A letter of encouragement to Sergei Polunin

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Dear Sergei,

I watched the documentary Dancer, which premiered in the Netherlands only recently. It was hands down the best movie I saw this year, and I suspect it will hold that spot for the months to come.

Two years ago I shared your farewell to ballet, the video Take me to Church, along with nineteen million others. But little did we know about your life, and the loneliness of being taken from your home and the loss of your family. And we didn’t know about the ballet industry. That at the time the money should be coming in to make up for a ruined childhood, the ballet industry prevents their talent from becoming independent professionals. The contract system bears closest resemblance to slavery, something the Western world prides themselves in having no part at. The Royal Ballet, and every other ballet like it, violates human rights and children’s rights in a way we only see in third world countries. We can only hope this movie has opened their eyes, and that once they know better, they do better.

So by now you have set up a management agency and a new theater company Project Polunin. You have become very much aware that keeping dancers cut off from nurturing guidance and legal representation has been the magical ingredient in keeping all ballet companies afloat. No wonder you felt miserable. No wonder you wanted to quit. At least your parents had their own background of poverty to validate why they made the radical choice to sacrifice your childhood for your future. And yes, of course that is what psychologists will say is what caused your despair and downfall to drugs. But I think it’s absolutely brilliant that you understood it was more than that. That you are designing an alternative for the shackles of slavery in the ballet world.

It is my prediction that claiming your own power has been or will be, the key to dropping your dependency on drugs to ease your mental pain. Now I’m no addiction expert, nor do I know in how much pain your body is, but I really think that your newfound path of financial and artistic freedom will give you the same level of purpose you had as a child. Your new intrinsic motivation will make you want to show up for your art, and to show up for your new found audience who come for the artist Sergei. I m so very damn positive that one day you will just know that you’re done with drugs. And until then I won’t judge you in any way for using them.

One question I do want to bring up here. And this is not something that I can verify because I m not enough of an expert. But either way, I read experts are saying that in your new independent show you are not performing at your old level. So the question is will you ever physically push yourself like when you still worked for the companies? Will your dancing ever reach that level again? At the expense of your physical health. Because this is something all ballet lovers seem to agree on; like all sports, top-level ballet has disastrous effects on your body.

So will you ever push yourself the way you did?
I think this depends where you will go with your art. What will your message be?
I think it’s fully understandable if your message is that no one in their right minds should become a top level dancer. And that your work will focus on creative expression.
A second option is that you create a new training program, showing the world that dancers don’t need to suffer to that level to be brilliant. That the whip of the master literally does more harm that good.
And then there is a third option (I m just brainstorming here – I m sure there are more!) where you incorporate the pain, endurance and suffering into the very art you’re making. Think Marina Abramovic. This could still be harmful for your body, but you would bring the sacrifice into the spotlight. Your endurance and pain to be the greatest dancer of your generation, would be the art itself.

If just like Marina, you would perform at the MoMa for 750 hours, like hell that would be art!

~ Lauren

I m currently publishing my eight books.
You can read the manuscripts online for a limited time (English and Dutch)
And if I had put only 1% of the Sergei’s dance efforts into publishing my books,
I would have won a fucking Pulitzer by now ;)

Handen af van de foute man

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Achtenveertig uur geleden schreef ik mijn tweede stuk over Thierry Baudet. Daarin nam ik het voor hem op, en deed ik uit de doeken dat “nee” bij een vrouw kan betekenen;
Ik vind je een griezel maar ook Ik durf niet.
En waarom het tweede het speelveld is van de leuke foute man, het speelveld van de Major League

Toen ik s avonds een compliment kreeg op Twitter over dit stuk, werd het aangeprezen als dat ik “een grijs gebied verkende”. En sindsdien voel ik me als Hagrid, de reus uit Harry Potter. Hagrid is ook de enige die opkomt voor vleesetende agressieve magische dieren. Bijvoorbeeld een valse meerkoppige hond die hij Fluffy heeft genoemd. Hij neemt ze in huis als pup of in t ei, vervolgens loopt t helemaal uit de hand en uiteindelijk worden de gigantische spin, de meerkoppige hond en de vuurspuwende draak in de wildernis uitgezet, of ergens geplaatst om mensen en tovenaars weg te jagen.
Monsters mogen in de tovernaarswereld niet als huisdier worden gehouden, want daar komen ongelukken van.

