Posts Tagged ‘D’

Just nod your head for “yes!”

July 14, 2009

But then when he had got settled at the hotel, and they had started their little pattern of cafe life at the Eckmühl-Noiseux, there had been nothing to write about- he could not establish a connection in his mind between the absurd trivialities which filled the day and the serious business of putting words to paper. – The Sheltering Sky

I am at a point of stunted growth, or shall I say, blankness. I have no mind right now for words and meanings and conceptual thinking. And it will take grad school to bring it all back to me. I was talking to A last night, who I’ve known since PBQ, circa 2002. She’s just finishing up the MA program, while I am heading into the MFA. She was telling me, “your soul will just explode with creativity and energy for life once you begin your classes.” I am so hoping this is true. Lately, to which I’m sure this blog attests, I have been uninspired. The only thing on my mind is love and making love and sex and D and keeping my kids busy and happy and grateful this summer. And though all that is GREAT, I really can’t wait to begin caring for my mental state. I can only handle “suburban housewife” trance for a few years at a time before going nuts.

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She’s smiling

June 29, 2009

She’s smiling
She’s smiling at him
She’s smiling at him but you can’t see him
Because he’s not in the picture
But he’s smiling back at her who is
And they’re laughing about a joke he just told
Something funny
Something funny about a Vespa
And wearing matching crocs
Something that makes her laugh so much
That she feels like she’s connected again
That she feels like she’s in the right place
For the first time
Photogenic
And smiling

From Spain to Morocco…

June 22, 2009

So…my little dream may come true after all. The one I’ve had since 1991. D and I have been tossing around the idea of going to Morocco next summer. I’ll fly to Madrid with my kids to stay with my in-laws for a few weeks. D will fly over at a later date and together, we will take the trek down to Granada by train and then over into Morocco. There’s still a few holes in the plan, missing hotels etc. But basically, this is the beginning of a great adventure. Check back for updates and added plans:

Madrid – Granada – Algeciras– Tanger – Fes – Merzouga – Marrakech – Tangers – Algeciras– Madrid

Day 1
Madrid
• August 18, 2010
Hotel

Day 2
Madrid to Granada (5.5 hours, train)
• August 19, 2010 

Hotel Casa Morisca Cuesta de la Victoria, 9
18010 – Granada España
tel. +34 958 221100 / -609 817859
fax +34 958 215796
info@hotelcasamorisca.com  — 1 double bed with sitting room and 15th. century coloured wooden ceiling and jacuzzi-bath. [Price: 198 € – 150€ ]
• Los Baños Arabes
• Flamenco show

Day 3
Granada to Algeciras (3.5 hours, bus) –
Algeciras to Tangiers (30 minutes, ferry) –
Tangiers to Fes (5 hours, train)
• August 20, 2010
Ryad Laaroussa (Green Room, 220 Euros), 3 Derb Bechara, Fes-Medina, Morocco. Tel.: +212 6 74 18 76 39
contact@riad-laaroussa.com

Day 4
Fes to Merzouga (10 hours, 4×4)
• August 21, 2010
Hôtel Kasbah Kanz Erremal | Adresse : B.P:12 Merzouga 52202- Maroc 
Tel: (00212)35578482 | Fax: (00212)35577265 | GSM: (00212)66039178 | Email: info@kanzerremal.com,

Day 5
Merzouga
• August 22, 2010
Hôtel Kasbah Kanz Erremal | Adresse : B.P:12 Merzouga 52202- Maroc 
Tel: (00212)35578482 | Fax: (00212)35577265 | GSM: (00212)66039178 | Email: info@kanzerremal.com
• Camel rides
• Pool
• Hike to desert

Day 6
Merzouga to Marrakech (12 hours, 4×4)
• August 23, 2010
Hotel Riyad el Cadi, 86/87 Derb Moulay Abdelkader
Dabachi
B.P. 101
40000 Marrakech-MédinaTel.: +212 524 378 655
Tel.: +212 524 378 098
Fax: +212 524 378 478 INFO@RIYADELCADI.COM

Day 7
Marrakech
• August 24, 2010
Hotel Riyad el Cadi, 86/87 Derb Moulay Abdelkader
Dabachi
B.P. 101
40000 Marrakech-MédinaTel.: +212 524 378 655
Tel.: +212 524 378 098
Fax: +212 524 378 478 INFO@RIYADELCADI.COM. You cannot reach this riad by car. You need to get there via a ten minute walk. Here’s a cute video on the arrival.
• Medina
• Majorelle Garden (Jardin Majorelle)
• Jemaa el Fna
• Les Bains de Marrakech
• Koutoubia Mosque and Minaret

