This photo was never meant to be a feature. Imperfect, forgettable, lacklustre.
She sighed and sank back into the pillows of her bed, smiling as he crawled towards her stopping to kneel between her feet. “Have you really never? Never?” his smile was cheeky and filled with disbelief. “Never. Not once.” she shrugged and watched his bemused face. “Wow. Well, do you want to?” “Maybe … You…
A mermaid found a swimming lad, Picked him up for her own, Pressed her body to his body, Laughed; and plunging down Forgot in cruel happiness That even lovers drown. WB Yeats
It’s been quite a week: libido in overdrive but creativity in major drought. In both senses I’ve felt a bit scrambled.
I discovered a new hashtag on Instagram yesterday …
It’s been a gray couple days. Not feeling myself, not wanting to connect, trying to understand what this funk is. Maybe I just need distracting?
Late for dinner plans, couldn’t keep my hands off myself. Just a quick lift of my dress, a photo, a text … and then his stream of heart-eye emojis. I win.
New city, that means updating online profiles like FetLife and flipping through bios of studly young bucks, going eenie-meanie-miney-mo, tolerating loads of disappointing messages (womp womp) and making a few rare connections only to have all but the best fall through.
That one red pinky finger nail, like a cherry jellybean.
I’m traveling today, which always makes me just a bit keyed up. Tired but not sure how well I’ll sleep.
I was 27 the first time my father told me I looked beautiful.
Things have been busy around here. Lots of writing, new connections, upcoming collaborations. It can be hard to stay focused. This BoobDay picture really begs the question …
These are not my breasts, but I know them well.
“At first she beckoned and lured one into her world; then, she blurred the passageways, confused all the images, as if to elude detection.” ― Anaïs Nin, from A Spy in the House of Love
We all have our morning rituals, don’t we? Make breakfast, walk the dog, have your coffee.
“The painter constructs, the photographer discloses.” Susan Sontag