Confessions of a Yoga Teacher – Gay


by LS Harteveld

 I never invited a man to take our animated conversation to the bedroom. Even when I was completely single, and free to experiment, I never had sex with a man for his intellect. Even if they had been intellectual, I probably wouldn’t have known it, because I felt attracted to them for totally unrelated reasons.
And they to me.
Most men had been significantly younger than me. And one lover over a decade older. To this day I suspect him of being an Israeli spy. I capped having an older lover to this one-time experience. And not just because I feared I would open the secret door to the armory if pushed the wrong button on the oven.
With fluid sexuality being the norm these days, I wondered;
had I been prudish? I had been on dates with nerds, intellectuals, older men, students, and even a woman.
And I rarely beforehand ruled out falling head over heels in love. But my poor rep sheet of who had actually made it to the bedroom, proved my heart had been far from fluid and the kitty further south, had given diversity the middle finger.
And then it hit me. Something that moved this whole diversity, fluid sexuality ideal from the Stuff Singles People Do List, all the way over to;
Bullshit Things Couples Tell Themselves.
First of all, I still don’t rule out having sex with women. Or older men. It’s a fine line between being curious and scarcity. And I know scarcity of sex will make you curious about sex with partners who would not be your preferred choice. And that’s not a bad thing. Given the whole Adam and Eve situation, you may even argue that when push comes to shove, you owe it to your species to not be too picky about this.
But when it came to being diverse the only situation I saw where people stretched their orientation was when couples discussed the options of having sex with other people to keep their monogamous relationship interesting.
But guess what?
The moment a woman has sex with another woman because this is the only threesome her man doesn’t feel threatened by?
Doesn’t count.
A man agrees having another man present because his female partner wants this threesome?
Doesn’t count.
A man allows his girlfriend to only have lesbian affairs?
Doesn’t count.
Your real sexual orientation is this:
IF you are living in the land of plenty, and you can choose to have sex with, or have a relationship with, whomever you want. And that person will accept you with all your quirks, and honor your needs, and be happy for you if you find joy in bedding other people as well, or have second or third relationships on the side;
if that were ALL true, then tell me:
with who would you have a relationship?
More than likely, your sexuality turns out to be as flexible an iron fist.

An unexamined life is not worth living

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Confessions of a Yoga Teacher – YouTube

110by LS Harteveld

I restarted my YouTube channel. As a yoga teacher. Not a writer. And it wasn’t planned!
 In fact my plans had been diametrically opposite, to making a daily thirty minute yoga video on YouTube.
I pulled the plug from making yoga videos two months ago. There had been a variety of reasons. Each one of them a good enough for a total cancellation of the project. And yet?
One morning I got up and just couldn’t wait to start filming.
Another reason I originally had no intention of picking up my career as a spandex webcam girl, was because I had consciously decided against creating this kind of time consuming content for my yoga business.
It would be reserved for my new career. My new tribe.
The readers from my books.
After ten years I am taking my eight books public. And with this comes the responsibility to invest my efforts directly into my new career.
I would setup a new channel to promote my books..
But guess what? I never woke with the inexplicable urge to actually do that. It was something I thought I should.
But didn’t.
Even though I knew it was essential for potential readers to see me, before they would like my page or follow me on Twitter.
Buy my book, hear me read, or send me an email.
Any type of connection and interaction would be hindered if I didn’t facilitate the ninety percent of people who preferred a video instead of reading something.
Therefore I SHOULD make videos.
If writing was my new career I absolutely, non-negotiable, HAD TO make fucking videos. LIKE A NORMAL PERSON!
Except, we’re not really normal, are we?
For instance, I already know that you are part of the ten percent who is fine with reading something. The other ninety percent, didn’t click this diary post in the first place. And I kind of like that, you and me, don’t you?
By putting all my secrets in writing, instead of revealing them in the generic way of filming myself talk, I have already filtered out anyone who is not willing to make an effort.
WE are filtering that out. You and me.
Because you are here with me, when all the others aren’t.
I once dated a guy with whom I had deep conversations. It was a time where I had a sex life, as well as male friends whose intellect fascinated me. Yet there wasn’t anybody with whom I was in love.
I could have sex with whomever I chose.
I often wished I could have the sex with the ones I found intellectually stimulating.
Yet, I never did.
Until the date said to me:
“Of course not. You share yourself physically with one guy, and you share yourself mentally with the other. That way you are safe, and neither one has both.”
I will never refer my YouTube viewers to these diary entries. They can have my body, but not my mind.
But if you like to share a physical experience, you can find all my YouTube yoga videos here.
Just don’t tell anyone.

An unexamined life is not worth living

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Big – erotica and diaries. Part 4 and 5: The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai and More Erotica

This is THE END!
After writing;
-  a handful of autobiographical erotic stories about her affair with Big;
- coming to terms with her fragile status in The Virgin Diaries,
- and saving herself in the sensual self-help book The Way of the Trickster
Lauren now faces the task of getting her menstruation in check.
She chooses a book by Hsi Lai to guide her through with the promising title;
The Sexual Teachings of the White Tigress.
And after that, there’s more sex.

Part 4;

The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai

The Origin of Hsi Lai

The first question I got was if Hsi Lai was a man. Whoever had convinced women they would acquire immortality, enlightenment and eternal youth by giving blowjobs to a large number of men, should not be of the gender directly benefiting from it. Or my whole story had just lost its credibility. As far as it, or I, had any to begin with of course. My answer was yes. Yes, he’s a man.
But I think there are easier ways of getting blowjobs than to make up a whole book about a Taoist crossover between a brothel and a monastery owned by Madame Lin, where women learn to contain their energy (read: menstruation) by committing to a strict diet and lifestyle rules and find pleasure in playful lovemaking with men selected for their virility, strength and sperm.
Hsi Lai is a genuine spiritual seeker, who went on to become a Jade Dragon of his own, the sexual mate of the White Tigress. The White Tigress depends on her Green dragons, to whom she gives oral sex. The Jade Dragon can be her mate for advanced sexual practices, such as penetration of her vagina with just the tip of his penis.
That was more proof Hsi Lai didn’t write the book to do himself a favor. Any man convincing women to allow only for penetration with the tip of the penis (if any), is not making it an easy ride for either one of the genders.
Contrary to the most famous Taoist healing author, Mantak Chia.
Mantak Chia is the number one authority on Taoist healing. He has written multiple books on how to contain your sexual energy. For men, this is through not ejaculating when you orgasm. For women it is through controlling their menstruation. This is exactly the same theory as the White Tigress/ Jade Dragon theory.
The difference between the Hsi Lai book, and the much more popular one from Mantak Chia, is that Chia uses penetration (read: regular sex between couples) as something that is (when done well) healing for both.
This is diametrically opposite to the White Tigress theory from Hsi Lai. Because Hsi Lai stresses vaginal penetration is straining to a woman’s body and she doesn’t benefit from a man’s energy this way. The experience of vaginal penetration just weakens her. Whereas, especially if he doesn’t ejaculate, regular sexual intercourse does invigorate a man.
This warning against intercourse is why the White Tigress theory never made it big. And why Mantak Chia’s Taoist sexual healing is mainstream. Because his version benefits males and couples.
As a single woman, no kids, Chia’s sexual healing is not applicable to me. And not desirable either.
But to become a White Tigress instead, is alluring.
She is not a woman trying to make the most out of regular love making or out of her relationship. A White Tigress is an independent, spiritual practitioner, with an impeccable self-care regime. She arranges playful sexual encounters, in order to have oral sex and restore her youthfulness.
Those things appeal to me. I crave impeccable self-care and a spiritual practice. And the only thing I love more than oral sex, is to be play-raped. And I don’t mean with just the tip. It is one of the many things that could become a bit of a problem, when living by White Tigress rules.
The second question I got was:
“What exactly are you going to do for a hundred days?”
I am at day four and I still have no idea. I have new to do lists, resolution lists, and hard-to-get prescribed Chinese products still on my shopping list. I am drinking Don Quai tea; dried ginger-root like slices. It is grose but was prescribed by the book. And I accidentally clicked on a new article for hormonal balance where Don Quai, again, was literally hailed for being a hormone balancing Wunderkind. So I kept drinking it.
But other than that it is unclear what I am doing.
I have reread parts of The White Tigress, visited Toaist sites including the one from Hsi Lai, and watched videos of the Tao Garden from Mantak Chia. This only contributed to the chaos.
Meanwhile my house seems to be a mess, even though I never go to bed without making it nice and doing the dishes. My body regime too, is erratic. I wax my legs when I see my lover, and I have a work-out from teaching yoga and commuting by bike. But here too, I desire order and consistency. I sat down to make a plan. I didn’t fancy ending up an immortal sex goddess with a domestic disability.
But what was it then, that I hoped to find in the book of Hsi Lai?
I was able to find a YouTube video that illustrates who the White Tigress is. It is from an experimental theater company, that plays out a story from a real White Tigress.
A White Tigress/ actress tells how she meets with a man to have oral sex and how much she enjoys it. This is a perfect representation of how I feel when I am with my lover. All sensual and loving. Worshiping. A White Tigress always plays to be submissive, presumably because this intensifies his orgasm, giving her more of his yang energy. But I’m sure that, just like me, she enjoys being submissive. It intensifies her own pleasure as well.
The video opens with the name of a real White Tigress on whose story the video is based. You can Google her. She now includes other techniques too, but she appears to have been a White Tigress (trained by or through Hsi Lai) since 1989.
Contrary to a real White Tigress, who is on a fat free, beef free, dairy free diet that includes two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, I have chosen a different diet, in order to heal my teeth. I suffer decay and, or, nerve pains in an increasing number of teeth. Unless I aspire to become a multi four figure contributor to my dentist, I need to turn the tide.
Based on research of Weston A. Price from the beginning of the 20th century, I am on an animal fat rich diet to help my teeth. I make stock from chicken wings and dismantle nuts to get the phytic acid out. I did eat an orange, to meet my White Tigress nutrition list – although it should have been two glasses of juice – but it gave me such a violent tooth ache that I decided to take it really easy when it came to the dietary guidelines of a White Tigress. My teeth would go first. And if that meant my menstruation would stay messy, so be it.
My vision of a White Tigress is a clean and clear single lifestyle, with an orderly sex life. And good teeth.


Maybe it was because  I was on my White Tigress journey and expected to one day be able to milk men for their yang energy. But I can’t remember ever feeling so vibrantly happy and energized after giving oral sex. My arm and hand were splattered, my nose, my hip, cleavage. I read men who practiced Taoist methods to contain their sexual energy had orgasms only once a month, and would shoot as far as half a meter. Apparently regular men needed training for this. For half of this.
Whenever my lover climaxed after oral sex or a hand job, we had to inspect the whole room up to the ceiling for trails. And I had never told him anything about Taoist practices.
What I had told him, spooning against each other fully clothed, was a detailed account of how I had masturbated.
“I should have drank more,” I sighed as I snuggled up to him and made myself comfortable. In my lower belly I felt the same warmth spreading as when I made the preparations to masturbate.  A script that included every insertable toy I owned, and a vivid fantasy about my lover paying me a visit.
“Two wine is not enough for this confession.”
My lover groaned and pulled me even closer.
“That good huh?”

The biggest misconception about my project is that people think the White Tigress swallows semen to stay youthful. At least that is what I deducted from suddenly receiving links to articles about the nutritional benefits of semen. Also, someone informed me on the practices of bukake. Not a proposal to do one (which would have been quite in your face, but at least practical) but to inform me on what it was.

Let me get two things straight.
First – the White Tigress doesn’t swallow.
She absorbs male energy from her Green Dragons (never through swallowing) and from a Jade Dragon if she has one. With the Jade Dragon she uses more advanced techniques which could involve swallowing, but that is rare.
She will let the sperm land on her skin and leave it to dry. Any sperm that comes into her mouth – for example because she loves to have her mouth wide open and generously sticks her tongue out – has been into contact with air, which will kill most of the viruses. The White Tigress doesn’t let a man climax in her throat with her lips around his penis, and then swallows it. That’s not how it goes.
And secondly – I know perfectly well what bukake is.
I strongly discourage you to Google bukake. It’s the kind of search term that gets your computer infected with all kinds of exotic viruses. Which is a good bridge to one of the many  reasons why the White Tigress doesn’t swallow:
It can get you infected with all kinds of exotic viruses.
The number of men I’ve slept with is limited, because I’m overly aware of the dangers of unprotected sex and the viruses that do not require semen to transfer. If I get genital herpes, then what? Genital warts? How about that number of women on the rise (usually in a relationships) who need surgery on their cervix for a cancer caused by a virus? Men get throat cancer from the same virus from giving oral sex to women. I suspect, although I have never heard this proven, that women too, risk getting throat cancer from giving oral sex. Because why would men’s throats respond differently than ours?
When it comes to “safe sex” I never allow vaginal or anal intercourse without a condom. I have used condoms for oral sex as well, if I had no idea what the risk was or if I would see him again. I’m not going to risk throat gonorrhea for a chance encounter.
And no unauthorized rubbing, or explorative poking, with your bare saber. This is to prevent pregnancy but also to protect myself against warts and herpes, the best I can.
One of the reasons I’m working with The Sexual Teachings of the White Tigress, is that when it comes to safe or unsafe sex, she and me are one of a kind. We are both aware of the dangers yet we are still determined to have it.
Just that she knows more about cucumbers.
Cucumbers are acidic, and many viruses cannot survive there. A White Tigress uses them to clean her throat and vagina.
I ran into one of my yoga students, when I went out to buy my first cucumber. Or at least the first cucumber for this purpose. I had originally planned to get two, but when I saw the price, I thought it wiser to do just one for now. It was a supermarket I rarely use. I was sure my own supermarket would be less expensive. I would need half a cucumber a day minimum, for consumption. But they looked fairly large. I’m sure a third of this well-endowed Dutch greenhouse cucumber equaled half a Chinese cucumber in Taoist times.
I was still doing the math on my cucumbers when my student said hi, and we had a little chat. I considered sharing my cucumber thoughts but realized I would have to explain too many variables before she could help me in my decision process.
A White Tigress drinks the juice of half a cucumber, daily.
I don’t believe in juicing so I just eat that peeled, and whole.
A White Tigress cleans her throat and her vagina once a week with a peeled cucumber. It says the best way to do this is to peel half of a twenty centimeter long cucumber, and insert it (and swirl it around) holding it by the other half. Since Dutch cucumbers are indeed usually thirty centimeter, not twenty, this confirms my suspicion our cucumbers are significantly larger than Chinese.
And not just the cucumbers.
The cucumber is also used to train for a technique called The Red Dragon Retreats Into Silence. This technique is known in yoga as Khechari Mudra; the swallowing of the tongue. A cucumber can assist you in pushing it back.
It has (by itself) profound spiritual and physiological effects to be able to pull the tongue back, and is essential to become a real White Tigress and absorb male energy.
Cucumbers are also used to clean the penis of the partner of bacteria and viruses, and the smell of cucumbers is considered an aphrodisiac. Since I had no idea how my lover would respond to having his penis rubbed with produce, I decided to leave my cucumbers at home when after what seemed like an eternity, my lover and I had a date.
I put on my leather pants, a white shirt, packed my handbag with everything I thought we’d need. My smile revealed I was a woman on a mission.

The sore bits healed deliciously slow, and kept reminding me of our night. According to the White Tigress I had probably aged five years from vaginal penetration. And although I had learned over time to recover emotionally without him checking in or being there, it was at times like this, when our sex had been exceptionally gratifying, that I couldn’t help rethinking the whole thing.
Leave him!
 My ratio demanded.
Or was it my ego? But everything about me that beat, pulsed, moved, and breathed said;
I love you.
I’m so glad I found you.
I never had anything like this.  