Day 8
Marrakech to Tangiers (11 hours, train)
• August 25, 2010

• Hotel –or-
• Tangiers to Algeciras (30 minutes, ferry)
• Hotel

Day 9
Algeciras to Madrid (5.5 hours, train)
• August 26, 2010
Home/Hotel

Day 10
Madrid
• August 27, 2010

• Plaza Mayor
• Puerta del Sol

Day 11
Madrid to Philadelphia
• August 28, 2010

• Home

Heels to Jesus

May 10, 2009

Surprise at N’s house.

A friend of mine recently moved back to town and so I went for a visit. She invites me and the kids over for dinner and gives me the tour. It’s a typical house. Nothing unusual. Then she tells my kids to wait downstairs, she needs to show me something in private. I’m wondering what the heck it can be. So, we go into her bedroom and it’s a typical master bedroom, except for the fact that there’s a little Alice in WOnderland sized door that’s locked and has a sign on the door that says something like: “Do Not Enter.” She opens the door and inside is an A-framed attic-like room that she’s converted into a sex room. Literally a den of iniquity, fully adorned with black shag carpet, red walls, mirrors on the ceiling, gold wall sconces with red candles, black curtains with purple tassles, videos, DVDs, sex books, a side table filled with dildos and vibrators, a twin bed covered in black sheets, and a rack of costumes and sexy outfits galore. The following themes were present: catholic school girl, wonder woman, cat woman, playboy bunny, amish girl (?) whore, etc. etc. There was a leather bull whip, black pleather boots and stripper heels tossed about the room. She had it all except a heart-shaped bed and a sex swing.

I found this to be quite amazing. The only other person I’ve known to have converted a room  for the purpose of pure sex was, dare I say it, my father. He turned his basement into a dungeon.

I can’t help but wonder if this sort of thing crosses any lines. I mean, there are any number of ways you can look at this. Sex as a hobby. Sex as a healthy obsession. Sex as an addiction. Which is it? And what are the behaviors that throw you into one category or another. For example, D buys me sexy lingerie all the time. And, he bought us a fairly dirty DVD (topic not disclosed). I, on several occasions, have already made mention of my trusty vibrator. But I haven’t built a room to house all these things. They’re tossed into a drawer or hidden under the bed. But what separates mine and D’s passion for sex from someone like N and her husband? Is she obsessed? Or is it simply a matter of being more devoted to her hobby? And what might others think of me and my drawer of goodies? What’s the difference really, if you have a drawer or an entire room dedicated to sex?

Oh the questions. And none can really be answered.

Bottom line, I guess we’ve both got our heels to Jesus. It’s just a matter of logistics, space, style and commitment. And the fact that she’s a lot more Martha Stewart about it all than I’ll probably ever be– unless, of course, I end up like dear old dad. Let’s hope the apple fell far from the tree!

This is not a post

May 1, 2009

Fountain

 

I learned tonight that I don’t always have the resources or the capability to be a sturdy human being when the world chips away at me. Friends yelled at me. Work shat on me. Some crazy white trash ho in a Pinto (I didn’t even think those things were around anymore) kept screaming “Bitch!” at me in the parking lot of McDonald’s. The swine flu is driving me insane. One f’ing toddler, living is squalor, some where down near the Mexican border is dead and the world is resurrecting their face masks from back during the Avian flu. The word “pandemic” is sweeping the blogworld. I’m losing confidence in myself. These antibiotics are depressing me. And I can’t have sex for six more days.

What’s a girl to do?

The good news is, CG is engaged, or shall I say Wuffle-lump and Lover- nugget are officially engaged as per her announcement on facebook today. Probably done over the phone or in facebook chat. Probably haphazardly. Like he blurted out “I kinda feel like taking the next step.” While she concluded, “marriage?” Which ultimately led to being “engaged.” Folks, theirs is a four month relationship. Not even. Three weekends together that I know of, since Christmas. Do you even get engaged in your 40’s after three drama-driven weekends unless you’re a diner waitress in South Jersey trying to get rid of your current ten-miles-of-bad-road boyfriend with something else? WTF. As Delores, my cleaning lady would say, “don’t let me get my strut on.”

