12 new chapters…

It’s the last day of the year, everyone is reflecting. I’m doing the same. I know last year changed me in ways I never knew were possible. 

I could’ve lost my mind in fear, maybe I did for a moment but no, even Cancer couldn’t paralyze me. 

This year I’ve learned I’m a strong person. I’ve learned I can be fearless, spontaneous, adventurous, truthful and free.

I’ve learned it doesn’t matter if everyone likes me, or accepts me, it doesn’t matter if I’m smaller or larger, smarter or more accomplished. 

The things that matter can’t be bought, can’t be taught, can’t be over-looked or neglected. Trust is more important than truth and people who “fit the bill” are precious and should be treasured. 

I’ve decided to take chances and be more me. To stop hiding and forge ahead. To love with all my heart and soul. To laugh more and drink more. To make love every chance I get and to fuck more than I thought possible. 

Last year could’ve been my last year. I’m glad it wasn’t. I’m glad that death knocked on the door early enough to wake me up. I’m not going to take it for granted, here’s to the new year! 

May every chapter be a page turner! 


Random acts of unkindness…

It’s the little things that often get to me…the little random things that maybe not everyone would pay attention to.

The one I hate the most is the silent treatment. When someone is mad they ignore you, won’t call you, won’t acknowledge your texts, like your statuses. 

Honey, I’m aware. It’s so obvious. If that’s your idea of friendship then, no thank you. Here’s the thing, it’s not like you haven’t had your chances, plenty of them. 

I’m not going to beg you back. He says not to be a doormat to your type. I have a lot to offer, to bring to the table, life-long committment, that’s me but not under your conditions.

I’m not saying she’s better, she’s not taking your place. There’s room for two or three, the more the merrier I have always said. But, give me the chance to figure out how she fits in.

It’s time to grow up or move on. Realize you can have more than one way of doing things. Don’t ask me to choose, you could get hurt this time. I can’t walk away. Not, this time and I can’t demonize her for your happiness. 

Things are changing, you can come along if you want to but if you don’t I’ll think of you fondly as a good time, a great memory.

There’s an old saying that says, time is but “a vapor” I never understood that until lately. Time is running out to be me. Your welcome to be part of my time here but if not…I’ll see ya. 


It’s so hard to be your authentic self if you are always hiding from the truth. I’ve spent my entire life being who I think everyone else wants me to be. But, lately, I’ve decided I don’t want to live for everyone else. I want to live for me, to be happy with who I am, and who I want to be. 

Last night, I went out with a friend, a “girls night”. We stayed up until 2 a.m. Sipping wine and spilling secrets, no truths..

It was an amazingly freeing evening. Maybe I am a good listener or talker or both. Whatever it is, people tell me their deepest, darkest. 

We talked a lot about our desires and fantasies. We didn’t match up in a lot of areas but there were some. She wants to have a threesome, 2men, I’ve done it. I confided I her. She said she was jealous. We talked about porn, she likes anal, whips and chains, and swallowing. 

She asked me what my favorite is, I said girl-girl. I was terrified she’d balk. Maybe she was a little taken aback but only said, huh-really…I never would’ve guessed. 

I thought it was sarcasm but no, it was genuine disbelief. I’m not sure she could deny my interest as she laid on the bed across from me with her red lace panties visible. Did she catch those glances? Maybe so, but I couldn’t look away.

Later, we talked more about work we would have done if we both could. She told me she had always envied my breasts. A nice compliment. I complained they were scarred from the big C. Reconstructed just for me thanks, MD. She wanted to see the “scars”. Normally, I’d shy away but a few bottles of wine later and I let her have a look. 

An open door, she wanted to compare. She wants a job done. Little breasts never bothered me and oh those long dark nipples. Erasers, she called them. I complimented.. they look good to me.. a little moan to show my appreciation. 

We compared battle scars. She didn’t run away so it must not have been too bad. Maybe, I’ll never know. 

We exhausted our little fantasies, our hopes for later and then turned out the lights. Sometime in the night I woke up just to see if it was all a dream but no, I heard her snoring across from me. Hoping the days ahead are more of the same. 

Let’s share truths…

Sticks and stones…

“You look better with your clothes on”, “I wanted someone petite”, “you are getting a little chunky”… sticks and stones would’ve hurt less. 

Throughout my life I’ve had men say these things to me and I’ll admit at times I’ve agreed with them, no not true.. I always agree with them. I’ll make excuses for myself. It’s easier to admit they might be right than to tell them to screw off. 

The thing is as women we often take a man’s word as gospel without thinking that maybe that’s just their opinion. No matter what, once the words are said they tend to stick.