Part of me longed for him to choose for me. But if that part was indeed Ego, it wasn’t out of love. It was because if he would choose me, I would be important. Feeding the ego with validation is like eating wine gums; it’s never enough and after the first bite you’re hooked.

Three women have warned me this week that I am vulnerable and that he can hurt me. I must end it, now that I’m still in one piece. It’s what society tells us. We must measure what we get from a relationship, and it must be more than the cost of getting hurt. Calculated risk management. And identical to a White Tigress woman, estimating the risk of getting an STD from a man, versus the revenue of his sperm.
One by one, the days went by and still I didn’t hear from him. My life seemed so quiet. As if God was holding his breath, awaiting my decision. What would I do? If he would break up with me, I had a zillion told you sos waiting for me, on top of heartbreak and pain. And all women who were married, had once been married, or intended to ever get married, would be happy that I got what I deserved.
I remembered how I had gotten dressed for our date. The attention for detail. I had shaved my pussy, which was supposed to a daily White Tigress routine but I intended to keep it at once a week. Or date nights.
We were waiting for dessert. I ran through my long blonde curls with my fingers, casually pulling them over one shoulder revealing my neck. We left and he asked me what I would like to do next. I laughed.
“I realize I could still just go home!”
And he smiled back.
“Of course. Always.”
Those are the things that make me stay.
The long build up, where I present myself I as a blushing, well-dressed, radiant woman. She is nowhere in sight, unless I’m going to see him.
And that he never expects anything.
He always meets me wherever I am. Sometimes I do go home and it’s just platonic. Or we have sex, and he is rough and demanding. Always giving me exactly what I want but do not dare to ask.
In real life, when our risky arrangement is simply how things are, and not some act to please me, the difficulty of the situation makes me feel alive. The threat of a broken heart is an extra thrill, that makes being with him even more exciting.

Showdown at the house of LS Harteveld

No one will be picture perfect, I guess. And when it comes to improving your life using an obscure method, with only one hardly known book ever written on the subject, this is even more so. I had to make peace with uninformed choices, and carving out my own path, right from the start.
Having that said, Hsi Lai’s book is very clear there are two things a White Tigress must never do, if she wants to increase her longevity and her mental powers.
1.  to have full, uncontrolled vaginal intercourse
2. to dwell on romantic feelings
Oh bummer. My two favorite things.
Even though my period has relapsed to low point 2011, and my PMS now includes dizziness near to fainting, I still can’t make myself implement the most basic change to my lifestyle: to get more lovers, since mine is hardly available. And to have oral sex with them.
Playful teenage-like sex, with a man coming in your face and on your cleavage, that’s what totally boosts a White Tigress immunity and strength.
The book has tons of chapters on how to do this precisely, but since I hardly get any practice, I must say I haven’t studied them in depth.
I did notice last time we were together that the myth was true. Having a man come in your face gives you significantly more energy than if he doesn’t. I was on a week long high.
But in my opinion ANY male attention will benefit you as a woman.
The theory is, a man is yang, and he loses energy (or Qi) through ejaculation. He needs to supplement his energy with a woman’s yin, which he can absorb through intercourse.
A woman is yin, and loses energy through menstruation. She needs to supplement her Qi with a man’s yang, that she can absorb through oral sex with a man.
I fully acknowledge sex as the most powerful tool to gain energy. But I think it can be platonic as well. That’s what I know from all those times when I felt completely stuck, and merely going on a date gave me such a boost!
I have five male friends. Whenever I see them I always feel invigorated. I’m sure that goes the other way around as well. That they too feel elevated by my company.
When it comes to supplementing my energy, I’m considering more of that. More men in my life who I can hang out with. Because my body was born monogamous. And if not my body, then at least my romantic heart.
As much as I endorse the idea of taking better care of myself, getting more yang on my tongue, face, and rest of my naked body, setting up encounters for the single purpose of having oral sex, is a disastrous idea. First of all, it would leave me upset (because I’m in love with my lover). Secondly, I would probably beg to be fucked hard and deep, and end up with far less Qi than I started with.
With my reluctance to explore sex with other men, barely seeing my lover, and being a total sucker for intercourse and romance, I’ve probably reached the stage Hsi Lai would give me a hard spanking. And expel me from White Tigress School.
Which is why I have decided to bail out. Before I shame the White Tigress title any further.       

The Lonely Pentecost of LS Harteveld

O-Ren: “You didn’t think it was going to be this easy, did you?”
B.: “You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did.”

They say the holidays are the hardest. He’s with his family, you don’t hear from him, and your body still longs for his embrace. But all cuddles go to those entitled to receive his love. It’s true. The holidays are the hardest. Especially with the memory of your date so fresh.
In the past I could have blogged an erotic story to ease my suffering. A handmade afterglow by reliving the greatness of our sexual encounter. It helped me to process the intensity of it. The boundaries I gave up, willingly, to fully experience what he could give me. The fulfillment of my darkest fantasies. It is always after those sessions I yearn for him most, when his marginal communication is a hard landing after being intimate.
“How are you feeling? Are you okay?” was the last thing I texted.
The silence was deafening.
I had started writing erotica, as a medicine for those day-after mornings, lonely weekends and absent minded working hours. I had experience writing erotica – but mostly fiction – and I had written several online diaries. They had contained sex but were never that graphic and allowed for enough space to have a real relationship.
At least that’s what I had told myself.
In retrospect I had needed the diaries to create a lover more “deserving” of my adoration. The diary compensated for everything he wasn’t and covered up for things I didn’t like. The diaries carved out someone I could unconditionally love. And to complete my betrayal I omitted the times a sexual fantasy was fulfilled. I had left the best things out.
But Big was different.
I never wanted to write about sex with him. I never even wanted to have sex. I never set the intention: “Hey, let’s go have the best sex of my life with a married man with children, and then write about it.” I didn’t do that. But I have been entirely intentional going on a sexual odyssey when I gave up a relationship at thirty-four. I went to a sexual therapist to work through my fears and started dating for the first time in my adult life. Finding the perfect lover was my holy grail. And I pursued it with the same vigor other women go after babies or husband material. From that perspective, when my holy grail turned out to be married with kids, of course I was not going to veto it. Especially not on moral grounds. Morality was of no use where I wanted him to go. This brazen, taken, cunning man was the key to every fantasy I cherished. Eight years since I started my quest.
I had found him.
And it was just the beginning.
At our first make-out session I ended up naked. I was intimidated but also fascinated. He had tweaked my resistance in the most satisfying way. And at our first time real sex I was baffled by his sexual stamina. Over, and over, and over. I was in my period. How many men in their forties have the energy to wear you out on days like that? He did. Every date he surprised me, by creating a lighthearted kind of intimacy or, quite the opposite, by taking it somewhere I thought I wasn’t ready for. He always seemed to understand what the moment required.
And even though he challenged me sexually, he never initiated it. Not really. I had brought my fantasies up in conversation and he just effortlessly took control and positioned himself as the one in charge. I was cleared from all responsibility.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked before I would enter his “doctor’s office”.
“You figure it out,” he answered in a domineering voice.
“It’s your fantasy.”
If he had hesitated, the session would have started off on the wrong foot. I would not have trusted him with the role, and would have been weary for moments I had to cue him. That one line You figure it out indicated that he was not my buddy or my confidant. He was now a stranger, one step from being a doctor. Distance was a key ingredient.
And it worked. Brilliantly.
With Big everything I learned about men – they’re not always hard and entitled to have their own insecurities- didn’t apply. Someone joked I was dating a Porn King. That nailed the kind of performance he would deliver. An outstanding one. But it also indicated he was not going to be there for me after. I would be alone. The insecurities that creep up on every woman after having sex – Does he love me? Does he love me enough? Why isn’t he here?- were amplified because the sex had been more intense than ever. I needed him more than any man, and he was available the least.
Every time we had sex it escalated into a break-up, with me needing him, and him withdrawing. But since he was obviously the dream partner I had been waiting for, and because he refused to be manipulated by me, our break-ups were neither permanent nor did they solve anything. They were just annoying. It was like a power struggle I knew I could never win. And had I found a way to win, I would have ruined our sexual game because I would have taken his power away.
That’s when the erotica came in.
Instead of trying to get him to do what I wanted, I started writing. For one year I wrote our most memorable sessions to erotic stories, on my LS Harteveld blog. Then I stopped. I would focus on my books. I emptied the blog of anything I wanted to print, including my erotica.
Not just because I was publishing the books. I had also become uneasy with the material being public. I’d had my coming out. My LS Harteveld readers knew the name of my yoga studio, and my yoga students knew my pen name. The two worlds had merged. Which was a good thing, but I didn’t need transcripts of ground breaking sexual sessions available online for free. Not anymore.
But I had forgotten writing erotica had served a purpose: to be there for me when I needed to process some pretty intense stuff. It had been my way to sieve out all the good, let go of all bad, and to work through the fears that had come up.
My erotica had kept me from breaking down.
This Pentecost was not just hard, because I was a mistress. It was the backlash from not writing erotica.
In the words of Kill Bill, the movie that inspired the titles of these chapters:
“You didn’t think it was going to be this easy, did you?”
“You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did.”


Part 5;

More Erotica

erotic story: The Saint

I have been sober for two weeks, praising the clarity of my mind and embracing my new identity as social saint. I am beyond suspicion when it comes to matters of good character, disciplined living, and other traits hailed in yoga teachers and other balanced professionals. I have given up drinking to gain full control over my mental powers and my old personality fell of me. Like lizard’s skin. My white winter coat, that I am still wearing these cold days this May, has become a white cloak of innocence. Not drinking has provided me with a VIP Saint card that will let me off the hook till eternity or until my first wine. Whichever one comes first.
I ring the top bell to the penthouse and stay in front of the camera even though I will have to leap to get the door. The buzzer always seems too short. His “hello?” always disturbed, as if he didn’t expect company. The hallway is quiet like an insurance office, with succulent dark green plants and luscious ferns in brick planters with terra colored granules. The elevator is waiting for me on the ground floor and will take me to a home cooked dinner. Steak and salad. He will have extra dark chocolate mousse from the caterer and will feed it to me before dinner and I’ll say:
“You know this is cheating, right?”
And he’ll answer:
“I do.”
For a while we switched to daylight. The dates became more frequent and never caused the withdrawal of our nightly encounters. They didn’t invoke the insatiable need in me to be held, to be comforted. Which had proven to be problematic. His after-sex service stopped at the door.  Daytime sex was neither remembered for its epicness, nor for its disruptive backlash. It merely touched the surface of what we were capable of. They probably stopped because he too preferred agony – in his case a guilt ridden heart – to barely feeling anything. It was a price we were willing to pay.
A wave of nervousness flushes over me, mixed with excitement and arousal. A big smile, feeling so deliciously alive. Still in awe over the purity of this. Wholeheartedly being in love is miraculous in its simplicity. You can’t believe you’ll ever settle on feeling anything less than an intoxicating thrill.
His tall physique blocks the door. I kiss the shaved cheek and receive a hug from the sturdy torso. It’s the familiarity between our bodies that always surprises me. I like role playing and sex games, and have done that with all of my boyfriends. But it’s the uncompromising love our bodies have for each other that makes this intoxicating.
The friendly wrinkles near his bright blue eyes. The husky How are you? It’s all equally enchanting. Craving that first moment our lips touch and then controlling myself because I don’t want to admit how much I want him. Or how much more I want. Progressive and addictive as wine. Maybe that’s why I stopped drinking because no way I could sober up on this one. The deeply seductive Mister Big.
He’s wearing one of his white pressed shirts, top buttons loose, sleeves rolled up. I never understood how a man my age could be so potent and yet still have a full head of black hair. Where does he leave all that testosterone? He has moderate chest hair like a twenty year old. But the cute eye wrinkles and sun tanned skin put him right up in his forties. I suspect he has never been more stunning than he is now. And he has never been more dangerous.
“So no wine I guess?”
He throws me a devilish smile before taking a sip from his red in an elegant oversized glass.
He prepares our meal without putting on an apron. Thank God. Not that I ever detected one here but with a business shirt like that and my broad experience with dating, part of me still expects he’ll get anal on moments like that. And not in a good way. Considering the flaws I neglected in other men, insecurities I healed, egos I mended and the gallons of unrepresentative outfits I tolerated, I forgive myself for being cautious. Those poor lovers probably had to put up with my quirks as well. Nothing is as tiring as imperfect love. It’s the flawless ease of being together that gives him away. His true feelings. The ones he’ll rather choke on than share. I’m convinced never speaking of love is his way of staying loyal to his wife. A successful one, as far as I’m concerned.
The table is already set and he serves me a medium steak without asking how I have it.
His is thicker and rare.
“Why did you stop drinking?”
“I got you to make my head spin,” I tease.
“And I like the saint status. I could play out my darkest fantasies and still look at myself in the mirror.”
“I like that. What do you want to do?”
Big’s bedroom has a mirror at the ceiling. I had not thought of taking it literally.
“Maybe we could do something from the bucket list?” I suggest.
Part of me still fears he’ll reject me. Before, during or after. And that’s not counting his regular forty-eight hour post-coital fall-out.
“Sure. Which one?”
“I thought the doctor one.”
He gulps down his wine.
“Give me a minute.”
He leaves the candles burning, music on, and walks to the bedroom.
“What do I say then?” I suddenly panic.
We French kissed in the kitchen half an hour ago. And although I could feel myself getting turned on, making out on the countertop, legs spread, it didn’t count as real foreplay. But this does. That domineering voice telling me:
“You figure it out. It’s your fantasy.”
He calmly walks to the bedroom and closes the door lightly. Nerves flare up with an intensity of a thousand butterflies. Fuck. We’re gonna do this.
My mind races with options. A non-sexual ailment and leave it up to him to make it sexual? That’s not my fantasy. That’s a porn script.  He might as well have been a pizza delivery guy. I decide to take responsibility for the way we start off. He’ll take it from there, I know he will. But he will be more bold if I stand up for what I want. And not be shy or dodgy.  I will say I have a new boyfriend after a very long time of being single. Intercourse is painful and I have no idea what’s going on. I walk to the bedroom. I’m suddenly scared but I already knocked. The door opens. He’s wearing his glasses. I’m so stunned I forget to introduce myself and weakly shake his hand.
“Please take a seat.”
The room is brightly lit. I get the extra chair near the small desk. The bed is bare, with a white fitted sheet. He routinely goes through a set of questions, without showing any interest. He tells me to undress.
I take my pants off. He stays at his desk, occupied with his notes.
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen it all.”
Bored. Arrogant. I can feel the thrill of this fantasy unfolding. Like I’m unwrapping a present knowing what’s in it, and yet I get more excited with every new layer of see through paper. I know I’ll be wet when he examines me. I can protest and complain as much as I like without him thinking I want to stop.
He looks over his glasses.
“You can lie down. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
A towel is waiting for me, laid out horizontally.
I stare in the mirror above me, my knees drop out, ankles crossed. I’m still wearing a red top. I can hear a pen scratching the paper. A dry cough. Absentminded noises. Maybe it’s the lack of alcohol but I have this heightened sense of awareness. I feel the air to my skin and between my legs. The tension in my body builds up in a way that becomes unbearable. The only choice is to let go but it’s like it’s wringed out of me. The face in the mirror stares back, close to tears, reflecting an uneasy bunch of mixed emotions. I close my eyes. No shame. No mirror.
His weight next to me.
“This can be a bit cold.”
He spreads my labia.
“Just try to relax as much as possible.”
I moan, startled by his fingertips and my burning desire.
I answer questions about what I feel and follow instructions. When to push, when to relax. When to brace myself. I don’t protest when he announces he will do the back, and he goes through the whole script again. And I welcome the final phase. The build up to examining both. I squeak and can’t resist looking in the mirror. No matter how much shame forbids it. He leaves for the bathroom and I hear him wash his hands. I smile at the bashful woman. She’s blushing.
He returns, still drying his hands with a soft white towel and I give him a “That was fun!” glance. But he looks serious.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
He puts the towel on the nightstand and sits next to me.
“I need to do one more examination.”
A shock of horniness immediately flows to my pussy. I gawk at him. He ignores my off-key response.
“You need to stay present for this. You can’t shut your eyes and you will have to look at me. Can you do that?”
Another rush. I nod. Yes.
He extensively walks me through what I can expect. Every detail, every calmly explained invasive act makes me shiver, desire, and fear in the most delicious way. A growing urge to drop out of the role of the victimized patient and share my enthusiasm. But I don’t.
I manage to smile only once. He rewards me with quick wink.
“I need your permission,” the serious voice rounds up everything he just told me.
“It will be painful. But I’ll stop if you can’t take any more.”
Blue eyes. Stern glasses.
“Okay,” I whisper coarsely.
Our session goes on for another hour before we lie in each other’s arms. Fully satisfied. I can finally tell him how amazing this was. I already got a taste of it with a playful lover, years ago.
“I never went for pap smears after that,” I say.
“Why not?” Big asks.
“You would actually enjoy it.”
I repeat my pragmatic view on illness and early diagnoses. Something we have opposing views on. But that’s not the only reason.
“Until I played doctor with him, I didn’t know how much I love this.”
I let past experiences and what we just did melt together. Like I’m accumulating treasures.
“I think I love it more than life itself.”
He tightens his arms around me, and squeezes me even closer with a warm hugging leg.
“I know.”