I’m bitter. It’s the antibiotics. It’s not me. But I wonder sometimes if, in all fairness, I have some worldly right to pass such harsh judgment on people I don’t even know. Who cares! Right? I mean, do morals need to be applied to facebook? These are the philosophical questions I seem to be unable to answer at the end of the day. What’s more is that I realize I am getting more involved in a virtual world, unhitched over the surreal. Not what is real, but rather a “representation” of what is real.

So, I start to read actual, real magazines and books to combat all this “virtual” stuff. An article on the Kindle, for example, from ADBUSTERS magazine caught my attention:

“The trouble with abstract thought is that the concepts we play with in our minds often become preferred to the real upon which these concepts were originally based. As soon as we draw a picture, or take a photograph, of a bird we often no longer care whether the bird continues to exist. The picture is, in our visual society, superior to the chirping bird. This trait of our world-view leads to a despairing and paradoxical situation where our cultural storehouse of symbols, imagery, art and concepts increases in direct proportion to the death of our planet, living beings, other world views, beautiful landscapes, etc. [emphasis mine]. ” –Melt Your Kindle, by Micah White (Adbusters Magazine).

Simultaneously, an artist friend of mine out in San Francisco was working on a design project on the life of Marcel Duchamp and I was able to appropriate this blurb of his life, circa 1923: “his [Duchamp’s] legacy includes the insight that art can be about ideas instead of worldly things.”

It sounds so positive on the one hand, and so nihilistic on the other. So, which is it? Is it a good thing that all that we think and feel can be absent of actual, worldly things, or is the very nature of abstract thought destroying us a la Dawkins’ memes?

As CG’s status goes from “in a relationship” (March 28) to “engaged” (April 30), I can’t help but wonder if she recognizes that she and her “smoochy-bear” only exist in the very narrowest sense. That their love isn’t so much love as a representation of love. And that I (as distant and as virtually unknown to her as I am) am a big part of her virtual engagement. Not only am I a witness. I am also taking the components and pieces of her engagement information and I am reconfiguring them. I am re-presenting them to you, which makes me a large part of her life, real or otherwise.

Understand this: I barely know this woman. I think we went to high school together. That’s about it. But today, shortly after she announced she was engaged (to which someone responded: “to who?”), she posted a computer-generated picture of what her and her fiance’s baby would look like IF they had one. Talk about creepy. Just imagine a picture of some baby with CG’s haggard, forty-year-old face morphed with Smoochy Bear’s weather-beaten, I’ve-spent-a-lifetime-suckin’-down-whisky looks. Cute, huh? But, whatever. They named it “Chris” and just like we used to carry around an egg in Home Economics class, they can virtually burp this thing and change its poopy diapers and hope to god that their computers don’t crash.

But I wonder if Marcel Duchamp saw all this sur-reality coming. I really doubt it. Heck, he was concerned with chocolate grinders and urinals (the “Fountain” by the way, according to a panel of 500 top artists, was named the most influential artwork of our times.”). And what about Magritte? I always loved his painting of a pipe and underneath it are the famous words, “Ceci n’est pas une pipe,” this is not a pipe.

But it is a pipe, isn’t it?

No. It’s a representation of a pipe.

But CG and Smoochy Bear are engaged to married, aren’t they?

No. They are a representation of two people engaged to be married.

And so, you see the dilemma and the freedom with which I carry this argument. On the one hand, I am writing judgmental things about people I barely know. On the other, I am merely only judging a representation of those people, in which case, I am not so much a judge as I am a “critic.” An art critic, if you will. If, indeed, you consider a urinal or the sloppy love story of two recovering alcoholics “art.”

In light of all that, I suppose I shouldn’t complain about the ho in the Pinto, the antibiotics or the no sex stuff. Those are real. Those are really real facets of my life. They are to be appreciated much like the bird chirping outside my window, the beauty of the earth’s landscape, and the slow, imperceptible sweep of swine flu making its way through the world in a cough or a sneeze.

Tragedy

April 16, 2009

What was it that Elaine and George Costanza concluded about men’s and women’s brains and sex? That men can think much clearer when they’re not having it and women can think much clearer when they are?

Bullshit. Or, I’m loaded with too much testosterone.

Since D, my brain has turned to mush. Literally, it produces nothing but sappy cliches. Too horrible to ever post.

