft to the touch. almost mossy.

all of this was nestled in the spread of my legs. specifically, in the crease on my right side


the examination room was huge. pure white. gleaming, with tile floor to ceiling. the room was brightly lit. i was drenched in white light. they guided me to an oversized rocking chair. the doctor, garbed in all white adorned a lamp of sorts on its head. all I could see was the Dr’s eyes.

i showed the Dr my flower power

armed with oversized tweezers, the removal of the flower revealed very short roots.

the succulent removal was trickier. the individual  leaves would pop and their juice would burn me.

the dr was very careful.

once all was removed

my wounds were treated.

at one point i thought the Dr might have been my mother.

but there was no vibe of judgement.

later, i saw that the Dr was a man.

with a mustache and a warm smile.

noone spoke.

( take in 2011. when i had way more hair )



When We Meet

lets see if any of you read this

recent posts have offered a variety of talking points

conversations aren’t happening.

whatever happened to conversations?

a certain someone needs to be heard.

sometimes fans reach out to me and get personal.

they then imply that we will meet.

in theory. why not meet?

i’ve met a few of you over this last decade.

in hindsight, not sure i should have…

further commentary on that …complicated. my part of it included.

the flurry of meeting was lovely. romantic. and indulgent.

friendship sustainable?


the truth is most men are really not in a position to make a meet happen.

or more importantly they can not sustain a meet once it’s occurred

reasons for that lack of ready might include: uh – married, so so very many of you are married, financially not able – since meeting is at your expense, or the real reason: lack of intention.

this lack of intention i further describe as placating

as telling or saying what one thinks i want to hear.

men will say anything to have sex with me.

am I being arrogant in saying this??

or can the truth of it resonate?

men say to themselves. “give me some of that” 

i fall sometimes for the idea of meeting.

of having the attention i deserve

the feeling of cherish

the excitement of it all.

vs the reality.

the reality is something very different.

i am thinking at the moment of this writing of one very particular man.

i liked his appearance.

i liked his mind.

i liked how he paid attention to me.

he got me.

he knew which buttons to push.

he was sexy and he knew it.


i wanted to meet him.

he said he wanted to meet me.

In the throws of it all

my MIND met him in a variety of circumstances.

the fantasy of which

was delightful in one breath.

and, not so delightful in another.

i felt frustrated by what i couldn’t have.

i can’t go into a fantasy without visual appeal

can you??

i have taken up with a man or two and didn’t give their appearance much thought.

they were kind, and attentive to me.

they wanted to meet me.

i want folks to try me on.

i feel we should give others a chance.

they were very disappointed when I wasn’t attracted upon meeting them.

which felt pretty awful for both of us.

now, i think it’s of value to have a vetting process.

my fans say that they are very attracted to me.

even without my sharing my face.

you tell me that my images provoke.

men say they fantasize about me all the time

men imagine themselves with me

within my photography.

which i appreciate hearing actually

rather powerful.

or they tell me that my images are fodder for masturbation.


 ( none of you use fodder and masturbation in the same sentence.  ) 

it’s to be expected i guess. after all i am nude. online!!

for me in reverse so to speak, it’s not your dick/cock that i want to be a part of.

( if i had a dollar for all the men that send me images of their anatomy. i’d have no financial problems )

UGH. please don’t do that.

again, do not send me images of your anatomy.

your hard whatever is the last thing I want to see.

i want to see YOU. your eyes, your lips, your hands. a beard and mustache if you have one…the shoes you are wearing.

show me something that that i can be drawn to

and then it’s your mind that i fall for.

how you GET me.

how you treat me.

what you are curious about.

how you desire me.

and then it’s WHO you are in the world.

are you up to something or are you bored and apathetic?

often the above goes to a sexual place.

makes sense when all the pieces are there.

i can’t really do the sex thing all by itself these days.

not like i use to.

it’s not enough

sex is not enough.

i ache


for connection

a connection that cares.

or a connection that can sustain a care.

Fans care.

in their own way.

how they act on it is…

well, it’s what it is.

or isn’t. mostly.

i’ve said fleeting many times here.

men come and go.

whhhhooosh they are in touch, enthusiastically.

and then poof. they are gone. as quickly as they reached out to me.

most simply don’t have time for me.

or the energy.

or the reality.

most are not looking for something personal

they want something distracting. entertaining. immediate

they are hungry in their own way.

a meet. a real one?? shifts things.

a meet makes it real.

or if when we meet and it is in our minds

its a fantasy.

The plane was delayed. The airport was bustling. Around me the mix of people swarmed accordingly. some coming, some going. many arriving, more just getting to the next place. a blur. Airports are probably my most favorite people watching place. It’s how I survive the waiting. I make up stories about the folks before me. I began people watch story making as a young girl. I spent way too much time in airports. There goes mr and mrs green. here comes sir tall, flower dress lady has too much makeup on. oh, look…those two are kissing again. how lovely they are. i’ve never written my narrative down in the midst of a wait. perhaps i should sometime. i have had a banter with another or two where we narrate together. mr tall is nervous i say, the other then says, the battery on his phone died.  he’s sweating i say, he needs another coffee the other adds. And so it goes. 

I am meeting a stranger at the airport today. a handsome stranger. and I am very nervous. I told him to be in the moment when we meet. To pocket his cell phone and let the meet be. I don’t need to know you are getting off the plane. I will be there to meet you. Just know that I am waiting. I find the management of a phone and travel frustrating. I get that they can be useful. I completely get that. I just find them distracting. Folks forget to simply be. The plane will land. You will get off the plane and I will be there to meet you. I am a person of my word. 