erotic story: The Quickie

The buildup is always different. Time is a factor. The longer it takes before we see each other, the stronger the desire. But it’s not just the weeks apart that determine how much I need his touch, how much I crave to be kissed and hugged, or how eager I am to be fucked before my body has a chance to catch up. My longing grows with every fantasy sparked and shared. With every scenario hinted at and masturbated on. With every script in my head that gives me orgasms no real life partner can give me. Big’s imaginary and always available twin brother works them brilliantly. How desperate I am to see Big depends on how many earth shattering masturbation sessions I had.
And this time it was a lot.
“BB I’m of no use. I’ll be wasted from my trip.”
BB meant Baby Bee. But this little insect was not taking no for an answer.
“Can I come over AM? I’ll bring breakfast.”
On a sunny day I arrive with a box of fresh eggs, French bread, Italian meat products and a selection of condoms that could cover a modest gangbang.
As expected Big is clean and dressed, despite just rolling jetlagged out of a plane. His overseas meeting was jammed into an in-and-out operation which illustrated his attitude to work. I fear I will one day lose him to a heart attack but I never say that. And by pushing he has sex with me, I am keeping him overworked.


Big is always quicker than me. Already back into his clothes, his hair nicely combed. Music and the smell of coffee escape from the kitchen. I’m putting my hair back up although I’ll probably look fucked despite. I join him in the kitchen. He’s boiling two eggs for each.
“I’m concerned about you, how much you work. I feel guilty asking for your time.”
“You have every right to ask for it,” Big responds.
“How’s the yoga business going?”
“Crushing it. I want the same success for my books. I’m inspired by Stoya.”
Big was responsible for introducing me to her porn on one of our first dates.
“I want to be the Stoya of literature. She’s totally independent. She has her own channel.”
“Are you a member?” Big laughs.
“It’s a business expense. My accountant might think otherwise.”
Big shakes his head, still laughing.
“Compared to you my work will always be boring. And stressful.”
We sit down for our breakfast to conclude our ninety minute date. He has to leave for an appointment.
“I collected my stuff, but the cap from the lube is missing. You were the last one to have it.”
“Just leave it,” he shrugs. “It’s not like it has any text on it, right?”
“Like extra long lasting lubricant for hours of anal sex?”
“I’m sure it’s neutral,” he insists.
“I would recognize a lube cap anytime. You’re responsible. You were Chief Lubrication Officer.”
“I’ll have a look. Are you still sore?”
“From behind you mean?”
He nods.
“Because it hurt and we stopped.”
I shake my head.
“That’s okay. I wanted you so bad I got greedy. I wanted you so much it hurt.”


I smelled liquor on his breath. Probably booze from the Wall Street bar he went to with an American colleague.
“There are two cute girls,” he texted.
“But my buddy here is not getting my signals.”
“Are you turning me on?” I texted back.
“Is it working?” he asked.
I was always afraid he would get an STD. Yet when he hinted at sex with other women the turn on was undeniable. If he ever became trustworthy I would probably end it for reasons of irreconcilable boredom.
“It scares me, you and someone else. But it also turns me on. Conflict of interest.”
I Whatsapped when he was waiting at the gate.
“I can handle that,” he texted back.
I can handle that opened the door, I dropped my bags, threw myself into his arms and was welcomed by a warm tongue, strong arms, and dry fucked against the wall. I was groaning with every painful rub of his hard on to my jeans. We made it to the bedroom and undressed each other in what seemed like one yearning, one mutual desire. And then it stopped. It was the too-much-on-your-plate suddenly-not-hungry experience I never had with him. That feeling of wanting sex but for unknown reasons dropping out of it. It would still be okay but it would lack the most vibrant part.
We were naked and kissing and I didn’t know if I was going to tell him. I could already feel the disappointment that whatever I would do, I could not bring it back. Suddenly he ceased his passionate cuddling and made eye contact.
“What do you want?”
I let the maturity of his question sink in. It went straight between my thighs. He gave a soft kiss on my cheek but his embrace stayed still.
“What do you really want? You can tell me.”
His voice was controlled, sensual and slow. He knew the effect it had on me. And we had a shared memory of our first time anal sex where he had asked the exact same thing: What do you really want?
“I want anal sex,” I sighed. “Very much”
I nodded.
“I bought new lube. I’ll show you.”
Relieved I could hand this over to him, I showed him the lube and which condom to use for this.
“I got it.”
He lay down on his back.
“Now come here.”
He directed me in a straddle pose over his face and I received his warm tongue. With a generous combination of tongue, saliva, and  fingertips, he did what he could to prepare me. He asked me to give him a blowjob and I did. I still didn’t know who enjoyed it more, him or me. It was one of the many things that was always flawless. Memories of other men were mixed. Like I had been the one enjoying sex and needed to fix them. Mister Big didn’t require fixing.
“Here,” he said.
I looked up and he handed me the condom.
“Come sit.”
I was the woman on top and the moment it went in I collapsed in total pleasure.
“It’s been so long,” I said, suddenly emotional.
He embraced me, hugging me close. Our French kisses mixed with my tears of joy and I pressed my knees to his ribs. He slid a fingertip up my ass and hugged me even closer. A rocking movement.
He took the bottle of lube. I sat up straight and we stared in each other’s eyes as he used the lube to stretch me from behind.
“You like it double, don’t you?”
I gave him a wide smile. He lifted me up.
His tip pressed my anus and I slowly lowered. He thrust up, just a little nudge, which resulted in an immediate sharp pain.
“Ow! Don’t move,” I begged.
Whenever I dared to move it hurt. No matter how careful I was.
“It’s so painful. I can’t take it.”
We hugged intensely, faces buried in each other’s neck and my tears ran freely.
“I miss you so much sometimes.”
I was on hands and knees.
His first thrust was just to get in. The second hit the cervix. The third and fourth made me shout out. I forced him to slow down even though I had agreed to be “fucked doggy style, properly” as he put it. When he finally backed off it became sensual smooth fucking. The two, three deep thrusts I got after I cried out became a source of joy, transforming into hot waves of pleasure. A finger in my ass, probably a thumb. Pleasure and shame. I dropped onto my forearms and pressed a pillow to my face. Smothering my orgasm. He came the moment I did.
We cuddled and kissed. Our after play was always simple and loving.
I remarked:
“I think we did everything two people can do to each other. In under thirty minutes.”
“The best recipe for a jetlag I could have wished for.”

Elle and I

I’m editing my books and rereading my man quest, man trouble, man desires, from eight years back and beyond. And two things stand out. No three. Three things stand out.
1. I’m never jealous if I suspect or know a man has someone else
2. I have a weak spot for unavailable (read: taken) men, which has “deteriorated” with age.
3. I keep thinking I should date an available, single man
And then I read this article about compersion. It was written by a woman whose boyfriend had “cheated”, with her permission. Compersion means getting aroused from the idea, or knowledge, that your partner is having sex with someone else. Between her sentences, describing how she and her boyfriend were in this together and how she took part in selecting the new partner, I discovered a whole new species.
The compersionist.
Just like there are dominants and submissives, a cheater has a counterpart. An ideal partner that everyone has failed to identify: the compersionist.
Someone who likes the idea of you having other partners. Like the dominant and the submissive, the compersionist and the cheater are like yin and yang. Like the hero and the villain. They need each other. When matched to others they are dysfunctional, but together they are the perfect match.
The compersionist is the counterpart of the cheater that no one, as far as I know, has managed to identify. She, or he, is the missing link in our view on relationships.
I realized:
1. the reason I am never jealous is because I get turned on by my guy and other women
2. the reason I prefer men in relationships is because they have another woman
3. the reason I don’t have an available, single man is because he could fail to cheat on me.
Just like I like to be play-raped, and play doctor, and love watching Stoya’s beautiful little pussy, I need a guy to have someone else. Sure! It would be great if I was number one. But being number two is a guarantee he has sex with someone else, and that the compersionist in me stays interested and intrigued.
More than ever, Big’s marriage will have my respect. Now that I realize I didn’t choose him despite him being married. To a large extend, I chose him because of it.
I remember a conversation I had with Big. Could be a year ago, but it’s something that comes up frequently. I always say to him:
“If we ever get a normal relationship, I’m giving you one task. One responsibility. To make sure our life is never boring.”
Somehow I think he’s up for that.

erotic story: The Choice

I first noticed it last summer, although to this day I have no idea what caused it. Instead of just opening the front door and staying in his penthouse apartment, Big was waiting in the hallway. The black haircut appeared slightly longer, and the eyes had a friendliness that conflicted with their icy blue color. But more than anything it was the wordless longing that was expressed in him being there, literally meeting me halfway. I felt like Dian Fossey the moment a gorilla acknowledges her presence. It moved me. I was grateful, yet I had no hope this change was permanent. I was still living on one night of alcohol induced I love yous from last year, so I expected this second cameo of his soft side to be short lived. Soon he would be the tough, married business man again, who did whatever was required to be successful in the field of finance, family life, and pleasure. He was able to downsize himself, to make me feel at ease. I still needed that casual ignorance and the lighthearted jokes to relax around him. But I had never mistaken his behavior for vulnerability. But the moment in the hall? I immediately treasured it as his second slip of the heart, as evidence he loved me. Not knowing how long I had to go without signs this time.
But something had changed.
He grew more consistent in asking me out, and in sending me messages every couple of days. And for the first time in our entire affair, he allowed me a glimpse of the drama that was the cause of havoc in his marriage and family life. I cried. Early this year, I had decided:
“Whatever his reasons are, I can trust them to be just.”
I didn’t doubt he was a cheater. Or as I had diagnosed it: a closet case polyamorist. But I could feel in my bones our affair had not been planned this way. That it exceeded the level of secretive fun with lady friends or exes he picked up in bars. Something I hoped he still did because it turned me on. I wasn’t justifying his cheating. No excuse was needed there. But after our night of I love yous I was certain he was crazy about me, and didn’t understand why he didn’t crossover.
That’s when I decided;
“He has his reasons.”
The thought had comforted me. Except now that he had told me what was going on, it was far from comforting. My part, as the unacknowledged mistress, had been the long end of the straw all along.
I wrote him a love letter closing with;
“I will cherish every moment we have together. And I want you to stop thinking that a man who would choose for me would make a better partner. I am my own woman and I made my choice. And it’s you.”

It is a rainy November night. He greets me in the hallway.
“Hello, Red Riding Hood.”
It sounds like a love poem.
“Hello Wolf.”
He takes my red woolen coat, and I snuggle my scarf and gloves over the heater.
“If you ever break up with me, I’ll only have black men,” I announce, looking for an alternative should the highly arousing Big leave me.
“You already did that. Before me.”
“I was still pretty versatile. How do the others do that? Don’t they miss you?”
“Like they would tell me!”
We go to the kitchen and he makes us hot coco with whipped cream. And I explore my favorite topic a little further.
“I was serious though. Even if it’s just one night. I’m sure they all want more.”
“Not really. I’m always very clear.”
“Sure. The next day. You fuck them and then you’re clear.”
“No, I always say it upfront. They have a choice.”
Big ensures me it’s common sense and serves his own interest. He learned early on that if you leave that open, there’s going to be trouble.
“Sometimes they didn’t want sex. That’s okay.”
I think back to our first make-out session. He wanted sex, but I was afraid because it was going so fast. He scared me both emotionally and physically. If he had warned me it meant nothing, he would have gotten nowhere with my tensed up body and anxious mind.
“I didn’t get your disclaimer,” I confront him.
“Now what does that tell you?”
He smiles contently, as if he won an argument. And maybe he did.
The past weeks went by fast, and were marked by an uncanny number of intimacies. Big hung out on my couch with my cat Max, who he fist bumped because Max supposedly craved male companionship. He mastered Max’s wide eyed facial expression, and used it to get my hugs and kisses on demand. He supported me, cracking jokes when I had to call the GP’s office to get my STD results. And I finally conquered my shame, and asked him to play doctor with me. I would say “bringing in the big guns”, but that would probably be too graphic.
We’re on the couch with our coco.
“I masturbated a lot, after last time,” I say.
That happened often. My libido could dry up easily, both within a relationship or with regard to masturbation. But after seeing Big, it would flare back up. And sometimes sustain for a whole week.
“You fulfilled my deepest fantasy. Even though it was just the try-out.”
“A try-out? I did stuff I had to Google!”
“Well you know! We didn’t really role play. It was just the technical side.”
Big had thrown in sufficient doctor lines to turn me on, but it had been clear I was running the show. We had been at my place, and I had brought up some concerns with regard to sex. And Big had come with a tempting invitation.
“Maybe you should determine what we’re going to do.”
“Really? Well there is something. Not sure if you’re up for it.”
While taking out my minimalist but deliciously intimidating toy collection and displaying it on the nightstand – unpacking every item like Christmas had come early – I exuberantly jumped on a laid back Mr.Big.
“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this!” I exclaimed.
No wonder the high had lasted a week.
“What’s in the bag?” Big asks, nodding to the backpack I use for everything from grocery shopping to city trips. Just never on dates.
I smile widely, reliving last week’s excitement.
“I don’t want to miss out. Should the mood strike.”
“Looks like it already has. You always smile when we play.”
“I know! I’m so happy because you’re so dominant! That’s why dominants can be hired. No one hires a sub to have a good time.”
“We could make you the first,” Big suggests.
“I could pay you to abuse you.”
I’m so excited I almost shake my whipped cream out of my mug.