Zo is het ook met foute mannen. Die moet je ook niet voor huis-tuin-en-keuken doeleinden inzetten. Je kunt ze het beste gewoon laten rondlopen in de vrije natuur, ergens waar het niet de bedoeling is dat vrouwen zich nestelen. Bijvoorbeeld in een kroeg, of op Tinder. Of op Twitter, zou ik daar ook nog aan toe willen voegen. De reden dat ik me daar zo thuis voel is ongetwijfeld dat het er in principe niet veilig is. Je moet de accounts die je volgt met zorg kiezen, voor je persoonlijke ideale mix van spanning en liefde. Als je ervoor kiest echt mee te spelen, en dus je mening te ventileren en je plek in t spel in te nemen, dan moet je rekening houden met tegengas. Twitter, Tinder en de old skool kroeg zijn allemaal plekken waar foute mannen ongestoord hun gang kunnen gaan. Ik vraag me al jaren af waarom ik Twitter verkies boven een echte datingsite, boven Facebook, en zeker boven ALLES met alleen een foto en vijfentwintig hashtags erachter (kots), maar ik realiseer me nu dat dit grotendeels te maken heeft met het feit dat Twitter de natuurlijke habitat is voor de object of my affection;
de foute man.

Zoals Hagrid helemaal week wordt van zijn Norwegian Ridgeback dragon Norbert, zelfs als hij constant de boel in de fik zet met zijn adem, zo voel ik met foute mannen zo n natuurlijk band, dat ik me nu pas realiseer dat ik inderdaad een grijs gebied besprak in mijn blog…
Het adagium nee is nee, openbreken ten behoeve van nee kan ook “ik durf niet, hou mijn hand vast voor we dit spannende spel gaan doen” betekenen, dat dat snel uit de hand kan lopen. Voor je t weet staat de boel in de fik, is iemands hoofd eraf gebeten, of hangt hij of zij vastgebonden in de touwen alsof de spin Aragog himself je te grazen heeft genomen.

Door de opmerking “grijs gebied” begon ik me te realiseren dat ik net als Hagrid, mijn persoonlijke hobby boven het algemeen belang stel. Dat ik mijn voorliefde voor een exotische diersoort, namelijk de leuke foute man waar je de meest geweldige seks van je leven mee kan hebben, laat prevaleren boven mijn wens vrouwen onder alle omstandigheden te beschermen. Dat ik het vasthouden aan het nee is nee criterium, nog veel meer dan het huisdierverbod, een Draconische maatregel vind die vrij contact met mijn lievelingsdier onmogelijk maakt.

Het grote probleem met het criminaliseren van vrouwenversierders aka de leuke foute man, is dat er vrouwen zijn zoals ik die hen echt heel erg leuk vinden. En die je écht geen plezier doet met een Golden Retriever of een ander gehoorzaam huisdier. Maar wat ik, en iedere man of vrouw die zich begeeft in de Major League of dating, ons goed moeten realiseren is dat wij dingen aflezen aan elkaar, die gewone mensen helemaal niet kunnen of willen zien. Zoals Hagrid met draken omgaat, zo kan ik met foute mannen omgaan. En zij met mij. Het zal erom spannen wie de draak is, en wie Hagrid, maar uiteindelijk gaat t erom dat we gelijkwaardig zijn aan elkaar en dat dat dus niet zoveel uitmaakt. We beleven beide plezier aan het contact.

