New Year’s resolutions, not for me! Valentine’s Day, bah humbug! Why is it that we pick just one commercial day a year to promise ourselves we’ll change bad habits, profess our love, make our lives better, or wipe the slate clean? The slates are not clean, honey, they are full of messes and junk from the past that we should be working each and every day on, learning and listening to the inner voice. Without all the crap we’ve waded through in the past we wouldn’t know what we want or where we want to be in the future. Even if we don’t know exactly what or where that is, by reviewing our past we can at least rule out what we don’t want or where we don’t want to be’ that’s what we can control, and that’s something, damnit!

I woke up this morning after a convoluted night sleep, tossing and turning with freakin’ hot flashes and memories of female ejaculations the night before (one out of two ain’t bad.) I had a dream that I was on some sort of expedition in Moscow. Everything was stark white, covered in ice, and snowflake crystals the size of dinner plates were falling all around. There were about six of us, a mix of women and men, all comfortable in a huge snow cave; complete with several big round beds with crimson down blankets and a million pillows tossed on top of them. [Interpretation: even when things aren’t warm and fuzzy, one can still find comfort] The premise to that dream was something about getting to an ice cave and researching crystals in exact shapes of penises. Hot verses cold, interesting. I woke before we found the cave or the crystals, which I suppose can mean I was still on the search, yet comfortable and open to whatever my heart allowed.

Then, with the divine, universal energy, and the order I put into it, I met my Romeo in Black Jeans and have discovered after all these years just what real friendship and connection is. I won’t be writing about this private part of my life, as it remains the most sacred element I’ve ever encountered, and deserves to be held in that light.

So, meanwhile back at the ranch of raunch, the girls came over for cocktails the other evening and, as some of us enjoy, we watched gay porn and painted each other’s toenails. I demonstrated the best oil and way to shave one’s pubic hair completely off and when the girls felt how smooth a cooder can actually be, the girlie painted mouths got involved. We ended up in a pile of moist girl flesh on my big, leopard bed sheets. It was sensual warmth that curled our toes and touched things deeper than flesh. Heaving breasts upon pierced nipples, teeth on necks, mounds pressing against mounds, round asses in the air, double headed dildos pleasuring simultaneously, and lips locking labias. We took turns demonstrating different boys that we knew, their kisses and cunnilingus performances, and we laughed, screamed, orgasmed like chainsaws’ then made more cocktails. Now, that’s a cum-passionate girl day!

A few nights later, on a warm, rainy spring evening, I attended a friend’s birthday bash, held in a giant Victorian house sewn with tiny twinkling red lights throughout. Lighting is everything, baby! The faint crimson glow illuminated everyone’s faces just enough to cast a devilish ambience to the night.

After mingling and meeting people (many I didn’t know), I decided I was heating up like a Bunsen burner and looked for a room to toss my black, velvet coat in. As I wandered through the massive halls, the decadent howl of Diamanda Galas seeping through the house, I walked into a large darkened bedroom with five huge white candles burning on the fireplace hearth. My nose detected the sultry scent of sandalwood and cedar. The rain beat down against the leaded windows and I suddenly got a shiver down my spine. I slipped off a sleeve of my coat when suddenly two arms held my hands behind my back, and the deep voice of a man I couldn’t place, whispered, ‘Let me show you to the coat closet, beautiful girl.’ Then he quickly garnished that statement with, ‘Don’t turn around, it’ll make this better.’

Something sounded remotely familiar in the depth of his voice, but I couldn’t quite place it. He took my coat and still bound my hands behind me, standing so close I couldn’t turn around to see him. I played along, as the moisture between my thighs started soaking my black lace bloomers. As he held my wrists, he slowly moved them up his flat, bare stomach. I could smell his soap, something clean and comforting. I ran my fingers over his chest, or as much as I could reach, and lingered when I touched the happy trail. Not much hair, but enough to guide me, wanting to grip farther down. The stranger threw my arms in front of me, wrapped his arms around mine, holding me tighter. Then pushing my body, I felt his substantial stiffness as he walked me into a huge closet and began kissing the back of my neck, his lips dragging across the ink on my shoulders until I was shuddering almost uncontrollably. His moans and mine mixed in the motions until I came undone. My knees buckled as he caught me and gently turned me around, his mouth on mine, both demanding more. The flicker from the distant candles danced vaguely on a dark haired, handsome face, but I still couldn’t recognize the man. He was right, it was better this way.

The stranger lifted my skirt and sunk to his knees, breathing, sucking, and licking in my juices as I cried out in a hedonistic holler. He sprang to standing, his hand shot to my mouth, muffled the sounds of my pleasure. With his hand still over my mouth, he banged me like a cheap screen door’ until I took over, grabbing his hips, I pounded myself onto him, over and over, then my hands reached his biceps, held them down, above his head, until we both released, one after another in a mad craze. Zapped of energy, we crumbled, right down in a pile of coats and handbags. Breathing hard for what seemed like hours, we finally gathered ourselves and walked out to the candlelit room where I could see his face. Well, what do you know; it surely was the birthday boy! He told me he had always had a fantasy of doing that to me and what a perfect opportunity. Amazing. After all it was his day, but surely became mine too.