He makes me wait outside and blindfolds me before he takes me back in. He is undressing me. I shiver, although the apartment is not cold. He touches me slightly longer than necessary to unhook my bra. To pull down my jeans. Holding me steady with one arm around my legs. He asks me to step out of my panties. There is something so masculine about him, so steady and determined. The anticipation, adds to the excitement. What will he do?
He places a hand on my back, maneuvers me to the table, and makes me bend over. Waiting. He caresses my pussy.
“Good, you’re wet. You’ll need that.”
I moan when he pushes his fingers in. He slowly moves them deeper and back, and starts to talk. In that husky, enchanting voice.
“I’m going to make this as pleasurable as I can. But I’m not going to stop. Do you understand that?”
I feel a warm wave towards his fingers.
“I do.”
My forehead presses onto my fists. For a moment I lose him. He just leaves me there waiting.
I gasp as he wets my ass and pushes a finger in. Damn. I didn’t expect that. My mind immediately catches up to what this means for our session. I think I know what he picked from the bag. The finger slips out.
“This should feel alright. Just relax as much as possible.”
A soft, slim, toy entering. Oh, I know what he picked.
Last year, I joined him on a business trip. On our way to dinner, he suggested to hop into a sex shop. We cheekily browsed through the shelves and he showed me a box that said anal starter kit, which I welcomed with inappropriate enthusiasm. I was still studying the different props on the back of the box, when he said:
“Or maybe this one.”
It was called anal stretching kit, and it had three black butt plugs. Slim, average and extra wide.
“After all, you’re not exactly a beginner.”
I liked the rich content of the first box, but I knew the second would be more practical. The first box was a bit like how they sell boxes of assorted fireworks in the Netherlands. It makes you greedy, but if you sieve through it, you realize there’s only a few really good ones in there.
I chose the second.
We rarely used it, because they were kept at my place. And when we did, we never used the XL.
He pulls the toy out.
“I think you’re ready for the next.”
I’ve had Medium. Two, maybe three times. And it helped a lot. Because anal sex had been painful. More than Big knew.
I had talked about the props with my gay best friend.
“Do you have the after-cramps? It does help when he preps me.”
But my friend shook his head.
“I think men and women are quite different down there.”
“Want some more lube?”
“Please,” I squeak.
And I feel a slippery finger. A warm palm massaging my butt cheek. He pushes a second finger in and I gasp again.
“Oh God….”
It’s standing here like this, that arouses me. Giving up everything. Suffering anything. An emotion I feel quite alone at, but in a positive way. Like the perfect solitude of masturbation. Even Big, being dominant, will never understand this dark pleasure of being allowed to surrender. Just like I cannot understand his.
“Okay just relax. I will go slow.”
I bite my hand.
“Oh God. It’s scary.”
“I’ll be gentle.”
I can feel the tip of the second plug go in, and then he pulls it back slightly. This one is stressful already. Probably because I know he’ll go for that third one after. He pushes it further in. A sharp pain makes me gasp and beg, in one collapse of body language. I quickly recover,  finding the strength in my legs, grabbing the table.
I start to cry blindfolded tears. So bitter sweet. The dildo must be fully in now. Two hands caressing my broken back, stroking my soft hair. Fingertips following my paranoid jaws.
“Are you okay?”
The voice comforting and strengthening.
“It’s a bit much”
The confession sucks me in even deeper into that lonely haze of unnamed grief.
“It’s a bit much,” I repeat.
I don’t know if I want him to rescue me from whatever is triggered here. I feel his fingers in my pussy. Gentle at first, then a two fingered twist. I hear a condom foil, and bite my arm in longing.
It’s as if Big is hotwired to my brain. To a part I don’t have access to. The part that has the answers, and knows which grief to soothe, what pain to end, or when despair is a cue to give you your first double penetration in your whole fucking life.
I get even more emotional because it’s all so damn perfect.
Yes, I’ve chosen.
He makes his cock linger at the entrance. My body and mind are still confused, both in their own way. Dripping wet, but tensed up. Crying, but aroused. His cock moves in, and my “Oh God” has never been more real.
“I love you!”
I choke my confession in my arms, the blindfold, and the unforgiving cold hard table. The hotness between my legs and the grief leaving my body, both fighting for attention. And then I surrender to both of them. They mix, and become my personal version of heaven.
I beg him to stop to recover from my orgasm. But he ignores it. A minimal slowing down of his thrusts, but he grips my hips more firmly. Whenever I start overthinking it he hurts me. Moves the butt plug painfully. Fucks me too deep. Pinches my nipples. He delays his orgasm in the most horrible, delicious, magnetizing way. Until finally, he leans forward, an arm wraps around me, and he buries his head in my neck. He comes hard, in bull-like fashion.
Worn-out, I wait until the panting stops, the heavy hug tightens, and the husky voice gives me the ultimate pleasure.
“I love you too.”

That was it!
With this double penetration, The Choice is actually the final story, from the final book of
The Wait Worth 8.
For those of you who can read Dutch; the first book, first scene, actually starts with a double penetration as well, so in case someone ever graduates on my work, I do think this should be in there somewhere ;)
You can check this page to read the entire Wait Worth 8 for free, for a limited time.

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Witte Tijgerin – seksueel meesterschap voor solitaire vrouwen | aflevering 2 De Partners van de Witte Tijgerin

Weet je niet wat een Witte Tijgerin is?
Klik hier voor aflevering 1: Ben jij een Witte Tijgerin? 

Het geheim van Avery

Klik op de foto voor een interview met Avery Moore

Klik op de foto voor een interview met escort Avery Moore

Het is mijn overtuiging dat om solitair te zijn met een seksleven, je een aantal talenten en eigenschappen moet hebben die zich in één naam laten samenvatten.
Je moet zo zijn als Avery Moore.
 Avery Moore was een duizend dollar per uur escort die tot 2015 actief was. Ze is bekend geworden toen ze in maart 2014 haar
urenregistratie van 2013 omzette in spiffy taart- en staafdiagrammen.
Zo kon je zien dat ze in september een hele drukke week had van 97 uur, en de week erna vakantie nam. Op haar website stonden foto’s van haar maagdelijk witte, ranke dijen en total body shots van haar platte buik en volle heupen. Zonder dat er één tepel of schaamhaar te zien was. Haar gezicht was ook altijd buiten beeld. Je zag haar volle bruine golvende haar. Haar mond stond een beetje open alsof ze zuchtte. Haar bovenlip was smal, wat prettig, natuurlijk oogde.
Haar website bevatte naast haar tarieven, alle voorwaarden waar je aan moest voldoen om überhaupt met haar te mogen werken. Zo kreeg je een gedegen screening of je wel was wie je zei, en moest je bij voorkeur niet onder de dertig zijn. Als je onbeleefd was tegen service personnel dan gingen jij en Avery ook geen vriendjes worden.
Wie de moeite nam het uitstekend geschreven blog te lezen, vond op diverse plaatsen nog meer waarschuwingen. Zo hoefde je niet op een vervolgafspraak te rekenen als je na de eerste keer om korting ging vragen.

We hebben het hier dus over een vrouw die duizend dollar per uur vraagt en daarnaast een hele waslijst eisen heeft. Dat is vergelijkbaar met een Witte Tijgerin. De Tijgerin bepaalt hoe het contact verloopt om de ervaring voor haar én haar partner een maximale waarde te geven.
Daarnaast zijn zowel de Tijgerin als Avery prettig gezelschap.
Want ondanks haar hoge eisen pakket (of misschien dankzij?) wist Avery je tussen de regels door te complimenteren. Ze riep een sfeer op van vertrouwen en genegenheid.

Ik vond haar als schrijver onder een pseudoniem. Hoewel haar literaire kwaliteiten onmiskenbaar waren, noemde ze zich prostituee. Ze zei dat ze dit deed omdat ze zich liet betalen, met de belofte van penetratie. Hoewel een enkele klant zover niet ging, zei ze dat haar werk niet bepaald “sex-free” was.
Prostituee dus.
Maar uit haar stukken bleek dat ze zeer gevoelig was voor de zachte, onzekere kant van haar klanten. En als ze vermoedde dat hij op duistere manieren aan het geld was gekomen, dan verbaasde ze zich erover dat er desondanks zoveel liefde tussen haar en haar klant kon zijn. Dat ze ook iemand die waarschijnlijk niet van onbesproken gedrag was, helemaal kon accepteren zoals hij was.

In dit vervolg materiaal, waarin ik Avery opnieuw leerde kennen tot ze met pensioen ging, werd duidelijk dat ze niet zozeer penetratie verkocht. Of alleen haar gezelschap. Ze verkocht empathie, begrip, en hoop.
Voor duizend dollar per uur verkocht Avery Moore de liefde zelf.

 Welke partner is, of zijn, voor jou geschikt?

In het vorige hoofdstuk vertelde ik hoe escort Avery Moore zichzelf binnenstebuiten keerde om voor een klant haar allermooiste gevoelens naar boven te halen. Dat was denk ik de reden dat ze zo n hoog bedrag kon vragen. Maar ik denk dat er ook iets anders speelde. Het maakte het werk voor haarzelf interessant. In plaats van zielloos de hoer uithangen, maakte zij er een uitdaging van om onvoorwaardelijk van hem te houden. Voor minder deed ze t feitelijk niet.
Bij iedere klant trainde ze haar vermogen tot liefhebben, en werd ze er beter in.

Ik heb hier een poesje rondlopen, en ik knuffel hem de hele dag. Dat noem ik dan “liefde afvoeren op hem”. Nu is dat bij zo n huisdiertje makkelijker dan bij een volwassen man, maar in beide gevallen gaan de gevoelens die je voor hem koestert eerst door jezelf. Als jij haat voelt, gaat haat eerst door jou. Als jij liefde voelt, gaat liefde eerst door jou.

Als Witte Tijgerin moet een partner voldoen aan de eis, dat je in zijn gezelschap op je best bent, en dat je hem kunt waarderen en bewonderen. Dit zijn gevoelens die zonder verliefdheid heel dicht komen bij houden van.

Dat is de tweede optie: verliefdheid.
Als je hem ziet krijg je buikpijn, begin je te stotteren, en just generally speaking sta je op het punt je hele Witte Tijgerinnen carrière vaarwel te zeggen. Je droomt ervan geschaakt te worden en je leven als Rapunzel in de toren van monogamie en burgerlijkheid te slijten.
Dat is prima.
Maar dan heb je aan dit blog verder niks meer.

Het boek The White Tigress handelt vrijwel uitsluitend over seks, niet emoties. Toch staat ook hierin dat de Witte Tijgerin van al haar partners onvoorwaardelijk leert houden.

The White Tigress maakt onderscheid tussen:
-  Groene Draken
met wie de Witte Tijgerin alleen orale seks heeft en waar ze er meerdere van heeft.
- e
n een Jaden Draak
Dit is een partner die weet wie de Witte Tijgerin is, en wat ze doet. Met hem oefent de Witte Tijgerin ook haar gevorderde technieken, zoals penetratie.

Geinspireerd op deze terminologie maak ik onderscheid tussen;
-  Groene Draken
partners waar je niet verliefd op bent.
- en een Jaden Draak.
een man waar je weke knieën van krijgt, en denkt aan onderdoor te gaan als hij je niet meer wil.

Voordat je je aan een Jaden Draak waagt, begin je je training idealiter met een jaar of drie uitsluitend Groene Draken. Hoewel t komt zoals t komt natuurlijk. Soms krijg je de draak jaren voor je er klaar voor bent. Knappe tijgerin die dan nee zegt.

De Jaden draak komt te vroeg

Dit gaat niet over mannen die hun orgasme niet kunnen ophouden. Dit gaat erover wat als “Tiger Right”, geïnspireerd op Mister Right, komt voordat je er klaar voor bent? Voordat jij hebt geleerd je emoties te  beheersen, in een gecontroleerde omgeving van aardige lieve kerels, waar niet zoveel mee mis kan gaan?
Pompen of verzuipen, Gorgeous.

Toen ik na veertien jaar uit mijn relatie rolde, viel ik in de klauwen van een aantrekkelijke Amerikaan. Hij was bezet, woonde samen, en alles was “complicated”. Na achttien maanden kat en muis spel lag deze muis brullend op de keukenvloer omdat hij t uit had gemaakt.
Een tijgerin onwaardig.

Maar zo gaan die dingen. Als je totaal out-of-shape (want net 14 jaar in een relatie gezeten) begint met partners van dat niveau. Dat zijn pijnlijke lessen. Nu zou ik ervan kunnen genieten, maar toen was ik echt voer voor de kat.

Zelfs nu, tien jaar nadat ik iets met de Amerikaan kreeg, weet ik dat als mijn huidige Jaden Draak, Mister Big, het uitmaakt, ik nog moet zien of ik niet weer zo onderuit ga. Maar ik ben in ieder geval een stuk beter getraind.
En ik weet waar ik t voor doe!

Want nadat ik was opgekrabbeld van mijn eerste Jaden Draak, die mijn hele leven in puin had geblazen met zijn vuuradem, heb ik tien Groene Draken gehad. Tien leuke, interessante, ontroerende, fascinerende mannen met wie niet zo heel veel mis kon gaan. Ja, een klein beetje een gebroken hartje. Bij twee of drie. Ik denk dat ik t ook wel lekker vind, om dat verdriet te voelen. Zolang t maar een beetje gedoseerd is. Maar om andere Groene Draken heb ik geen traan gelaten. 

Met degene waar ik verdrietig over was, was de seks veel beter geweest. En echt heftig verdriet bij een scheiding, bleek de prijs voor relaties waarin ik iedere minuut van zijn aanwezigheid had genoten. Waarin ik hem had geïdealiseerd en geidoliseerd. Aanbeden en bewonderd. Waardoor ik iedere vingertop die mijn huid raakte, en ieder zoet woordje in mijn oor, had beleefd met een soort hyper-bewustzijn.
Hoe heftiger mijn gevoelens tussen de lakens, hoe hoger het prijskaartje achteraf.

Na tien Groene Draken verkoos ik het risico van een dramatisch gebroken hart, boven de overzichtelijkheid van een man die “gewoon wel leuk”  was. Ik was dan ook blij toen hij er eindelijk was.
Mijn nieuwe Jaden Draak.

De Jaden Draak komt op tijd

A wizard is never late. Nor is he early. He arrives precisely when he means to.

Natuurlijk zit daar een kern van waarheid in. Ook een Jaden Draak is nooit te vroeg of te laat. Jij hebt hem geroepen. Zelfs mijn eerste Jaden Draak, waar ik zo mee op mijn bek ben gegaan? Ik heb hem gedroomd en gecreëerd. Met zijn donkere Italiaanse uiterlijk en hoffelijke charme, voldeed hij aan mijn ideaalbeeld. Bovendien sprak hij Amerikaans, wat ik heel opwindend vond.
Ook vond ik t niet erg dat ik direct vol aan de bak moest. Ten eerste leverde het een mooi verhaal op. En ten tweede, als je bijna verzuipt dan weet je tenminste waarom je eerst moet leren zwemmen.
Tegen de tijd dat Mister Big kwam kon ik zwemmen.
Mijn relatie met deze getrouwde man zit dan ook al ver over de levensduur van mijn eerdere Jaden Draak heen. Ik geniet van Mister Big, zonder dat ik iets probeer te veranderen. Zonder dat ik hem probeer te temmen.