As I am fighting to get my self-confidence back these are the only things I can hear in my internal dialogue. They tend to make me want to hide back in my old insecurities. I’m tempted to retreat and stay concealed. How can I possibly allow my gaurd down. What if they were right and all these things are true about me. 

I’m scarred, both inside and out. I have scars from surgeries, scars from my own vanity, scars in my mind. I see a smiling face where there shouldn’t be one. I see awkward hair and sagging skin. A flat rear-end and days gone by. 

Self-esteem is underrated. It’s the driving force behind all of our goals and aspirations. Even at my fittest, I still see all of the faults. 

I miss the days when my daddy would tell me I looked beautiful. I miss the days when I felt beautiful before anyone chipped away these parts of me. 

How can I step out confidently into the future when the past still holds me prisoner. 

The trip…

There’s this woman, the object of my dreams, she’s lean and has long dark hair. She’s sophisticated and complicated. Dresses like a grown man’s dreams and puts off an air of snobbery. 

Every once in a while, she’s a flirt. Dropping little hints here and there about things that go on Behind closed doors. She hints about her abilities to swallow. She’s a walking turn-on. Does she know? 

She wants to go away, no husbands allowed. Her request, not mine. She wants to get a room, though we aren’t that far from home, what does she have in mind? 

Is she just a tease? Does she know I’m dripping while she talks, anticipating what can only be called a fantasy. Do we have a few drinks and comfortably talk and then what? 

Tell me, what’s the agenda? More than just friends? Does she want benefits? This time, it’s up to her. There will be no push from me. I can’t, can’t afford the fall-out, the emotions, the fear… but if push comes to shove…I’m falling. 

Time is limited…

Last year at this time, I thought I would be dead by now. It was in October when I felt a little hard pebble in my left breast next to my chest bone. At first, I thought it was probably just a cyst that sometimes comes up from drinking too much caffeine. I casually mentioned it to my husband and had him feel of it. We agreed that I’d have the Doctor feel it at my next appointment, which was only a couple weeks away. 

As the weeks ticked by I would feel to see if it was still there and sure enough it never moved. I only felt concerned because it didn’t go away and it was hard. I’d never felt anything like it. 

On the day of my appointment my husband came along which isn’t abnormal he usually accompanies me to all of my doctors. And so, I had my regular yearly exam and then mentioned the lump. The doctor decided to have me get a mammogram. Unfortunately, this wasn’t my first time into this world due to a benign cyst that had to be removed at 14. I still didn’t think I had much to worry about and so my daughter went along for the test. 

She waited in the small waiting area while the actual test was done. In the exam room, the technician did her job of scanning, running the image to the radiologist and relaying messages back to me. When she got to the suspicious area she and the radiologist decided to send me for a sonogram just to rule anything suspicious out. I was moved into another room and some flippant young girl ran her little wand over my left breast and chest what felt like a million times. 

I tried to ask her questions about what she was seeing but she refused to answer. It’s an awkward situation anyway but her attitude and silence seemed to make things worse. 

An hour later, I was sent home none the wiser but glad it was over, or so I thought. 

About a week later, I received a call from my doctor’s nurse with the news that changed my life. She explained to me that the mass was solid and that I had a Brad score of 3 to 4. Which meant that the mass was suspicious and likely malignant. 

I’ve never been more scared in my entire life. I remember having to tell my husband. Pulling him into the hallway and quietly explaining while trying to remain calm and out of earshot from the boys. 

He pulled me into arms and let me sob until I was finished crying. He was and is still my rock. I know now, he was as scared as I was but at the time; he was all business. 

We live in a tiny midwestern town and the doctors here aren’t known for their medical know-how. In fact, they are known to let you die first and ask questions later. Their first solution is always to cut you open. Maybe they get a kickback from the surgeon, I’m not sure but they wanted me to consent to surgery right away.

Fortunately for me, my husband wasn’t having it. He, himself, is permanently disabled due to the hack job of a local back surgeon. In his unfortunate wisdom, he started calling around to get me a second opinion. Two places were on our list of options. Cancer treatment centers of America and MdAnderson. Both world renowned cancer centers. 

I chose Md and we headed there for a second opinion. Through many tests and scans I was finally told the Little Rock spot was a rare cancer known as a sarcoma. It’s a soft-tissue cancer that rarely shows up in the breast. Less that 1-2million cases. That makes me the 1 percent. But, who is counting? 

All of the sudden, we are talking numbers. Percents, dates, death rates, survival rates, likelihoods, return rates, treatment dates, hours, and dollar signs.