90 minutes later the arrival is announced. He is here. Oh my gosh he is here!  I position myself out of the way, but stand in a place where I hope to be the first person you see once you walk into the arrival area. One by one others arrive. Delays make many anxious. Connections are now altered.

I see you first. Sauntering, casual, tossled hair…you are good looking. I like that. you look for me. I like that too. Our eyes meet. You stop. We grin as wide as grins can be. A pause in time. A moment for sure. You step up your pace. I feel a blush coming on as you near. You notice. and you say, oh my gosh you are blushing! I say, I am!! I then say HI there! You say HI. Your eyes are bright and warm. Inviting. Your right hand reaches for the hair at the base of my neck, you are taller then i expected, you smell of gum. and you pull me to you. you whisper in my ear. you are beautiful, you say. you are so beautiful. you’ve taken my breath away. You see me struggling as to what to say next. you kiss me. gently. lip to lip. touch. want, curious. i feel all of you near me, the kiss finds its way to hungry. Our lips are a good fit. I tremble. You say, wow. I grin. you grin back. we hold on to each other.

in my fantasy, i replay the kiss over and over and over.  in my collection of fantasies, there are lots of kisses. in my memory of real meets, those kisses get replayed in my mind as well.   

what a goof i am. what a hopeless romantic.

some kisses don’t make the instant replay. those kisses are not memorable. i hate that. some men are very good at replicating that first kiss. it’s like they get that a first kiss is worth repeating. i once met a man, older than I who had never kissed someone before. i was an eager lover back then. he said are all women this enthusiastic about kissing. I said, i have no idea. you tell me. this is when i found out he was a virgin. many years later he will tell me. a man always remembers their first time. You were that first for everything for me










With Dirty Teeth And Heaving Breasts

sometimes i have this sense that my past lives have me corseted.

that my heaving breasts are being stared at or lusted for, that i am on my knees on a dirt floor with a worn hem and bare feet, and that whatever proper bottom garments i was supposed to be wearing are heaped in a dusty corner somewhere. I can imagine myself sitting on a stool, the sun is streaming in, i pause to steep myself in it, strands of my disheveled hair are glistening. it feels delicious and warm. i know this scene somehow. that i have been in it many a time.

i don’t know my corset history well enough to know which time period i am laced up in, i just know that a swell of breast excites me, and that periods of time where woman are adorned in layers of clothing that accentuate the breasts fascinate me and give me a sense of deja vu.

in my very real past there is a man who hurt me in a large way. details are too private. while I don’t have the ability to bring someone harm, nor do i ever act in a get even sort of way. there are thoughts that i have had about this one person that wish something terrible for him.  these vengeful thoughts have showed up in a dream that repeats itself. the violent dream has me feel that the subconsciousness of it will find its way. karmic justice. that evil gets its due.

the thing is, i was not the only one who he violated, as a matter of fact he took from way too many. a man with no boundaries. don’t get me started on the injustice of it all.

the dream is set in a village. the narrow streets are of mud from days of rain. this day is sunny, fluffy white cloud blue sky bright. it’s hot. there is a crowd of sweaty, very dirty, exaggerated full breasted woman. working class woman. thousands of them. they are gathering with a purpose. there is a platform, there are buckets of tar, feathers, and there is a leader. she has a large knife. She is shouting a call to action, spit is splaying, nostrils are flaring. the knife in her close fisted hand above her head is glistening in the sunlight. the filthy crowd parts and the man is being pushed down main street toward the platform. the woman are spitting on him, pulling his hair out, grabbing at the rags he is wearing until he is naked. something about the dream had this part playing over and over, breasts are again larger than they should be, sometimes fast, sometimes slow.  his face shows horror. he is erect. in the dream i am an observer, part of the crowd. i hear the leader shout how dare you have an erection. and i feel myself shout along …how dare you. how dare you. how dare you. A group of woman grab and carry him over their shoulders – their breasts are now exposed, bare and swinging, he’s erect, everyone is sweaty and really angry. the crowd roars as he is tied to the poles on the platform. he is screaming. fighting the tension of the ropes. first the tar, one bucket pour, another follows.  the view shifts to above the platform, it seems small – there is this nude erect male with hoards of large breasted woman  surrounding the platform and ranting – the feathers follow, feathers all over him, sticking to him, covering him, feathers flying – he’s still erect. the leader walks through the crowd, sun now setting, golden glow covers the entire scene. her fisted hand swings the knife back and forth ….he realizes what is about to happen.  he falls to his knees. one woman holds his head of hair pulling his head back, another holds that erect cock and SLICE, she chops it off.  Blood sprays – she is covered with is blood – he is screaming. She cuts his throat next.  One hears his last gurgling breath.  The crowd starts to applaud and cheer. They are jubilant.

it’s just a dream folks.



What Day Dreams Are Made Of

One excellent barometer for an absolutely perfect summer day is the blueness of the sky and the fluffiness of the clouds.

When combined and viewed from an especially thick patch of grass laying flat on your back

(that’s what I did when I was little – how about you? ) this is what daydreams are made of.

Today on a scale between 1-10, with 10 being the most excellent of all in fluffy white cloud days – was a 12!

A positively stunning example that fluffy white clouds just doesn’t get any better than this.

When lying flat on your back  or driving the countryside or perhaps grabbing a quick walk during your work day perhaps like me you feel you can touch those clouds or do just about anything you set your mind to

remember that the clouds are there, at least in my opinion anyway, to foster all that is dreamy about our world.

Take a moment and ponder.


this was a letter i wrote to the editor, i do that about once a month

i didn’t have the naked part in the paper though