Nogmaals, en dit heb ik ook in het stuk over Thierry Baudet uitgebreid besproken, zijn leuke foute mannen sterk en sportief. De mannetjes die ik mijd als de pest en echt een gevaar opleveren voor verkrachting, spelen absoluut niet in de Major League want een leuke foute man zal nooit iets tegen je zin doen. En ja, dat is een grijs gebied. Helaas. Maar nogmaals; voor de kenner/mij is het heel helder. Maar ik begrijp de zorgen van vrouwen die maar duidelijk willen zijn en aan het nee is nee adagium vast willen houden. Helaas, want ik had die foute foute mannen er zelf liever ook niet bij gehad.
Ik hoop echt oprecht dat het artikel van maandag duidelijk maakt dat er een verschil is tussen een leuke foute man en iemand die desnoods met geweld pakt wat niet in vrijheid gegeven wordt. De reden dat ik opkom voor de leuke foute man, is dat ik niet wil dat zij op één hoop gegooid worden of in een kwaad daglicht komen te staan, terwijl hun enige misdaad is dat ze gewoon ongeschikt zijn als huisdier.

Terug naar dit speelveld. De Major League is dun bevolkt. Er zijn heel weinig mannen, en nog minder vrouwen, die dit spel willen spelen. En ik zie ook regelmatig mensen, mannen en vrouwen, wegvallen omdat ze getemd worden en ergens binnenshuis worden gehouden. Vaak hebben ze dit proces zo geïnternaliseerd dat ze zichzelf ook nog betere mensen vinden nu ze gesettled zijn. Hoewel ik ze bijna allemaal heb zien terugvallen naar hun natuurlijke gedrag. Als zwervende wolven, solitaire tijgers, of als Twitter draken waar iedere tweet de wereld in vlammen zet!
En zo overtuigd of lijdzaam als ze tijdens hun gevangenschap nog zijn?
Zo opgelucht zijn ze als ze hun vrijheid terug hebben.
Ze hebben letterlijk de ketenen van zich afgegooid, ruiken het avontuur, en kijken nooit meer om.

Toen ik 18 was kreeg ik een babypoesje. Ik noemde hem Peertje. Ik liet hem niet castreren, omdat ik liever wilde dat hij een intensief leven had, dan dat hij zijn leven op een kleedje voor de openhaard zou slijten. Hij groeide op tot een stevige kater, die regelmatig tijdens het aaien ineens zijn tanden in je hand zette, je pols omvatte met zijn armpjes, en dan met zijn achterpoten je huid begon te ontvellen alsof je een vogeltje was.

Met hem bungelend aan mijn arm, liep ik dan naar de garage waar ik hem eraf haalde en snel de deur dicht deed zodat hij even af kon koelen. Ik ben er nooit vanuit gegaan dat hij zou stoppen als ik “nee”, zei.
En als hij dat wel had gedaan, dan was ik enorm teleurgesteld geweest.

~ LS Harteveld
curator van foute mannen

mijn boek over “mijn” foute man
(hoewel dit bezittelijk voornaamwoord uiteraard groteske onzin is)
Big
erotica and diaries
komt uit in april 2017
Volg mijn Twitter of Facebook page voor updates, of schrijf je in voor de nieuwsbrief op deze site.

of link naar mijn allereerste artikel over het omstreden boek van Baudet
In priase of Thierry Baudet


 

Waarom Thierry Baudet een goeie foute man is

nVTXr55ANovember 2015 schreef ik In Praise of Thierry Baudet Omdat met zijn kamerzetel het debat over zijn vrouw(on)vriendlijkheid weer is opgelaaid, hierbij mijn persoonlijke verhaal waarom ik hem het voordeel van de twijfel gun. Minimaal.

Ik heb t allemaal gedaan. Douchen op mijn 19e met iemand die ik net kende en waar ik geen seks mee wilde. Verliefd worden op een enorme neger en me diezelfde avond meerdere keren laten nemen. Play-rapeje spelen in een verlaten bos, zonder safe-words en in t volste vertrouwen dat hij condooms zou gebruiken. En ik ben nooit bedrogen uitgekomen.