Nogmaals, ik maak een onderscheid tussen Groene Draken – mannen met wie je het een tijd leuk kunt hebben zonder dat er dooien vallen – en Jaden Draken.
Bij een Jaden Draak moet je constant boven je macht werken omdat je gevoelens all over the place zijn. Een Jaden Draak is iemand waarbij je eerste instinct is;
Maar als je een echte tijgerin bent, dan heb je een man uitgekozen die net zo sterk is als jij. Die laat zich niet zomaar ringeloren. Bovendien is hij net als jij een wild dier, dat je niet in gevangenschap kunt houden zonder zijn krachtige persoonlijkheid geweld aan te doen.
En stel je eens voor om te leven met zo n grillig wezen. Voor je t weet verval je in de slachtofferrol, en beschuldig je hem van vreemdgaan, over je gevoelens heen te walsen et cetera.
Bye bye Witte Tijgerin.
Hello huismus.
Of eigenlijk dat niet eens. Want je wordt geen huismus. Je wordt een gewonde, gekrenkte, Tijgerin, die verslonden wordt door haar eigen emoties. Je eet jezelf letterlijk op.

Alles wat mooi is aan jou, is hetzelfde dat mooi aan hem is. Twee vrije, solitaire wezens, die op basis van vrijwilligheid en genegenheid tijd met elkaar doorbrengen. Op het moment dat je er een kooi om zet, hou je twee gespannen dieren over. Als je het zo kunt zien, kun je verliefd worden en ervan genieten.
Dat, is t moment dat je klaar bent voor je eerste Jaden Draak.

Jaden Draken en Groene Draken kiezen

Zoals ik in t vorige hoofdstuk zei, heeft het de voorkeur niet met een Jaden Draak te beginnen. Tenminste niet als je nog iets van waardigheid wilt overhouden en niet jankend op de vloer wilt eindigen. Het beste moment voor een Jaden Draak, is als je bij mannen op wie je half verliefd was, je emotionele huishouding op orde hebt. Als je de neiging tot het aangaan van huis- tuin en keukenrelaties onder controle hebt, dan kun je de moeilijkere Jaden Draak aan, die echt iets bij je losmaakt.

Net als in het boek De Witte Tijgerin, waarin seks en niet gevoelens centraal staat, ga ik ook uit van het principe;
- Groene Draken kun je kiezen, en je hebt er meerdere van tijdens je leven. Meestal naast elkaar.
- Jaden Draken overkomen je. Bij voorkeur als je er klaar voor bent.
Je kunt prima Witte Tijgerin zijn met alleen Groene Draken. Sommige vrouwen worden niet snel verliefd, of hebben helemaal geen zin in die berg emoties. Een Jaden Draak is een optie. Je hebt hem niet nodig. Ook in het boek de Witte Tijgerin is hij een extra partner. Het contact met Groene Draken gaat gewoon door.

Het enige waar je als Witte Tijgerin naar op zoek gaat, zijn je Groene Draken. Je kunt dit zien als partners die je puur voor de (orale) seks hebt, net als in het originele boek De Witte Tijgerin. Of je kunt t net als Avery Moore zien als mannen waar je een beetje aantrekkingskracht uitvergroot door alleen het positieve te koesteren.
Je kunt ook platonische Groene Draken hebben. Deze komen uit mijn eigen koker, en staan niet in het boek. Maar je krijgt altijd energie van een man met wie je een klik voelt. Ik heb een handvol platonische vrienden, en ze zijn heel erg belangrijk voor me. Ik voel me na een date helemaal opgeladen.

Anyway, als je gaat selecteren of daten met Groene Draken, moet je dus op zoek naar mannen die je kunt bewonderen, en waar je je goed bij voelt. Dat begint al bij goede manieren, en met respect met elkaar omgaan. Denk maar iedere keer als je op het punt staat toe te geven:
Zou Avery Moore het hiervoor doen?
Jouw houding bepaalt hoe waardevol iemand het contact ervaart. Je hoeft geen duizend euro te vragen, maar alle dates weigeren die niet 48 uur van tevoren afgesproken zijn, is een goede regel om aan te geven dat hij moeite voor je moet doen.
Ook geef je hem daarmee een elegante manier om afscheid te nemen.
Ik weet nog dat ik een keer (meerdere keren zelfs, tot mijn schaamte) in een relatie terecht was gekomen waarbij het gebruikelijk was dat we elkaar ieder weekend zagen. Nou had dat contact z’n beste tijd al wel gehad, maar er begon pas een lichtje te branden, toen hij zei dat hij niet kon omdat hij een Ikea kast in elkaar moest zetten.
Ik werd ingeruild voor een Ikea kast!
De fout die ik had gemaakt was om te vervallen in gewoonte.
Dan is de glans eraf.
Je moet iedere date bijzonder en uniek laten zijn. Mijn advies is zelfs om net als een escort het initiatief altijd van hem uit te laten gaan. Als je hem iedere date laat initiëren, weet je zeker dat hij er met z’n hoofd helemaal bij is en voorkom je situaties waarin hij met rare smoezen hoeft te komen.

Daarnaast is er een heel spectrum mogelijk van t type klik dat jullie hebben. Zowel geestelijk als lichamelijk. Ik heb mannen gehad waarmee ik een sterke chemie had, maar waar t contact verder echt op eieren lopen was. Heel vermoeiend. Van twee kanten vermoedelijk. De ene keer in je leven trek je dat, en de volgende keer heb je er geen zin meer in.

Hetzelfde geldt voor een sterke geestelijke klik en fysiek matig. De ene keer ga je ervoor, en de volgende keer geef je toch de voorkeur aan iemand bij wie je lichamelijk meer seksuele kracht voelt.

Dit geldt ook voor het type relatie. Die kan variëren van het hebben van één partner voor langere tijd, tot one-night stands. Hoewel dit laatste geen voor de hand liggende keus is.
Ik ga hier dieper op in, in de volgende aflevering – seks en dating.

Je relatie met je Jaden Draak is het moeilijkst vorm te geven. Het kan zijn dat jij je Groene Draakjes er gewoon naast wilt houden. Misschien juist om je emotionele kwetsbaarheid bij je Jaden Draak te verminderen. Of om t een beetje spannend te houden voor jezelf.
Alles kan.

De Witte Tijgerin kiest er dus voor alleen te leven, en contact te hebben met mannen met het specifieke doel dat het haar energie geeft. Dat kan in de vorm van platonisch gezelschap zijn, of in de vorm van seks.

Daarover gaat de volgende blogpost – seks en dating.

An unexamined life is not worth living

Dit was het tweede blog in mijn serie Witte Tijgerin.
Like  LS Harteveld Facebook pagina
of volg me op Twitter.

Witte Tijgerin Mindset Intensive (Nijmegen)

madonna_1999Ben je single en trekt het idee van een vaste relatie je niet meer? Dan kun je een Witte Tijgerin worden.
Met deze cursus ben je nooit meer emotioneel afhankelijk, en de mannen zullen vechten om je aandacht. De Witte Tijgerin is de eerste en voorlopig het enige rolmodel, dat een volwaardig alternatief biedt voor verliefd, verloofd, getrouwd.
En stukken inspirerender, wat mij betreft.

De hele theorie komt online in de vorm van mijn (nu nog gratis) Witte Tijgerinnen posts op mijn schrijverssite LS Harteveld.
Klik hier voor deze gratis Nederlandstalige serie Witte Tijgerin 

De Mindset Intensive in Nijmegen is erop gericht dat ik je help deze informatie op jou persoonlijk toe te passen. De Mindset Intensive die op 14 mei start is geschikt als:
– je vrouw bent en (ook) op mannen valt
– je single bent
Als je in een niet-exclusieve relatie zit, bijvoorbeeld als je iemand’s minnares bent of een open relatie hebt, kun je ook komen.
– je positieve associaties hebt met seks, relaties én mannen
Want ik ben niet therapeutisch bevoegd. De Witte Tijgerin is een cherry-on-top Lifestyle keuze.
– je houdt van emotionele uitdagingen
Seks hebben als single is niet voor de faint at heart. Je moet ervan overtuigd zijn dat je je lot in eigen hand hebt, en dat je zwakke momenten een kans zijn om jezelf te ontwikkelen.

Een Witte Tijgerin is een vrouw die haar gezelschap met zorg uitzoekt, en hoge eisen stelt aan zichzelf en aan haar partners. Als jij je daartoe aangesproken voelt, dan is deze Mindset Intensive iets voor jou.

Voor zover ik weet is dit de enige cursus in Nederland, en misschien wel in de wereld, die je leert zo bewust single en gelukkig te zijn, dat je nooit meer anders wilt.

Ik geef de Mindset Intensive éénmalig. En als hij hierna terugkomt, dan weet ik nog niet voor welke prijs.

Witte Tijgerin Mindset Intensive € 109

Inspirerende cursus waarin je Witte Tijgerinnen leven in vijf weken staat als een huis. De cursus is gebaseerd op de verschillende afleveringen van de Witte Tijgerin 
aangevuld met thuisopdrachten.
De lessen zelf richt ik zoveel mogelijk op het beantwoorden van vragen en hoe ik je kan helpen. Je moet dus bereid zijn zelfstandig de afleveringen te lezen voor aanvang, zodat we onze tijd samen optimaal kunnen benutten. Ik geef je tzt door welke aflevering voor welke les.

zondag 19.00-20.15, 5 weken
startdatum zondag 14 mei 2017
Lesdata 14, 21 mei, 28 mei, geen les met Pinksteren, 11, 18 juni

maximaal aantal deelnemers Mindset Intensive:
10 Witte Tijgerinnen in opleiding

Ja! Ik wil meedoen!

Mail je aanmelding voor de
Witte Tijgerin Mindset Intensive (5 weken)
naar Suzanne
1. iets over jezelf
2. wat je aantrekt in de Witte Tijgerin Mindset Intensive
Binnen één werkdag hoor je of ik je kan plaatsen.

Je kunt hier mijn bio lezen. 

of hier de Witte Tijgerin pagina waar ook de yoga cursus opstaat

Witte Tijgerin – seksueel meesterschap voor solitaire vrouwen | aflevering 1 Ben jij een tijgerin?

the-sexual-teachings-of-the-white-tigress-9780892818686_hr Op mijn allereerste les op de yogaopleiding leerden we:
“Yoga kent geen regels.”
Dat zou ook mijn eerste boodschap aan jou zijn;
De Witte Tijgerin kent geen regels.
Madame Lin uit het originele boek The White Tigress van Hsi Lai, zegt dat als een vrouw ook maar één tip van de Witte Tijgerin kan gebruiken, haar missie om de kennis van deze Taoïstische cultus openbaar te maken, al is geslaagd.

In tegenstelling tot Madame Lin kan ik me er niet op laten voorstaan lid te zijn van een geheim genootschap van seksuele alleskenners. Want ik werk solitair. Ik ben ook niet in de leer geweest bij een echte Tijgerin. Ik bezit geen enkele andere theoretische kennis dan het boek van Hsi Lai zelf. En ook dat pas ik zelden of nooit toe. Ik zal her en der verwijzen naar gebruiken uit het boek de White Tigress, met name als ik iets wél doe.
Voor mij zat de kracht van het boek niet in de inhoud, maar in het idee erachter:
Dat er überhaupt een spiritueel seksueel pad voor solitaire vrouwen bestond. Dat er iets is om van te dromen, zoals anderen van een huwelijk dromen. Dat als je dezelfde energie, vastbeslotenheid en enthousiasme steekt in t creëren van een solitair seksueel leven, in plaats een relatie, dat t dan verdraaid leuk wordt met jezelf.

 De Witte Tijgerin is het eerste rolmodel voor alleenstaande vrouwen dat ik ken. Een single status wordt meestal gezien als een tussenstation. Je zou bij wijze van spreken je leven lang kunnen blijven hopen dat er een man komt die jouw status verandert zodat je alsnog bij het leger vrouwen hoort dat “geslaagd” is in t leven. Dat vind iedereen heel normaal. Die wens mag je koesteren.
Dat mag ook wel.
Maar ik denk dat t verfrissend is er iets tegenover te zetten.
Namelijk; wat dacht je ervan om solitair te gaan leven? Met behoud van seks en alle mannen die je, eh, “maar op kunt” bij wijze van spreken? 

Er zijn talloze manieren om het gedachtegoed van de Witte Tijgerin, en haar self-care regime, te gebruiken als je dertig jaar getrouwd bent. Of de maagd Maria in hoogst eigen persoon.
Je kunt bijvoorbeeld de yogacursus gaan doen, die ik donderdag 11 mei start in Nijmegen. Daar leer ik je de vitaliserende yogaoefeningen uit het Witte Tijgerin boek, zonder dat er ook maar een haan kraait naar jouw seksleven.
Daarnaast zijn er talloze manieren waarop je wat ik je leer kan toepassen binnen je relatie.

Een paar maanden terug ben ik begonnen met Engelstalige White Tigress posts op Facebook. Deze posts hebben als voordeel dat ik ook onderwerpen aansnijd die te maken hebben met relaties. En ook alle taboes die er nog zijn rondom vrouwen die seks hebben buiten een relatie.
Maar hoewel ik dit werk wel weer op ga pakken, werd ik er ook behoorlijk moedeloos van posts te schrijven waar iedereen zich in kon herkennen en ieder sociaal taboe eerst helemaal werd ontrafeld. Dat schoot voor geen meter op voor de vrouwen die aan een half woord genoeg zouden hebben, om op het pad van de Witte Tijgerin te floreren als nooit tevoren.
Dus voor deze Nederlandse serie ga ik het mezelf super makkelijk maken. Ik richt me op de vrouwen die dolgraag Witte Tijgerin willen worden.

Deze blogserie de Witte Tijgerin is voor jou als;
- je single bent
- je open staat voor t idee dat te blijven
- je seks wilt hebben, ook als single
- je je zelfstandigheid en persoonlijkheid wilt ontwikkelen
Met name dit laatste gaat namelijk veel beter met het pad van de Witte Tijgerin, dan via de zo gelauwerde stelletjes status. Wat niet betekent dat ik niet goed was in relaties. 
Not to blow my own horn, maar ik ben zorgzaam en ik lieg en bedrieg niet. Mijn probleem met de relatie als meest populaire en gepromote status is dan ook niet dat ik mijn partner altijd in de haren vloog. Ik vlieg überhaupt niemand in de haren, want ook mijn vriendschappen en familierelaties blinken uit in gezelligheid. Mijn probleem is dat een relatie zich uitstekend leent problemen te externaliseren, in plaats van ze in jezelf op te lossen, en er van te groeien.

Stel je partner gaat stiekem vreemd, en jij komt daarachter. Dat is in 99.9% van de gevallen een reden om onmiddellijk in een verontwaardigde slachtofferrol te duiken, waar je de rest van je leven in je verongelijktheid kunt zwelgen. Terwijl er zoveel andere interessante vragen te stellen zijn. Zoals;
- wilde je zelf eigenlijk een ander en heb je jezelf dat ontzegt? En waarom dan?
- heb je je eigenwaarde gekoppeld aan hoe jouw partner zich gedraagt, en doet dit pijn omdat je denkt dat jij niet goed genoeg bent?
- waarom zou jouw partner geen privacy en eigen leven mogen hebben? Je bent toch geen dictator aan wie hij verantwoording verschuldigd is?

Dus het is niet zo dat je niet persoonlijk kunt groeien in een relatie, maar het is niet bepaald onze eerste reactie. Meestal worden pijnlijke situaties direct aan imaginaire flitsrechter voorgelegd, en degene die geen schuld heeft, die hoeft er ook niks mee. Slachtoffer zijn is een carte blanche om nooit te hoeven kijken waar je zelf verantwoordelijkheid hebt laten liggen.

DAT heb ik dus tegen relaties.