It’s all so overwhelming. And yes, surgery. But not a lumpectomy like I had thought. No, a double partial mastectomy. This kind of tumor has little arms they call spindles and you must get them all or else they return, like Arnold Schwartennager. If we would have stayed in our little town and let those doctors operate I wouldn’t be typing this today. At least not in this capacity.

An 8 hour surgery, reconstruction, and 11 months later and I’m still alive. I’ve learned you don’t have time. Time is a figment of our imagination. If you want something out of life, don’t lie to yourself about having time. You better do it, do it all. 

Do what makes you happy. Be who you want to be unashamedly. Smile more, be honest, talk to people, cry with them, let them be themselves too. No matter who they are because there isn’t enough time. 

It’s that time of year, again…

Anyone who has ever struggled with their sexual identity probably has a time of year they reflect on why they seem different than everyone else.

For me, it’s usually more than one time per year but as a Christian, Christmas is that time of year where I get farther into my head and start to beg God to answer this undying question, why me? 

I know some people will say, “you call yourself a Christian?” “How, God hates homosexuals”. That’s what I’ve always been told or taught. I know exactly what the Bible says. Abomination… something hated by God. It’s such a conundrum. And I’ve fought this battle of opinions in my mind for as long as I can remember. 

Sometimes I even say okay! I’m going to be straight now! I’m going to never think about another woman, I’m not going to find them attractive, I’m never going to be turned on when talking to one, I’m not going to lust, fantasize, dream… I’m straight! Dammit.. 

if it were that easy, I’m sure many people might do the same. But, it’s not. That’s why at times I wring my own hands, cry, beg God to “change me” but he doesn’t. Yes, I still believe in him even though this prayer is never answered. 

The thing is I don’t believe he hates me, I don’t believe I’m going straight to hell for my sins. I don’t believe he hates me anymore than the town gossip, the town liar, the unfaithful man or woman, the hypocrite, the thief, the child molester, the list never ends.

Do they beg him too? 

Lord knows I’ve tried to deny myself and for sometime I’ve been successful but never for very long. Sometimes years will go by without indulging in my own thoughts but I find the repression depressive. I look for other outlets. Food, alcohol, excercise, pills…all deterrents. They don’t change my mind only my body. 

And so as I reflect this year, I tell myself, you are who he made you to be. If he wants to change you,he will. If it doesn’t happen then I can’t self-medicate. I won’t. I must have peace of mind as we must have peace on earth. 

If I could go back…

At 19 or 20, I was more aware of who I was than I am now. Back then, I was fierce,confident, and self-assured. I didn’t worry if I was attractive or if men wanted me. I didn’t care if women wanted me but I knew I wanted them in some way. I was in college at a local school and in my youth, I was willing to accept expirememtation as a rite of passage. 

A high school girlfriend of mine and I were very close at the time. She was single, dark-headed (my preference) thin, and willing. We talked openly about sex, with her boyfriend, my husband, and later her husband and the affairs. But, for the moment, we were two college girls open for some fun. 

Both of us enjoyed watching soft porn on HBO and even a little harder core shows on the playboy channel. We were both a little shy at the time when it came to each other but she would hint a lot about what she wanted. She’d lay up on my couch, sometimes in my lap and we would watch erotica together. It was a huge turn on, for both of us, I suspect. 

At some point the talk of a threesome between my husband and the two of us came up. His birthday was around the corner and I had definitely hinted at his attraction to her. I told her it would be the best gift I could give him. I’ve always wanted to make his fantasies a reality. 

I didn’t have to twist her arm at all. She was excited about our little adventure. In fact, she wanted to dress up in costume. We visited a local adult store and she became a French maid while I was a nurse. We dressed up together in my bathroom. I don’t remember being nervous at all but I was scared to death it was going to all be laughable. 

Perhaps it was, my memory is a little fuzzy on the actual moments. I remember she was in love with using the feather duster that came with the outfit. She was a little too submissive. She let my husband take her missionary style. She let me lick her clit a few times before scampering away. I didn’t have clue what I was doing and I’m not sure any of us did. It couldn’t have lasted much more than an hour or so. 

All in all, it wasn’t truly the magical moment that I wanted it to be. I can’t say it was even all that memorable. 

What I can say is that for a moment I wasn’t worried about what anyone thought about me. I didn’t think I was weird, or crazy, or messed up or a sinner. I was free to be me. Free to experiment, free to figure out what I wanted. I wasn’t ashamed, I wasn’t scared. I was just me. 