Natuurlijk! Emotioneel waren t gigantische avonturen. Dat hij daarna niet belt, of je laat vallen. Of je na vijfentwintig jaar nog denkt WARUM heb ik geen seks gehad daar onder de douche? En dan maar weer een dagboek over die herinnering vol schrijft. Ik ga heus niet beweren dat het pijnloos is geweest. Maar één ding hebben al deze herinneringen gemeen; op het moment voelde ik me volledig veilig. Onthoud dit even voor als het straks over Dhr Baudet gaat. Ik twijfelde er niet aan dat de mannen alleen zouden doen wat ik wilde. En ik heb altijd gelijk gekregen. Met mijn vermogen om in real life mannen goed in te schatten, is tot nu toe in elk geval niks mis.

Mijn behoefte aan spannende seks komt waarschijnlijk doordat ik een aids fobie had. Als tiener leerde ik zelfs de kleinste risico’s van orale seks, te interpreteren als de dood. Dus ik ontwikkelde een obsessie voor veiligheid, maar leerde ook dat seks iets HEEL spannends was. Regelmatig vraag ik aan mensen met een relatie of ze daar nou echt serieus nog opgewonden van kunnen worden. Of dat ze dan prostitueetje spelen. Of SM. Wat ze overigens nooit doen.
Maar suffice to say, dat ik dus nogal wat spanning nodig heb voor ik ook maar enigszins zin heb.

Nou is er een methode waardoor ik ook met niet-spannende mannen naar bed kan. Dit heet fantasie. Ook zonder rollenspel, kan ik in mijn hoofd (daar ben je schrijver voor) zoveel spanning creëren dat ik met meer mannen naar bed kan dan alleen iemand waar ik echt verliefd op ben. Dit is natuurlijk super. Ik weet nu al dat ik nooit meer “zonder” hoef komen te zitten. Als mijn huidige minnaar me de deur wijst, dan geef ik er wel een draai aan zodat ik echt nooit meer een seksloos pandajaar hoef te houden. Ik ga niet op een bamboehoutje bijten.

Maar naar bed met leuke, aardige mannen, waar ik dan zelf wel iets spannends bij verzin, heeft niet mijn voorkeur. Want de jaren met mijn minnaar zijn me uitermate goed bevallen. Vlak voor ik toegaf aan hem, was ik er nog van overtuigd dat ik nooit wat met hem zou beginnen. Veels te eng. Ik zag mezelf weer met een paniekaanval the day after rillend op de wc.
Toen zei hij;
“Je moet beseffen dat ik nooit wat tegen je zin zou doen.”
Ik lachte en antwoordde;
“Nee, natuurlijk niet. Jij bent veel erger. Jij versiert me tot ik er zelf om smeek.”

Het duurde dus even voor ik me realiseerde wat hij me bood. Dat dit de spannende, sterke, en ja ook razend onbetrouwbare en gevaarlijke man was, waar ik inmiddels echt aan toe was. Dat hier een spel gespeeld kon worden waar echt iets op t spel stond. Mijn hart. Mijn geestelijke gezondheid. Mijn eigenwaarde. Deze tegenstander, want ik zag t inmiddels als een spel, deze tegenstander was gelijkwaardig aan mij. Dit was niet zomaar daten.
Dit was de Major League.

En ineens zag ik t. Al die jaren luwte in korte of lange relaties; ze hadden me een sterke basis gegeven. Maar de echte verandering in mij was gekomen door mannen aan wie ik gigantisch mijn fikken had gebrand. De neger. De jongen onder de douche. Mijn vriendje toen ik 16 was. Een Amerikaan toen ik midden 30 was. Dat waren de players.
‘t Waren Major League players.
En door met hen te spelen was ik zonder het me te realiseren getraind, en zelfs heel bedreven geworden in t spel.