Terwijl als je alleen bent, deze escape er niet is. Alles valt je rauw op je dak. Er is geen enkele buffer in de zin van een steun en toeverlaat die je dag en nacht kunt bellen. Of iemand die je misschien zelfs 24/7 gezelschap biedt.
Dit geldt voor iedere zaterdagavond alleen op de bank, of mistroostige feestdagen.
Maar nog veel meer bij iedere seksuele morning-after waarbij je groggy van slaaptekort en de backlash van niet weten of je hem ooit weer zult zien. Dat is het moment dat je vanaf nu een keus hebt.
Of je gaat hem behoeftig appen, en wachten tot hij je bevestigt en troost. En legt daarmee de basis voor een relatie waar je de rest van je leven in dit patroon van emotionele afhankelijkheid blijft zitten.
Of je denkt:
Fuck it. Hier groei ik van. Als ik dit nu tackel, dan kan sta ik er een volgende keer weer sterker in.

Die morning after dat is wel even een dingetje. Ik vind dat in elk geval het allerlastigst. Dat is één van de redenen dat ik de voorkeur geef aan dates overdag. Of gewoon om middernacht naar huis ga. Dus zolang je nog niet lekker in je Witte Tijgerinnenvel zit, zou ik niet opteren voor de onenightstand met day-after backlash.
Maar ondanks die waarschuwing, is ieder moment dat je je alleen of onzeker voelt, een kans om in je rol als Witte Tijgerin te komen.
Zodra je het ziet als een uitdaging die bij jouw single leven hoort – net zoals gespannen kerstdiners met schoonfamilie bij de moeilijkheden van een relatie horen- dan keert het tij. Dan heb je ineens zelf alle touwtjes in handen.

Hoewel ik wil voorkomen dat dit boek te praktisch wordt en over handelen gaat, omdat de grootste verandering is hoe je denkt, zal ik hierbij een recept geven voor dit soort moeilijke momenten waarop je eenzaam thuis bent. In niet al te frivole toestand. De momenten waarop je er heilig van overtuigd bent dat alleen de goedkeuring van een man, je er weer bovenop zou kunnen helpen.

Morning-after recept voor uitgeputte Tijgerinnen

1. erken dat je erdoorheen zit
Schrap al je to-do’s van die dag, en maak er een me- dag van om weer bij te tanken.

2. ga dingen doen waar je energie van krijgt en die niet al te grote aanslag zijn op je gezondheid of wellicht portomonnee
Ik hou bijvoorbeeld heel erg van met mijn notebooks en dagboeken spelen. En ik krijg ook altijd een goed gevoel van mijn huis opruimen. En ik ken vrouwen die dan vol overgave een pan soep gaan maken, of een taart gaan bakken.
Of je kunt een speelfilm kijken als je echt geen pap meer kunt zeggen.
Uiteraard kun je ook een dagje weg gaan, of een museum bezoeken.
Maak een lijstje van activiteiten waar je energie van krijgt, waar je uit kunt kiezen als de nood aan de man is.

3. maak een plan of begin een nieuw project

Ik ben al mijn boeken en Life Changing Projects begonnen op een moment dat ik behoefte had aan controle over mijn gevoelens. Ken je de film Julie and Julia? Daarin gaat een jonge vrouw een gerenommeerd Frans kookboek nabakken in 1 jaar. Ze moet iedere dag bijna twee recepten. Echt met levende kreeften in de pan, ingewikkelde toetjes die bij niemand lukken. Alles. Ze houdt er een blog van bij, en het is waargebeurd.
Dit soort projecten zijn balsem voor de ziel. Voor je t weet denk je al niet meer aan je backlash van je nacht doorhalen, of je knagende onzekerheid van of hij wel of niet Whatsapped.
Sterker nog, dan is hij alleen nog welkom als hij een onverschrokken culinair avonturier is. Net als jij.

Welke weg kies jij?

Ik denk dat alles, zowel een single leven als een relatie, gebruikt kan worden voor het oneigenlijke doel je bevestiging van buitenaf te halen. En dat beide geschikt zijn om in te schitteren, op het moment dat je zelf verantwoordelijkheid neemt voor je gevoelens, en stopt met het zoeken van oplossingen van buitenaf.

Welke weg je kiest, is een kwestie van persoonlijke voorkeur. Maar helaas is het enige beeld dat ons wordt voorgespiegeld dat van de vaste relatie, en niet echt een keuze. Het alternatief heet nog net niet overblijven. Een bewuste single, daar hoor je weinig over. En hoe ze dat dan doet met haar seksualiteit, dat is al helemaal in nevelen gehuld.

In mijn volgende blogpost vertel ik hoe het seksuele leven van een Witte Tijgerin eruit ziet. Wie haar Groene Draken zijn, wie haar Jaden Draak is, en wat voor seks de Witte Tijgerin precies heeft.

An unexamined life is not worth living

Dit was het eerste blog in mijn serie Witte Tijgerin.
Alle afleveringen komen op de LS Harteveld Facebook pagina of volg me op Twitter.

Witte Tijgerin Mindset Intensive (Nijmegen)

madonna_1999Ben je single en trekt het idee van een vaste relatie je niet meer? Dan kun je een Witte Tijgerin worden.
Met deze cursus ben je nooit meer emotioneel afhankelijk, en de mannen zullen vechten om je aandacht. De Witte Tijgerin is de eerste en voorlopig het enige rolmodel, dat een volwaardig alternatief biedt voor verliefd, verloofd, getrouwd.
En stukken inspirerender, wat mij betreft.

De hele theorie komt online in de vorm van mijn (nu nog gratis) Witte Tijgerinnen posts op mijn schrijverssite LS Harteveld.
Klik hier voor deze gratis Nederlandstalige serie Witte Tijgerin 

De Mindset Intensive in Nijmegen is erop gericht dat ik je help deze informatie op jou persoonlijk toe te passen. De Mindset Intensive die op 14 mei start is geschikt als:
– je vrouw bent en (ook) op mannen valt
– je single bent
Als je in een niet-exclusieve relatie zit, bijvoorbeeld als je iemand’s minnares bent of een open relatie hebt, kun je ook komen.
– je positieve associaties hebt met seks, relaties én mannen
Want ik ben niet therapeutisch bevoegd. De Witte Tijgerin is een cherry-on-top Lifestyle keuze.
– je houdt van emotionele uitdagingen
Seks hebben als single is niet voor de faint at heart. Je moet ervan overtuigd zijn dat je je lot in eigen hand hebt, en dat je zwakke momenten een kans zijn om jezelf te ontwikkelen.

Een Witte Tijgerin is een vrouw die haar gezelschap met zorg uitzoekt, en hoge eisen stelt aan zichzelf en aan haar partners. Als jij je daartoe aangesproken voelt, dan is deze Mindset Intensive iets voor jou.

Voor zover ik weet is dit de enige cursus in Nederland, en misschien wel in de wereld, die je leert zo bewust single en gelukkig te zijn, dat je nooit meer anders wilt.

Ik geef de Mindset Intensive éénmalig. En als hij hierna terugkomt, dan weet ik nog niet voor welke prijs.

Witte Tijgerin Mindset Intensive € 109

Inspirerende cursus waarin je Witte Tijgerinnen leven in vijf weken staat als een huis. De cursus is gebaseerd op de verschillende afleveringen van de Witte Tijgerin
aangevuld met thuisopdrachten.
De lessen zelf richt ik zoveel mogelijk op het beantwoorden van vragen en hoe ik je kan helpen. Je moet dus bereid zijn zelfstandig de afleveringen te lezen voor aanvang, zodat we onze tijd samen optimaal kunnen benutten. Ik geef je tzt door welke aflevering voor welke les.

zondag 19.00-20.15, 5 weken
startdatum zondag 14 mei 2017
Lesdata 14, 21 mei, 28 mei, geen les met Pinksteren, 11, 18 juni

maximaal aantal deelnemers Mindset Intensive:
10 Witte Tijgerinnen in opleiding

Ja! Ik wil meedoen!

Mail je aanmelding voor de
Witte Tijgerin Mindset Intensive (5 weken)
naar Suzanne
1. iets over jezelf
2. wat je aantrekt in de Witte Tijgerin Mindset Intensive
Binnen één werkdag hoor je of ik je kan plaatsen.

Je kunt hier mijn bio lezen. 

of hier de Witte Tijgerin pagina waar ook de yoga cursus opstaat


Big – erotica and diaries. Part 3: The Way of the Trickster

If you can’t beat them, join them!
After writing;
-  a handful of autobiographical erotic stories about her affair with Big;
-  and after coming to terms with her fragile status in The Virgin Diaries,
Lauren doesn’t fancy going down heartbroken and devastated, and sets out to dramatically improve her game. With a self-help book about hookers, sex and ruthless self-examination. 


The Way of the Trickster

How I saved my business, conquered death, and won a man’s heart.
 Well, two out of three anyway.


The Call

My name is Lauren Harteveld and I am forty-three years old. I own a moderately successful yoga studio, seven unpublished manuscripts, about a quarter of a man’s heart and enough self-esteem to still believe you need my view on success. Because right now, if you start looking for advice on how to make money, or on how to improve the quality of your life, there is a good chance you’ll end up with circles into circles, with abstract terms like WHY and HOW. Or you will get thirty day productivity challenges, ten things millionaires do, or free live webinars that would steal two hours of what could have been a useful Tuesday morning, and end with the business coach offering you a price cut on their package to a wee three thousand euros. If you decide within forty-five minutes.
And I don’t want that for you.
I really don’t.
Oh and you’ll end up meditating. Every piece of advice will ultimately, somehow, convince you that you cannot become a prosperous entrepreneur, a stable partner, or happy in any way unless you meditate and become mindful and STOP! I’m here to tell you: There is another way.
There is a way to start having fun in life, to game it. To win it even! I know this paragraph is not the time or the place to bring out the big guns, about life and death situations, existential questions, and bold statements. I should coax you in slowly, brainwashing you bit by bit, as I slowly increase the intensity of the examples I’m using. But this example will illustrate why I am so passionate about sharing my message.
In the late eighties an American street artist Keith Haring, who made his signature drawings of angels, hearts, flying babies, and dogs with wings on the subways of New York, had risen to fame. He was already an established artist, when he was diagnosed with aids. He knew he had little time left. And in those last eighteen months he worked like a mad man. He flew around the world, and was hired to paint walls by the most famous museums of our time. He had been successful before, but it became off the scale those last months.
There was no stopping him.
Until he died.
He was thirty-one years old, and he had achieved more than most people will in a lifetime.
His life’s story didn’t cause me to fear homosexuals, nor did it fuel my raging aids phobia. It didn’t make me want to “know early” if I had anything lethal going on in my body. Instead it made me realize that it’s not about how long you live. It’s about how you live. And if your response to death cornering you, is a raging creative fire that pushes you to the highest peak of your profession, then you have lived a good life.
You have beaten death, by your creative force.
I still can’t see Mindfulness having that kind of impact on a dying man, if I might say. And I might, because it’s my book. And since the Mindfulness movement is obviously determined to colonize the whole spiritual and psychological sector by passive aggressive force, I think it’s time to strike back. Or play back, to be more precise.
It’s time I tell you about the way of the Trickster.
Because Trickster is not passive, but responsive, proactive, deliberate, and strategic. He is like a chess player or a sports man. He oversees the field, estimates his chances, chooses a strategy, and then plays it out in order to win the game.
And in order to prove it works, or maybe even because I’m curious if it works, I will use everything I know about trickster ways to make my business a success, to publish my manuscripts and to win a man’s heart.

Mister Big

The first time Trickster presented himself I didn’t know he was Trickster. I called him Player and later settled for Mister Big. I knew he was bad news. Just like the real Mister Big from Sex and the City, I also knew he was My Biggie. This was the one. I could escape him and I probably should, but the further I would run, the deeper he would root into my heart. As a missed chance, something that wasn’t meant to be, and so on. From all my unpublished manuscripts five are about a youth love I had not seen in decades, so I was aware that repressing your true feelings, could lead to writing five books fifteen years later. I had no intention of repeating that.
I wanted this to be different.
Instead,  I acknowledged I was terribly in love with Mister Big and started an affair with him. Hoping, expecting, he would leave his wife. But he didn’t and I became unhappy. And then I started hoping she’d find out. Only to realize that I had had that before. Years before Mister Big. This man had quickly gotten rid of me, before the ink on his new apartment lease was dry. He had kept me on and off for eighteen months but the moment his partner found out and kicked him out, my fate had been sealed.
Which was painful in itself already.
Half a year later I found out he had done that because my best friend wanted a relationship with him. They had both dumped me. Just that she had not bothered to tell me.
The memory was five years old but had lost none its sordid details. It was a scenario I did not want on repeat.
At the time of our “negotiations” – which came down to me objecting to getting involved and Mister Big being a patient suitor, determined to win me over in spite of my fears –I had not thought all of these scenarios through so thoroughly. Nor did I know anything about the state his marriage was in. But I knew the risk of ending up with the short end of the stick, being someone’s mistress. I was not going to let that happen again.
“You’re a Major League player. I would be toast,” I complained.
And I compared him to a wolf.
But Mister Big defended himself.
“You’re giving me way too much credit.”
“That’s exactly what a wolf would say.”
It was not going to happen.
But when I cycled home something stirred, underneath the fear. And I thought;
Wait. Just. A. Bloody. Minute.
Eight years prior to Mister Big, I had ended a 14 year long relationship with a fantastic guy because I had longed for new men. After my aids phobia had wrecked my life, since early puberty, I was ready to face my fears for single sex. To find a balance between staying safe, dating new men and favoring unprotected oral sex. And I did. I had. And although the beating I took from being betrayed by my lover and my best friend, had definitely scarred me for life, it had also made me stronger.
A dozen relationships with men ranging from 20 to 50, had shaped me into an entirely different woman. There was no reason to still buy into my own damsel in destress story. I had grown. I had been trained for this.
And Mister Big was not someone who was eager to destroy me, or to eat me alive. But an established player, who longed for a worthy opponent.
I sent Mister Big a Whatsapp message.
I’ve thought about tonight, and changed my mind.
Let’s play ball.

The Anti-Trickster

The only reason I can write this book, is because I am not a trickster. I’m not flexibel, not pro-active, and I never trick anyone into doing something bad, or against their will. I’m not cunning, nor inventive, and probably not even that creative. I resemble more of a female Bilbo living in his cosy hobit house in Bag End,  minding his own business in his quiet and orderly corner of the world. I too, hate adventures. Yoga teachers tend to be these explorative folk, going to India or other corners of the world to find themselves or to learn yoga. I only go on a trip if it includes a five star hotel and a country that doesn’t require vaccination.
I’m as far from a trickster as Bilbo was from being a villain.
And yet the weapon of the enemy, The One Ring, came to him.
“Bilbo seems to be remarkably resistant to it’s evil,” the Elvenking said.
Of course he was. The ring was nothing to Bilbo except a trick you can disappear with. Which was useful in pesky situations and good fun at parties. That the ring also gave power to its bearer to do harm and rule the world, were things Bilbo was not interested in. It didn’t exist in his mind. Just as they don’t exist in mine.
I can tell you about the Trickster, and how to use this exciting coping strategy to get out of pesky situations, and I know you can have fun with it at parties. But I’m not teaching you to do harm. I’m not advocating some anti-social character trait. It can be used like that, for sure. But only if those tendencies already exist within your heart.
This book, The Way of The Trickster, is for those who (like me) like rules, and would be happiest if everyone obeyed them. Including the Universe. So that we all know what to expect, and when, and only good things happen to good people, and the wicked get punished by lightning bolts. Justice is always served, the prince will marry the princess, he will stay faithful, and she won’t screw the neighbor. And about a million more things that would all be taken care off in the perfect world, you and I would like to live in.
This book is also for those who like positive thinking and are able to control their life by the power of their thoughts but who, after so many years, think: this is costing a lot of energy. And you start questioning the fairy tale life you created that is maxing out on hearts and rainbows and unicorns and you get slightly sick of always being positive.
You start longing for the neighbor. And he drinks too much and you suspect he might be rough, and that he will violate your sexual integrity and the fantasies you have about him grow more intense every day.
Oh, this book is for you.
Whether you are a master at creating your own positive world, or whether you like order and for everybody to obey the rules so that we can all live in peace, you have something in common.
You have lost your playfulness.
You have lost your flexibility.
You have become judgmental about what is good in life, and what is bad. You’re shutting yourself off from life as it is. You are, or have been, so attached to seeing life the way you want it, that you’re missing the best part: to let life surprise you. To let your own desires surprise you. The moment you start playing life, and start seeing it as a game, you get a new strength that is better than thinking positive. Better than relying on rules.
You become a Trickster.
And a trickster’s strategy to life, is from all the coping strategies by far the most resilient, exciting, action-based, joyful approach I know. Every challenge becomes like a riddle, an opportunity for you to figure out how it can be won.
How do you solve a costly problem when you’re low on cash?
How do you get more clients to buy your product?
How do you deal with death?
Or in my case: how do I have an affair with Mister Big, and thrive?