It’s not that I’m thinking less- through the mush I am still having deep thoughts. It’s that I can’t seem to hold on to them long enough to get them on to paper. Or perhaps, it’s just that I could care less. The thought of D going down on me is far more thrilling than any pontificating I could do about anything else I seem to come up with during leaner times.

And it’s not that I am not busy or physically doing less either. My life has changed little in that respect. I’m still running, still reading Grodstein’s book and Spinning Will, still chatting up an intellectual storm with KVM and D and whoever else. But again, thoughts of lust and sex and all that fun stuff have pushed out whatever else might have had the chance to form and grow. And I am left with the “duh” effect. The sad truth is that the overpowering stranglehold of lush, abundant love is growing in my soul like a weed and taking over. And I am slowly being destroyed.

Need…to….step…back….Need…to…reclaim…my….soul…

What a tragedy.

And speaking of tragedy, last night I went to see Daniel Mendelsohn read from his book “The Lost” at Rutgers in Camden. The reading itself was no tragedy. Mendelsohn was an excellent reader. The dinner was great. I shmoozed with Lauren Grodstein and Lisa Zeidner and a few others. I had the lovely D by my side. Etc. Etc. What summoned the idea of tragedy was Mendelsohn’s masterful comment on why classical Greek literature is so important to him. “The Greeks understood tragedy,” he said. And went on to add that we have done ourselves a huge disservice by not accepting pain and suffering in life. We take pills to erase our pain. We go to therapy for constant awareness and answers (even he claims 16 some years of analysis). We file lawsuits– all in the hopes of regaining some sort of restitution or peace. We are always looking for compensation for the bad things that happen in life. We want constant pleasure. Constant and perfection producing. This is pure silliness, of course. There is no guarantee that you will be “healed” or repaid or repaired for the suffering you incur. There is no life without pain.

I, of course, applauded his sentiments. I too, believe we have become culturally dependent on the notion that happiness is a right, not, as it were, a privilege. Or perhaps, more likely, that those who are happy are merely lucky.

I have worked a great deal over the past year with very depressed individuals, women mostly, addicted to one thing or another. Almost all of them hit bottom and come to recovery angry and self-loathing, and in pain, wanting to be healed, wanting answers, wanting desperately for the pain to stop. And yet, only a small fraction of them are able to grasp the concept that pain and tragedy happens. That the idea of recovery is not to avoid pain, but rather to deal with it. We have very little control over the suffering that befalls us. Most of these women want to live a Hollywood movie. They honestly believe that that is what a “normal” life looks like.

Professor Tim Martin (English, Rutgers) came up to me last night and congratulated me on having been accepted to the MFA program. “You must be quite talented,” he said. I felt like a fraud, especially considering that I have written so poorly over the past few weeks. I felt like saying, little do you know that my brain has turned to split pea soup and I will produce little or nothing for the Rutgers English department. But I nodded a thank you. Some where deep inside me I am grateful for the opportunity, believe me. And there is a tenth of a part of me that believes I am somewhat talented, if only I worked a little harder for it.

So, Tim shook my hand once more and went on his way.  Moments later there was a pause. D and I stood finishing up the last of our Cabernet before heading out. I pulled him close into me and whispered in his ear, “how many of these folks do you think are going to go home tonight and get laid like us?”

Very small lines

April 10, 2009
  • Delores my cleaning lady is now on “Big, Beautiful Women.” It’s a dating site. She found a match from Seacaucus.
  • I finally stained the back porch door. It’s only been three years.
  • When you order a “fresh pork” at the butchers and ask that they de-bone it and give you the skin, they look at you with respect and awe, like you’re a chef.
  • D and I are going into the city tonight, across the river, with dark sunglasses on and black clothes.
  • He bought me a little plaid schoolgirl skirt, but it doesn’t fit. Still, I like to imagine wearing it while sitting on his lap.
  • I am working on a blog for PBQ about “disintegrating culture.”
  • My ex-husband and his fiance are coming to Easter dinner on Sunday. They will meet my new boyfriend and actually eat at my table. 
  • I dreamed about a guy who looked like Russell Brand and drove a red and white, 1956 Belair convertible. I was in some rundown suburb of Paris watching fireworks from a hilltop with him and a bunch of other seedy looking characters. I asked him to drive me to the Eiffel Tower and he did. 
  • I’m still reading Lauren Grodstein’s book, “Reproduction is the Flaw of Love,” but I prefer “Spining Will,” by P.M. Woods
  • There is no more S. 
  • I’ve signed up for my first graduate class. A Fiction workshop with Lauren Grodstein. 
  • Work is actually bearable this week. 