En de gevaarlijke man, die me nu een handreiking deed en me beloofde nooit iets tegen mijn zin te doen? Hij was mijn ticket. En nu wist ik waar ik instapte! Hij was de uitnodiging voor de Major League.

Ik weet nog steeds niet of ik na mijn minnaar in de Major League kan blijven. Want zoveel players zitten er helaas niet in, en ik ben door mijn katje Max ook dit jaar weer aan huis gekluisterd dus mijn actieradius is maar heel klein. Maar het is vooral omdat de meeste mannen helemaal niet in de Major League willen spelen, want je moet er heel veel moeite doen voor een vrouw. Je punten tellen sowieso alleen als ze het zelf wil. Bovendien mag je geen zwakte tonen, of “jezelf” zijn. Dat ben je voer voor de kat, dan lig je er zo uit.

Ik heb lang gedacht de Major League een beetje een wrede plek was, maar daar begin ik van terug te komen. Het is namelijk de enige plek waar mannen de moeite nemen zichzelf groot te houden, zodat de vrouw zich volledig kan overgeven. Ze willen dat je hen helemaal vertrouwt. En dan geven ze je de mogelijkheid your deepest, darkest fantasies uit te spelen. Of niet, als je op t laatste moment wil afhaken, zoals ik in die douche. Ze zullen je nooit dwingen noch je ooit ergens op afwijzen. Het is jouw feestje.

Het meest in het oog springende wat Thierry Baudet verweten wordt op het gebied van vrouwen, is dat hij gezegd heeft dat een nee geen nee is. En dat je dan moet doorpakken en zeggen: “Kom joh! We gaan nog even wat drinken.”
En dan nog ergens een toevoeging dat vrouwen overmand willen worden.
Hieruit menen verontruste vrouwen op te merken dat het hier om een rucksichtloze verkrachter gaat. Of dan in elk geval één die t is in-de-dop.
Maar ik ken dit gedrag van twee type mannen. En slechts één is misschien een verkrachter.

Het eerste waar ik dit door pak gedrag van ken, zijn mannen waar ik echt helemaal niets voor voel. We hadden/ hebben zo n tent hier in Nijmegen waar je na tien uur s avonds aangeschoten wild bent. Zelfs als je, zoals een vriendin dat een keer treffend zei:
“De stekels uit je rug hebt groeien.”
Uitgaanspubliek in de vorm van groepen vrijgezelle mannetjes, zijn notoire signaal-ignoreders en ja zij emmeren gewoon door. Zij pakken totaal geen signalen op want dat kan hun ego zich helemaal niet veroorloven. Bovendien hebben ze hun wankele positie in de op zich al vrij zielige vrijgezellengroep te verdedigen. Dus tja.
Mijn vriendinnen en ik vragen dus altijd om half tien gewoon de rekening, en maken ons verder op tijd uit de voeten.
Maar deze mannen acht ik inderdaad in staat om vrouwen te verkrachten. En helaas denk ik dat uitspraken zoals van Thierry door hen als een aanmoediging kunnen worden opgevat. Dat vind ik heel erg. En dat zou ook mijn advies aan Thierry zijn; deze mannen bestaan echt. En met drie hersencellen die bovendien op testosteron werken, zijn dat soort uitspraken gewoon geen goed idee. Dat is t type man dat denkt dat de play rape uit de eerste alinea iets zegt over dat ik dat in t echt wil. Het is een terechte angst om van dit soort mannen bang te zijn, en dit soort situaties te mijden als de fucking pest. Dus ik begrijp heel goed waar al die vrouwen zo bang voor zijn, naar aanleiding van Thierry’s uitspraken.

Maar ik denk niet dat Thierry erbij hoort. Ik denk t echt niet.
En dat brengt me op het tweede type man, dat je over wil halen toch nog een drankje te doen samen. Dat is uiteraard de Major League player.