Part of me could not believe I was actually doing this: to have an affair with a married man. When I said I wanted to go to his house “for some TLC”, tender love and care, I thought we would just snuggle a bit. Even though I knew things got “out of hand”- as he had put it- quite easily. He had looked sad and beaten when he mentioned that. Women pressing him into having sex had been an unfortunate burden.
Later on, when the night had turned into our first sexual encounter and I had only just managed to avoid fucking, my belief there had been naked nymphomaniacs  throwing themselves at him, suddenly became a lot less believable. More likely, there had been a string of women just like me: happy lighthearted singles, who went to his place for some French kissing on the couch and who had then been coaxed, teased, kissed, hugged, rubbed, complimented. Everything they wanted plus one: they had been seduced. And he only needed a small hole in your defenses to build his entire game and score. He was good.
Mister Big’s response to an early suspicion of his courting skills, had been:
“I would never do anything against your will!”
And I had smiled.
“Of course not. That’s for amateurs. You would make me want it. Beg for it.”
Although I had later forgotten this prediction, it had been spot on.
I just reread my diary and it proves that I gamed this affair from the start. Because if I wanted a fighting chance to not end up broken, with him living happily ever after with my best friend just like the previous Mister Big, then I needed a mental make-over. I needed to be pro-active and flexible, with watertight defenses and a clear game plan.
I didn’t waste energy hiding my feelings though. It was okay that he knew I was in love with him. After my initial fail of expecting him to leave his wife, I had switched to a game plan of taking the current situation as a given.
Which turned out to be useless to deal with never-knowing-if-he’ll-call-for-a-date. It did not soothe my need for reassurance in four week intermezzos to our encounters. And the strategy was particularly meager when after sex he did not check-in. And when I forced him out of his silence, Doctor Jekyll had become Mister Hyde.
In short: my game plan was crap.
I was a mess.
And I was losing.
We broke up many times those first few months. Or I did. But he always charmed me back, and that made me feel special. And I was happy because I knew breaking up wouldn’t solve anything. I would stay in love. Write another book. Or five. So I was happy he drew me back in for another round. And after a while it settled.
I don’t think I got smarter, or gained more control over my feelings. But nevertheless it stabilized. He does check in now, after we’ve had sex. Briefly. And we keep in touch in weeks we don’t see each other. This has made it easier. Sometimes I request a date in advance, and then we set a date. And then I feel better.
We’ve stopped having amazing sex. We now have normal sex. Things I can handle by myself just in case Mister Hyde comes out again. We had two recent incidents which stirred things up: his wife threw a week long hate tantrum, and our condom broke.
But it was a third incident that gave me the creeps and made me feel vulnerable, insecure and stupid:
I had started to trust him.
It happened when he implied there was stuff I didn’t know, and that he didn’t tell. And that this secret held the key why he had a relationship with me while at the same time staying married to his wife.
Maybe some strong, even altruistic, reason to stay with his wife? I felt better immediately! I loved him, and his love for me was almost tangible at times. I would stand by him, in this unconventional relationship. I would be there for him. From now on, not only would I not expect him to leave his wife, I would also trust he had a good reason to stay and that he was making the right decisions.
What a relief!
But then something dawned on me. What if I only believed that because I couldn’t deal with the fact that he didn’t love me enough? What if giving him my trust was, instead of an martial arts like tactic to move with the force of your opponent, actually a harakiri action where I was placing the sword at my own heart?
After one year with Mister Big, was I finally losing it?

Install Safety Net

It is the end of day one of my Trickster experiment. I spent it writing on an old laptop, unconnected to internet. How very trickster. And I spent it filming yoga classes on location. It was a mess on set and by the time we started filming I had become rigid and was afraid my lack of fun would make it unbearable to watch. Doing retakes of the classes was unappealing since I was already feeling like a failure. So after a break where I admitted I was screwing it up, and I didn’t saw a way to improve it, I suggested we’d use the little time we had left to film a free style class for people who have a bad day at work.
“Just like me.”
That was a success. The director saw this approach had potential.
“Free-style yoga for when you’re tired, or hung-over, or in your period. I’m going to do this with all teachers!”
And it brought back my joy in teaching online.
I decided to work more with this trick, I will be free styling when teaching my classes the whole week. Which had the extra bonus of freeing up this Sunday night, so I could write instead of prep my classes which usually takes me three hours.
And there is more.
To see exactly how far I can let this trickster yoga work for me, I’ll install a free-style home yoga practice. Nothing premeditated, not even how long it should be.
I will only commit to showing up on the mat and beginning.
If it sparks a home yoga practice, this wouldn’t be anything short of a miracle. Last time I had a consistent daily practice was two years ago. But it wasn’t a joyful one. I was muscling my way through with resentment and loathing. Compared to that today’s videos were master pieces.
So I have solved a problem the trickster way (when I taught stern classes), reset a goal the trickster way (to have a daily yoga practice). And I have one issue that still needs to be analyzed.
A Big one.
I’m deeply in love with Mister Big, feel awful it might not be mutual, and mortified when I think he could break up. Which would prove he doesn’t love me.
Worst possible outcome:
He breaks up with me, and/or acts in unloving ways.
I feel worthless and totally lose it, can’t work, write five books, and so on.
Best possible outcome:
He says he’s so in love with me, that he wants me forever and can’t continue to live two lives. He wants me to be the woman at his side
I’m totally over the moon, and feel special, confident, and living the life of my dreams.
Parameters I can influence:
Parameters I cannot influence:
his wife
Yep! It’s working. I can see the solution already.
But before I elaborate on that, a little word on why I have chosen to see Mister Big as a parameter I cannot influence. That is a choice I made a long time ago. Trying to influence a loved one to behave the way you want them to, is a waste of energy.
Think about it: would you even appreciate it after you have manipulated him to act your way? Ironically, I know that is what I appreciated about Mister Big. That he manipulates women into trusting him and sleeping with him. I now this is probably a lousy explanation but what I think happens, is that he feels the desire is there. Maybe even before the woman does. He knows it’s a yes. And that the rest is all fear. He “tricks” the woman into forgetting he’s married. From that perspective it feels strange that I have so much resistance against tricking him to act my way.
But I do.
The more energy I would put into making Big mine, the less I would enjoy it if he would succumb. I need to feel desired, I need to feel he wants me. Not that I magically tricked him into wanting me.
So!  If I don’t want to influence him, and therefor keep running the risk of being dumped or hurt, how do I avoid losing it when that happens?
You lose everything when you put all your eggs in one basket and then it slips out of your hands. This can be avoided if you spread the eggs. If I would emotionally invest in other men, I would no longer have all my eggs in Big’s basket.
I would still run the risk of my heart being broken by Big. But it’s the difference between having the heart burned to ashes, or a small contained fire that only stains the wall, and just requires a little paint.
I, trickster Lauren Harteveld, will commit to dating other men and rereading, editing and reliving my books about my muse Benjamin, to create a safety net to protect me if I fall.
And then there’s option two. The best case scenario. Mister Big does choose for me. I’m totally over the moon, and feel special, confident, and living the life of my dreams.
But are these feelings exclusive to Mister Big putting a ring on it? Absolutely not. Are they feasible without Mister Big walking down the aisle? Oh yes.
With free-style yoga, the prospect of dating other men, publishing my Benjamin books, and writing this trickster book, I’m living the life of my dreams already.

Meet the Girls and the Ghosts

No home practice yoga and worked ten desk hours yesterday, including learning to make sassy quotes-pictures for my Facebook business page. Updated the audio system at my yoga studio. I am now a paid Spotify member, installed it on my phone, and it can be Bluetoothed to a stellar woofer speaker. So now my studio doesn’t require cd’s (!) to listen to music. Being current was apparently not something I put much value in. But if I want to sell out my classes, and take my business to the next level, I need to use every trick in the book. Including: my company not looking like a portal to 1996.
Ten hour working days are of course not a sustainable way to get the job done. If you like your job – like I do – working will give you a lot of energy. But it still takes a toll. If you can almost feel that universal energy blazing through you when you work, realize you’re like a cheetah: you can run fast, but it will end. Even though it is the nature of the cheetah to run, and it would not be living it’s life’s purpose if it didn’t, that doesn’t mean that it can run on forever like a perpetulem mobilum.
My run had taken ten days.
I was done.
I’m sitting here unshowered at my pink hobby desk, listening to classical music, on my third latte and chewing away a mountain of candy bars that somehow invaded the house. I’ve thought of ways to improve my plan. I am going to name my projects, after my idols.
free-style yoga girl
She’s the queen of backbends, practices her gravity defying arm balances between one and two hours every day. The only reason she’s not world famous is that she doesn’t promote herself. She doesn’t have a consistent video feed, and all her programs are professionally shot, highly priced, and are created by producers who put them out on the market and probably make most of the money.
She couldn’t care less.
As long as Meghan has her yoga practice, she’s a happy girl.
Sadie Nardini
 yoga business entrepreneur      
As easy going as Meghan is, that’s as feisty as Sadie is. The woman sells it. She started making strong fitness-like yoga videos about then years ago, when other yoga teachers were still doing mantras on sheep skin. And she never stopped. She is the only female entrepreneur making a living out of selling online teacher training. She is a one-woman empowerment force for yoga teachers around the world.
And the perfect business idol.
Avery Moore
 $ 1000 an hour escort  
You probably think this is my after-dark personality, when dealing with Mister Big. That when he slips his hands into my panties, and pulls down my always carefully selected lingerie over the chocolate fed curves of my hips, and whispers:
“Turn around.”
That I will then turn onto my belly and press my porcelain bum towards him, and I feel so Avery Moore when I wait what’s going to happen. Will he finger me, lick me, or fuck me immediately? Will he use lube, or will he be rough and accidentally break another condom?
And you would be right. All, except for the Avery part. Because when I’m with Mister Big, I feel totally me.
I use my Avery Moore high-end escort persona for totally different things. For the past year I used her energy to keep my house nice and clean, my body smooth and well-dressed. I think she was on holiday because I went to bed without doing the dishes lately. And the only time I clean the house is when I have company and I only wax my legs on nights I see Big. My skin is dry, my daily oil massage has faded from a consistent habit to a chore on my can-be-skipped-without-any-excuse-list.
I want Avery back.
And I want her Moore.
And she’s the right woman to run the studio. She creates a friendly environment for her clients, yet only works under clear conditions and has her boundaries in place. The ideal attitude for a yoga teacher.
And I want Avery to work with me on improving my yoga space. It’s a nice place, but it needs looooove. I’ve been postponing refurbishing because I have an on-and-off leakage near the window. The land-lord has sent the promise of help. For years.
I’m making Avery chief of staff of my body, house, yoga studio.
 Muse. Appears as either a 19 year old ghost, or a business man in his forties
Sometimes I’m curious if he still reads my blog. Or if we’ll ever be together, even though he said he had no time to reunite last year. I was close by. On a holiday. We had not seen each other in two decades and he had a family now. So I contacted him but he refused to see me. I expected this would blow away the ground under my feet, or the keyboard under my writing fingertips. A muse, male protagonist in all my books, not wanting to reunite. That would have consequences.
But it didn’t.
The relationship I had built with my keyboard muse easily survived a rejection from the real life Benjamin. Six months later the spirit took human form again. He was a married business man in his forties. Only this time, he could be reached by bicycle instead of by plane.
And he did not require any persuasion.

Getting more Baskets

I just emailed Pierre, and there it is: my second basket. Pierre is a perfectly datable guy. If he would only buy into my promise that his sexuality is fluid, and that there is no reason for a gold-star gay (no female partners, I think) to not start a secret affair with me.
“All men want me Pierre, you know that. Even you want me. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“I would want you if I was straight.”
“Want me still.”
Pierre owns a cafe, reads my blogs, and he secretly Googles me if I don’t come around often enough. He always knows exactly what I’m up to. If I stay away too long, usually because I’m sick of his cat and mouse game of turning me on and then turning away, I get emails inviting me to come hang out again.
He’s witnessed me wanting to publish, then dropping out. He’s seen me climbing back into the saddle every January. And then falling off again. But this time I had news.
“I’ve started writing the best self-help book in the history of mankind. And I’m giving it one shot to get a regular publisher. Do you know someone?”
And true to my lighthearted nature I explained with a care-free example of death. The Way of the Trickster is about seeing death as the match of a life-time. It’s not about mindlessly choosing to elongate your life, only to then end up mindfully observing all your emotions in your chemically ruined body. Down to the last desperate detail. It’s about seeing that field, seeing the most worthy opponent life could possibly give you, and snap your head left to right, stretching your neck. Walking restlessly up and down. Eyes on the enemy. Get your gear in place, maybe chew a piece of gum, or just spit on the grounds.
This is where it will take place. This is it.
The match of a lifetime.
How often will you score?
Every project you finish, every lover you embrace, every purpose you find. Those are your points. Sure you can prolong your life, but if this requires a year in which you won’t even be standing up straight, is it worth it?
I didn’t write this last bit to Pierre. Just the catchy match of a lifetime bit. And how this book is going to be everything no self-help book has been able to provide. With a strong narrative, sexually explosive content, and a controversial conclusion.
It’s the self-help book that has never been written. Because the only one who can write this? Is me.