Quiet

March 18, 2009

I’m listening to For Emma, from Bon Iver. Their video is actually far better than their studio version. They shot it a capella, in Paris. D gave it to me a couple weeks ago and I watched it and cried. I’m sharing it with y’all.

Peace

Dream of the week #1

March 17, 2009

dream house...

Here’s some background info first: I’ve been sick for a couple days. Completely rundown. Actually, all my whining about being rundown from sheer pleasure has been a little inflated compared to Sunday night and yesterday. I truly hit a wall. This, after a weekend of excessive fun and pleasure. Oh, poor little hedonist and her rough life. 

Anyway, I have been veering off my daily routine. Not myself lately. And it’s not that I am complaining. I’m not! But my subconscious is, in a sad, lost soul kind of way.

All that being said, here’s the dream:

I was with my family in a big house on a hill and at one point, I went to go to my own house, which was at the bottom of the hill in this little town of multi-colored row houses. I’d been many times before, but honestly, it seemed more like an old shanty-looking,  vacation home. So, I grabbed the key from my parents’ house and headed down the hill to see some of the stuff that I had stored there- namely, my journals. 

When I got to the row of houses, mine was completely gone. Erased. And via eavesdropping on some of the residents, I learned that the owner of the town had burned down the house and took over the land to build his own place. He felt my house had been vacant too long and decided it was abandoned. 

I cried hysterically and ran back to my family home, sobbing not so much over the loss of the actual house or my other stuff, but for the journals. When I told my mother what had happened, she said, “you go back to that man and tell him you want your things back. He owes you! He stole your property.”

So, I went back to go yell at him but before I got the chance, I came upon a resident who told me that the owner had saved my journals and that they were still in the basement (foundation), in the part of the house that wasn’t burned. On that news, I headed down into the basement, which was more a crawl space. I moved through cobwebs and dirt and darkness and there to the right was a huge, green incinerator filled from top to bottom with unburned books of mine, ready to be set afire. At the very top, as I climbed into yet a tinier, but brighter section of the crawl space (there was a window, though dirty), there I saw all my journals, safely preserved and painted gold. 

Interpretations?

Sex

February 27, 2009

 

For the past few night or so, I have been dreaming incessantly of sex. Not the usual, missionary kind of sex. Not even the unusual dirty, kinky kind of sex that oftentimes accompanies some sort of physical follow-thru on my part. No. This stuff is just plain bizarre. Three nights ago I had sex with my cleaning lady. And though I love her dearly, there’s something about an overweight, diabetic black woman who wears a wig and a false tooth that, in reality, I just don’t find very attractive. But apparently, in my dream, she came at me hot and heavy and I said, “What the hell.” 

Two nights ago I dreamed I had sex with my ex-husband. I actually find that slightly more disturbing than the cleaning lady. Although, I have to admit, he resurrected some of his old moves, and I might have even had a little dream-gasm. 

Last night though was by far the strangest. I was lying in bed atop white sheets and all these animals hopped up onto the bed and started licking me all over. I realize that, to some, this may seem freakishly erotic. But a dog, a cat and a mouse? I mean, what the hell would create in me the need or the desire to have sex with a mouse? I can maybe understand a dog. But a mouse? A cat? 

Gross. 

So, I broke out my dream-analysis book. And not surprisingly, there were no entries on “sex with mice” or even “sex with cleaning ladies.” Fearing that I was on my own in my interpretations, I started to combine entries. For example: The cause and or source of sex in dreams may be “a direct result of your own thoughts, desires and wishes that you are aware of; but at times there can be hidden or suppressed desires you don’t care to admit.” Harboring secret fantasies for Delores is highly unlikely. However, the book goes on to say, “Since everyone is highly telepathic, especially while in the Alpha state, it is not at all unusual to find yourself involved in a sexy dream with someone you do not even care about.”

OK. Fine. That explains Delores and the ex. But what about the animals?