I’m finding my way back there. Back to that woman who has self-confidence, who goes after her dreams, her goals, her fantasies. If I ever get the chance again to enjoy a moment like this one in the future, I’m going to make it memorable. I won’t have to ask anyone else if I liked it. I’m going to make sure it’s seared into my brain, epic, unforgettable. 

It’s better to give?…

There’s an old cliche that gets tossed around this time of year, “it’s better to give than to receive”. At least that’s the sentiment and when it comes to gifts I’d say, sure. I love to see a person get something they’ve been hoping to have. But, when it comes to being bisexual that’s not always the case. 

I’m a married woman who is fortunate enough to have a spouse who knows about my desire to be with women and encourages it. He allows opportunities for me to explore my desires and only asks that I don’t keep anything secret. It’s been a long road but we’ve both come to an understanding of each other. He allows me my kinks and I allow him his. (Those are another story) 

In all of my opportunities to be with another woman, a couple, not tons, I have always been the giver and not the recipient. Each conquest has been a friend of mine. I usually keep my sexual desires to myself but after a few drinks and carefully plotted flirtations, I open up and most women are eager to explore the idea. 

The problem is, women are selfish lovers. In my case, they have been. I’ve been in the lap of a couple of women, giving them my best and hearing the moans of a job well done but I’ve never gotten to feel the lips of a woman below my face. 

At the most, I’ve had a couple of fingers dip in between my thighs but then something happens and they are all done. A lot of women just want to get instead of give. 

One woman told me that I was as good as her husband when I had went down on her but that nothing else could happen because he was jealous and afraid she’d run off with me. Strange because I remember him cheering me on that night as I pleasured her before he took over. 

I’d been a tool in their fantasies my friend alluded in several conversations. They knew the possibility was there if the circumstances were right. I must say that’s when I started to feel like I was being used. 

I’ve found people are very open to using a bisexual woman to fuel their fantasies but they don’t care about hers or maybe her husbands. I’d like to have someone who desires me like I desire them. 

I’d like for my husband to get the joy of getting to watch my fantasies come true. I’d like to give that to him and to have that for me. 

What I’m saying is, it’s not always better to be the giver. It gets old. A person gets tired of being the one who tries to make everyone else happy. If you have a person in your life that you know is in need and you’ve used them in the past, rectify the situation, be the giver! 

And do it good. Pay them back in a way that shows you appreciate all they have done for you. When they walk away, make sure their legs are shaking and they wake up from dreams about that night with only you on their mind…

She’s a whore

There have been times in my life that I’ve felt ashamed of who I am for so many reasons. Mainly, I have been ashamed of liking sex, sexual things, sexual adventures and sexuality. Many women will turn up their noses at all of those things and claim they are unnatural for women to like. 

Many of my friends will scrunch up their noses at the thought of oral sex and punctuate the thoughts with little jabs like, eww it’s so gross” or “I only do it because he likes it” or the most disturbing, “I owe him because he…” of course you can insert your own pronouns, “I go down on her on special occasions” … “tit-for-tat” on and on. The problem with all of this is, that’s not me. I’m not into sex as an obligation. I think some people after a period of time with the same person feel like it’s all a big obligation to keep the relationship going. I’d go so far as to say, the relationship Is dead if the only thing keeping it going is your lousy 30 min. bedroom session. 

Nonetheless, I guess I’m a whore. I love sex, love thinking about it, having it, talking about it, dreaming about it. 

Should I be ashamed? Aren’t there many kinds of whores? Are you a whore? 

I have a friend I call a money whore. She loves the almighty dollar more than anything in this world. Certainly more than sex. She uses the sex as leverage against her husband to get the things she wants from him. Mainly, more money. She’s working two jobs to supposedly make ends meet but she has her children enrolled in every extracurricular activity known to man. She books a vacation every summer to some beach destination just to take pictures to post on social media. When two jobs won’t buy Oakley sunglasses and her husbands under armor briefs, she picks up a third at the local eatery down the street. She’ll work cleaning toilets with her masters degree in order to wear Estée Lauder perfume and cosmetics. There’s no level to her depravity. She’s sucking the proverbial cock for money just like any whore on the street. 

I am a whore in the bedroom and she’s a whore for the “man”. We aren’t the only two. There’s whores in the workplace bending over to get that raise. Whores in the family letting people ride their ass for an inheritance. Whores in doctors office searching for pills and whores in the street taking it anyway they can get it just to score. 

When I realized I wasn’t the only one I stopped being so hard on myself. Yeah, I’m a whore, I like sex anyway I can get it and from not just him but from her, or him, or both if they want to play. 

There are worse things you can be. You can lay yourself down to serve whatever serves you. Go ahead call me names, call me a whore, just say it loud enough…