Sex with Mister Big

Anais Nin always wrote in her diary right after she had given herself to a young man, a musician, or to a longtime friend. She wrote the morning after her husband had taken her and she still felt sore because he was so big, whereas her soulmate Henry Miller, had a more slender penis that slid in smoothly. Probably also because she was a lot hornier with him, I reckon.
Sometimes I wonder how Big’s wife sees him. If she loves his penis as much as I do. His penis is like those clothes that are classy yet comfortable; larger than strictly necessary but not so big they lose their elegance. And his body is like a dish that looks appealing, but in a completely unpretentious way. But then you take the first bite and you taste cilantro. Or a bit of orange. Or a salty olive. And you’re like:
” Ooooohhhh, my God this is good.”
And the simple looking cafe becomes your favorite hangout. And every time you go to another restaurant you think: It’s not as good as with him. Until you know fully well that you never want to eat anywhere else again.
That’s how I would describe my relationship with Mister Big.
Last night was our first time sex since the condom broke. We had kept seeing each other platonically, which had been the dates I had started to trust him, us, it, again. It had cost me a long time to recuperate from Condom Gate. But now we had a real date. Because we had not had sex for so long, we had both been looking forward to it like crazy.
I invested ninety minutes in the bathroom making sure I was clean and smooth, since I had not paid any attention to my body all that time. He would come to my place, so I also had to prepare dinner and do a massive sweep through the entire house. They say this is all foreplay to a woman. That clean spaces (like hotels) make us horny, and that cleaning our house brings us in the mood. That is totally true. By the time Mister Big arrived, showered and shaven and with a bottle of too expensive wine, I greeted him with teenage excitement.
Since I am with Big, having a flawless date seems so normal. But I know it’s not. Eight years of being single have showed me that. Dates feel awkward around me. Or they have the food requirements of an eight year old. Or they just don’t know how to be there for me in that half hour when I’m cooking and don’t require any help.
Not Big.
He balanced between cuddling my cat on the couch, making small-talk about the food, and debriefing me on everything the cat did. He mouthwateringly inspected the food every time I took the lit off, and he kept my glass filled. He behaved like a lover from a French movie. A connoisseur who will soon wholeheartedly admire and embrace you, just as much as he appreciates the food.
 Oui, oui.
I have this preference for non-consensual sex, so I would say Non! Non! of course. But only to increase my own pleasure.
I read there are two types of women: the ones who require intimacy and trust, and the ones who prefer to have sex with someone they don’t know yet. The last type responds better to photos of strangers than of their own partner. I think it’s even more complicated. There is a third type who desires – demands would be a better word – a man to do everything her way, so he has to know her. But they also want it to be exciting. Type 3 needs the excitement of the new, but they don’t want surprises like:
He has pubic hair the size of a small forest.
He’s wearing his beer brand boxer short.
He doesn’t use deodorant.
He has a sex dungeon and wants you to call him master.
Women of the third type have got to be the most fickle of them all. They don’t perform on garden variety sex with their normal boyfriend. They don’t respond to good looking strangers in a bar. But these arrogant ice queens could turn into cum laude Sex Goddesses the moment you know how to rub them, and what to whisper.
Mister Big was wearing black boxers under his dark jeans. His pubes were tidy. We had loving, intimate oral sex on the couch, before we got around to the rough stuff. I had brought my duvet to keep us warm between fucking. He was forcing (again, think “quotation marks”) me to give another blowjob and as I was doing what I was told he roughly fingered me, with three fingers, using lube, and announcing he was going to rape me.
“We’re going to the bedroom.”
I took his cock out of my mouth and got up. I wanted to take the blankets with me.
“No,”  he said firmly.
Although he took my hand, as to reassure me he was acting.
“Leave those here. You’ll be bare. Without any protection.”
I shivered in anticipation and followed him to the bedroom.

A New Dawn

I was brainstorming with a colleague. The idea was that we would come up with ways to get more people to our classes. But something totally different happened.
Turned out she wanted to start a giant international yoga studio.
She was flabbergasted when I got that desire out on the table for her, and she realized she was eye to eye with her purpose. Her real dream. And that this was the reason she wasn’t communicating her true persona on her site: because she wanted to go a lot bigger than her current offer. She didn’t want to teach one or two hours a week. She didn’t want to have a boss, or a day job that made money.
She wanted the first large international yoga studio in the Netherlands. In her mind she already knew what she’d put on the floors and what the toilets would look like. She wanted a cafe, and knew exactly what kind of crowd she’d draw.
But the meeting had an epiphany for me as well. After we had set her on track with her dreams, I realized:
Teaching yoga is not where my ambition lies.
This was huge for me.
Yes, I always knew I wanted to be a writer. Or that I had been a writer, was a writer still, and would always be a writer down to my last breath. And I also knew I wanted to inspire people.
My yoga classes had already started to lean towards personal development. Because what people needed was not yoga, as in exercise or meditation. It was to change their thoughts. And the more radically they would do that, the more radical the shift in their lives. With stories, I tried to reach the minds of my students, so they could love themselves more, and create the lives they wanted. Until I knew: I am not a yoga teacher. I am a teacher.
My books are the way to reach people’s mind.
It’s not because I don’t see the significance of yoga or physical health, that I want to make the shift to writing and personal development. It’s because there comes a point where one well written sentence can make you run faster than a month long training. One insight can bring you more happiness than a fifth way to train your core. And one spiritual practice (such as a gratitude journal, or meditation- yes, I said it) can have more impact than hundred-forty-three tree poses.
The moment this self-help book, The Way of the Trickster, announced its presence I realized this book was different from my other writing.  This was the most energetic, dominant idea, and would push through no matter what! Trickster claimed whole time slots. Started messing with my head.
Trickster had never come to sell out my classes. He was here to make sure I got serious with my writing career.
LS Harteveld would say: Thank God at last!

LS Harteveld

I started writing in 2006. It would take me three years before I had my own website, but I did come up with my penname LS Harteveld instantly. She was the persona who could write anything she wanted and I could still teach yoga in peace. Without my students finding my erotica, unless I told them where to find it. And more importantly, without curious readers as tourists in my classes.
The initials LS are an abbreviation of the latin lectori salutem. Hello to the reader. In The Netherlands L.S. is a fairly common way to open a formal, official letter if you don’t know who will read it.
My penname initials L.S. therefor mean:
“Hello to the reader.”
The surname Harteveld (field of hearts) was planted in my head when I was just a kid. We were on a holiday and a family with two boys and a girl was camping there too. I hooked up with the girl, and basically ignored her brothers. But when I heard her name was Harteveld, I checked them out with renewed interest. I fancied their last name, and considered marrying them for it. But I couldn’t find anything attractive about them, so I gave up on the idea of becoming Mrs. Harteveld. I was eight.
And then at thirty-four I brought it up, from my childhood memories. I crowned myself LS Harteveld, giving myself a whole new identity. I was all set for my new career.
Except it didn’t happen. Not the publishing part. Every time in January I started my quest to publish and yet I would always get caught up in questions on whether I would have to get a publisher or do it myself. How to market it. How to stay anonymous so that I wouldn’t have people reading porn signing up for my classes. Stuff like that.
I absolutely hated the idea of owing anything to a publisher, or an agent. In the Netherlands you don’t require an agent, as opposed to Anglo-Saxon countries. Yet, I couldn’t see doing all the work myself. And every time I’d be on tv, probably still not earning a dime being LS Harteveld, I would sabotage my yoga business.
In all those years, I never realized that in order to publish and go public with my story, I needed to make money with it. Only then, would I overcome my fear of publishing.
I always saw LS Harteveld as more businesslike than me. Better at selling her story, and at selling herself. Why did it take me so long to realize LS Harteveld would probably make a lot more money, than the real me would ever do teaching yoga?

To Go Pro

My new yoga business is up and running!
The first people are signing up with my new system, which means they’re signing up directly for half a year, based on my videos. There are no single classes or try-out classes anymore, so I only teach committed students and don’t have to worry about people only interested in meeting LS Harteveld. I’ve also created weekly quotes with my yoga video, and use them in my blog as well. I’m currently offering not only great yoga classes, but also wisdom, a themed playlist on Spotify, quotes and a video for at home, all for the same price as a regular yoga class. And I know how to communicate it. So my yoga business is on track.
I seriously considered going to B-School for LS Harteveld. B-School is an annual eight week business program for women who are starting their business, and I’ve been wanting to join for years. It’s just that I didn’t know if I would take that training to sell my yoga or to sell my books. But before I could spend two-thousand euros, my unofficial business coach, good friend Ivy, intervened.
“If you launch LS Harteveld with the same approach as yoga, you don’t require extra marketing training.”
Even if my single expedition didn’t work out, Ivy explained, I would be able to make B-School work for my problem areas next year.
My second break-through today was how I would publish my books. I decided to not do any collections, but publish a series volume 1 to 9. They could be read separately, and if you were bi-lingual (Dutch and English) you could read them all.
1. Mango
2. Dutch American Diary
3. 22 Erotische Verhalen
4. LS Diary
5. De Candystop
6. Bedtime Stories
7. Mirage
8. Big  Erotica & Diary
9. The Way of The Trickster
The thought of publishing all these books was just as exciting as getting play raped by Mister Big. Close enough anyway.


After this last entry I abandoned this book. I had my coming out as LS Harteveld for my yoga students, and put LS Harteveld in charge of writing my new yoga homepage which now included the words wine, broadmindedness, and oozed the confidence and sexuality of a thousand dollar escort. I put her in charge of teaching classes which immediately brought back my mojo for teaching. And ultimately LS Harteveld was the one who urged to get those books out. It would give me a passive income stream and make me more well-known as a yoga teacher as well.
LS Harteveld cancelled all home yoga aspirations, all internet restrictions, and focused all her time on one thing:
To get those books out.
Twenty-four hours. That’s how long it took before two muses arrived. And their names were not Edit and Publish.

Save my story

Suddenly I was wide awake. A relatively unknown self-help author explained in a Facebook video that her new book was turning out to be quite different than she had anticipated. It would be more contemporary. And she mentioned it would even include something on, and I’m definitely quoting now, “getting laid.”
Although I would rather beat myself unconscious with my 1998 laptop, than to use the phrase “getting laid”, I could see a potential threat here.
What if my idea of writing a contemporary self-help book had traveled to a more willing author? One who had not abandoned the document for weeks because she was figuring this whole publishing-all-her-work-thing out? A project she affectionately referred to as The Wait Worth 8.
What if “my” new book, The Way of The Trickster, had taken its desire to be created elsewhere and was forcing itself onto the run of the mill self-help author who now clumsily referred to sex as getting laid?
Instead of being written by me, the uncrowned queen of erotica?
I whispered sweet words to Trickster, to come back to me.
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
“I can give you everything she can’t”
“You know I am the one.”
I opened my antique laptop, extracted the Trickster file, and put it on my regular computer. The days Trickster would settle for being my secret lover, and one I could easily abandon, were over. Before doing anything else, I would spend time with him. Soon the phrase “getting laid” would be just a good story about “that time you almost left me”.
I still wanted to get my books published, but thirty minutes of writing had just become mandatory.

Red flag

I thought this was settled. That the morning-after pill after the condom broke had reset my shortening menstruation cycle. Or perhaps it had been the switch from tampons to a menstruation cup, a quite messy silicon novelty hailed for even normalizing copper spiral induced blood baths. But whatever it was, it had stopped working. I had just gotten my period on day twenty-three, and whether this was spotting (loss of blood between or before the real period) or already the real thing didn’t really matter: this needed attention.
In 2011, my cycle had been off as well. And although trying to tackle it had driven me nuts, I failed to remember what had eventually cured it.
Fully knowing that what I’m telling you is TMI, I need to explain why my menstruation is of concern to me. Because it is directly linked to why the condom broke in the first place. To deal with the spotting, I was using tampons. This meant that I was dry during sex. We had used lube to deal with this. But apparently not enough. And the condom broke.
If I didn’t find a way to solve this, I would be sentenced to excessive tampon use, broken condoms, morning after pills and doses of untested sperm in my vagina. Not an appealing scenario.
I considered going on the pill. This would most likely normalize my menstruation. And in case of more broken condoms, at least I didn’t have to take a morning after pill.
Then I changed my mind and I went the alternative route with the menstruation cup. Maybe this would suffice. And it did. For two months. Although I didn’t know if it was the magic of the cup, or the pharmaceutical reset from the morning after pill but either way, it seemed to be fine. Until blood on day twenty-three. That’s not fine.
Now the menstruation of a woman works like this. You have an egg coming from one ovary, next month from the other. I only have the issues every other month so any yoga or lifestyle routine to cure this must be at least two cycles long. A forty day approach will “work”, simply because next up is ovary B which usually causes less trouble than ovary A.
As a yoga teacher I own numerous books on female yoga and hormone yoga, but I place most trust in a book that is called The White Tigress, written by Hsi Lai. It describes a Taoist cult of sexually active independent women. They are eternally youthful and healthy and have full control over their cycle. The White Tigress is not a handbook, but it does instruct rejuvenating sex, spiritual techniques, self-massage, self-pleasuring, oral sex and I deciphered a yoga routine.
To have a normal menstruation and a normal sex life, I would become a White Tigress. For a hundred days I would commit to implementing every word from Hsi Lai.

Next up;
Big part 4: 
The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai
and Part 5 (the end) More Erotica. 

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And AWAY! Is Avery. How a disappearing escort became my muse.


The only still available photo she kept online, can be found at her deserted Twitter account @PlayWithAvery

The only still available photo she kept online, can be found at her deserted Twitter account @PlayWithAvery

Early 2014 there was a $1000 an hour escort named Avery Moore, who had time tracked an entire year in business. How much time she spent with company, how many shoes she got, the number of dinners or books received. This remarkable project, including the original graphic can be found HERE.
And I was totally intrigued.
Because not only did I turn out to have a dormant obsession for pale, petite sex workers (which I later projected onto porn star Stoya), but I’m a diligent planner and time tracker myself.
I even bought my first and only leather Filofax agenda in 1991 living on a student allowance because I watched a detective where the escort (murdered, unfortunately) had possessed a similar luxurious agenda. With her name on it. It sparked my love for sex workers, and made getting a similar agenda a priority. 
In 2014, Avery Moore was the first since 1991 to hit these two kinks again – sex and stationary. Although Avery Moore used software mostly, but close enough. 
Avery Moore became my time management crush.

I do have a major disappointment coming up for you, but before we get there let’s first remember the good times. Because in those days, she had a website. It contained her rates, sassy “me” and “you” pages, and gorgeous photos that would seduce you so thoroughly, you practically threw your creditcard at the screen. She also kept a blog. And she could write. She wrote well.
It was so good this journalist gave up any idea of doing a better job himself, and just quoted half her blog, admitting.
“I’m cribbing phrases of this woman.”

Halfway 2015 Avery disappeared. Her website Away with Avery dot com was first password protected, until eventually it was bought or claimed by one of those eerie companies that prey on the remains of once successful websites. Like vultures on dead beasts.
A dreadful ending.

I still wonder whatever happened to her. Did she get pregnant? Retired?
On her late website, as well as in this radio interview, the only available recording of her and one of the very few traces she has ever existed, she makes the impression that she really loved her job. Just like me, she was young when she learned what escorts were, and she looked up to them thinking;
“No… that can’t be me. That’s way too high up!”
I personally never tried my luck, but she did, and she loved her job. Then why did she leave? When her career was just about to take off and she could have taken her brand anywhere she wanted?

There are moments when I browse through the videos of female business coaches and I just know Avery could have become an author, motivational speaker or first class VIP business coach, a hundred times better than anyone who I have come across. Her classy, clear, alluring website was proof of that.
Why didn’t she use the momentum she had?

But I’m grateful our virtual paths crossed, during that short time window when she made media appearances. I was inspired by her presence then, and every time my life needs a make-over I make a list of new habits and challenges and stuff I want to do daily in order to live a successful life, and I sum it up as one thing;
Become Avery Moore.

I hope that where ever she is, and whatever she’s doing, that she still has the same zest for life, and still inspires the people around her, touching their heart and soul, or perhaps a little lower.
And that she still asks a thousand dollars an hour.

Because I know for a fact she’s worth every penny.

<3 LSH
An unexamined life is not worth living


I just found Avery Moore on Valentines Day on Esquire.
It’s an interview and contains two more photos.

Sign me up – The Wait Worth 8

I’ve written eight diaries and erotica books, and will be posting background stories for these Wait Worth 8, for the upcoming 100 days. If you like a weekly overview please subscribe to the newsletter. As soon as the books are finished, newsletter subscribers also receive a one-time-only exclusive discount.
So you can afford them regardless of your personal hourly rate.

Book six  Bedtime Stories is my 2014 diary, where I discover Avery Moore.  It will be available in print very, VERY, soon. Although I wish I still had Avery’s blog for inspiration on how to say that more eloquently.