I skimmed through the book for an entry, and this is what I found:

“The animals we find in our dreams often represent the animal instincts, urges, habits and aspects we attribute to them which are also found in ourselves [or others]. That would include the good and the so-called “bad…” Cats and dogs can both represent strong sensory powers and telepathic abilities as well as faithfulness, loyalty, and disciplined behavior. Cats are intuitive, aloof and detached…sensual and sometimes uncaring…dogs represent loyalty, protection, courage and companionship…”

This makes sense, and yet, I think it’s a little simpler than all that. I tossed the book aside and came up with my own theory:

I’m not having sex. I haven’t had it in a while. But it’s hovering over me.  Right around the corner. Inevitably on its way. But D and I have pretty much made a conscious decision to wait. All very exciting. I’m very much enjoying the wait in a sort of imposed painful way. Yet there is something that bothers me on a deeper, more buried level. I’m honestly afraid that our notions of sex, or rather, our sexual needs are vastly different. In plain language, I’m worried that I am too wild for this particular man.

The reason I am probably having sex with women and exs and animals in my dreams is not so much who they represent as “what” they represent. They are all taboo in the realm of what is normal and acceptable in matters of sex. Not to me, of course. At least not subconsciously. But in my mind, I worry that simpler things are highly taboo to D. These dreams, then, serve as guilty triggers to remind me of who I am and how I am perceived. 

For the record, I don’t like sex with animals. Nor would I probably ever “do” a  full-figured black women or my ex-husband. Not so much for reasons of morality as much as preference. However, I am far more liberal and experienced than D and this has me vexing about it, even in my sleep. 

Am I wrong? Am I dirty? Am I bad? Will I be perceived in a dark, evil light? These are all the things I have begun to question about myself. And why on earth do I see him as so pure and innocent and unsullied? Because he tries to come off that way (which he is not entirely, by the way)? Or because I see myself as such the opposite extreme. I hate this about me. I hate that I am this way at times. I am ashamed. 

And yet, I’m not. 

When D and I began talking about seven weeks ago he mentioned that he wanted to “exorcise” his “lust for crazy women,” and that sometimes he chooses “purity over happiness.” I barely knew him then, but I quickly shot back, “I hate to be the bearer of great news, but having/wanting/craving sex and/or falling for crazy women is not evil or impure and therefore NOT the polar opposite of “goodness.” It’s (surprise!) synonymous with goodness AND purity.” This then led him to tell me, among other things, that he doesn’t equate sex with impurity, but by then, it was too late. I had already formed my opinion. 

I need to state something here, which may not be entirely obvious: I am discussing the SUPERFICIAL. None of this has anything to do with matters of the heart. To me, there are many realms of sexual expression, all of which I enjoy and desire; that which arises out of a deep connectivity between two people in love, spiritual sex, tantric sex, enlightened sex; plain old missionary sex and quickies that tend to be self-serving but fulfilling; passionate sex, make-up after a fight sex and so on. The sex I am talking about here is the edgy, experimental, psychological kind. The kind of stuff at which you arrive when you’re curious about the underworld of sex. Ambiguously taboo stuff. Even more so, the kind of sex that you “suggest” one night in the bedroom only to be met by a comment like “aren’t people arrested for stuff like that?”

The kind of sex that drive feminists to institute laws protecting women against it. 

You get my point.

At any rate, here I am, seven weeks later, dreaming of sex with animals and trying desperately to believe in the purity of my own lasciviousness. Hoping there might be a middle ground between his perceived innocence and my so-called…experience. Hoping too that I am not running the risk of seeming weirder than I actually am. The more you draw attention to something the bigger it becomes. Right? It’s at this point that I wish to exhume all my old boyfriends and say, “Can you please help me out? Tell D that I’m not as strange as I’m making myself out to be,” to which they all reply, “you were a little bit crazy, but definitely hot.”

That’s the gist of all this. I’m hoping D thinks I’m “hot,” not weird. Among other flattering things, of course. Is that asking too much? I just don’t want to give up my fetishes, that’s all. I mean, wouldn’t it be great if there were a guy out there who accepted even the darker, more questionable side of my nature? Wouldn’t it be great if someone said, “give me what you’ve got, Tracy. I’m not afraid…” 

He and I have talked at length on this subject. Maybe not enough. Whatever the case may be, there’s really only one way to set my mind at ease and purge the guilt and fear. And that’s to do it. To have sex and lots of it. And after months of doing it and learning about each other and experimenting and talking and crossing lines and pushing envelops (or shall I say buying dildos, renting movies and breaking out the Catholic School-Girl outfit?), I will either be satisfied or I won’t. Plain and simple. Until then, I suppose I will remain the victim of guilty, animal dream sex and the telepathic lust of my cleaning lady. Let’s just say I’m hoping this issue is resolved quickly.