Zoals ik net al heb aangegeven, leven deze spelers volgens ongeschreven erecodes waarin iets doen tegen de wil van een vrouw, ver beneden peil is. Dat is voor amateurs. Voor een echte player is er alleen lol aan, als je als was in zijn handen bent, en vervolgens je vriendinnen vertelt dat je de mooiste nacht van je leven hebt gehad. Als de ervaring herinnerd wordt als een indringende maar zoete ervaring waarbij gevaar en genot elkaar op magistrale wijze afwisselden.
“En dan je hart in vijfduizend stukjes wordt gebroken,”
had ik er tot voor kort glunderend achteraan gezegd.

Want zelfs daar ben ik niet meer zo zeker van….

Twee jaar geleden was ik er nog van overtuigd dat het de mannen in de Major League ging om een nieuwe manier van “scoren”; namelijk emoties en harten scoren in plaats van dat je geneukt hebt. Maar hoe langer ik er speel, en hoe meer spelers ik kan herkennen, in mijn eigen liefdeshistorie maar ik meen ook in beroemdheden zoals Thierry Baudet, hoe meer ik me realiseer dat dit spel voor een man niet zit in het breken van het hart van de vrouw.

Net zoals t voor mij van onschatbare waarde is om verliefd te zijn, en ik daarom weet dat ik in de Major League wil blijven omdat al mijn beau’s daar speelden, zo geldt dat voor de mannen ook. Ze nemen geen risico’s met mijn hart, hun uitdaging zit in t beheersen van hun eigen gevoelens. Zoals ik kick op de spanning van een dreigende angstaanval, of het risico van een gebroken hart, doen zij dat ook. Het gevaar ten onder te gaan aan hun gevoelens voor een vrouw, is een spel dat ze iedere keer weer opnieuw spelen.
En daarmee is hun inzet dus minstens even bewonderenswaardig als egocentrisch.

Mijn minnaar, de jongen uit de douche, de neger, de Amerikaan; ze hebben allemaal volgehouden toen ik nee zei. Omdat ik niet durfde. Niet omdat ik hen een kansloze dertig plus vrijgezel met een cocaine probleem vond, maar omdat ik voelde dat ze zoveel met me deden, dat ik eraan kapot zou gaan als ze me op het verkeerde moment de cold shoulder zouden geven. Dan zeiden ze;
“Kom. We doen gewoon nog een drankje samen. Een drankje kan toch wel?”
En dat kon.

Ik ken Thierry niet, maar na aanleiding van alles dat ik meekrijg uit de media ga ik ervan uit dat hij niet t eerste type is, maar t tweede. En als dat zo is dan voelt hij aan welke nee betekent;
je bent een gruwelaap. En welke nee betekent; fuck, ik durf niet verder. 

En dan is die eerste nee gewoon nee.
En de tweede is; “Weet je, we doen gewoon een drankje samen.”

~LS Harteveld

follow-up post
Handen af van de foute man

mijn boek over mijn Major League minnaar
Big
erotica and diaries
komt uit in april 2017
Volg mijn Twitter of Facebook page voor updates, of schrijf je in voor de nieuwsbrief op deze site.

link naar mijn artikel uit 2015;
In priase of Thierry Baudet

Big – erotica and diaries. Part 2: The Virgin Diaries (incl one erotic story)

Late 2015, after writing a handful of autobiographical erotic stories, Lauren sets out for some deep soul searching on what on earth she’s doing dating a married man.

 

day 1: Lawyer

The profile of a 47 year old self-assured lawyer seemed to leave me with only one option: to sign up as a full member to tell him that he had opened my eyes. Because the deceivingly casual tone of his online profile revealed an intimate insight into his own psyche that I only knew from one other person. Me.
Initially I didn’t fully appreciate him. Probably because this was a heavy-weight psychological dating site. Everyone had gone through extensive testing, and all profiles were manually checked, every line you altered ditto. And a profile was only shown to those who matched your internal make-up. This site was a sanctuary for all those tired of being selected, or dismissed, on their looks. Although I’m pretty sure most people can see through the blur and still make a decent assessment. Especially if someone was black with a full head of hair and smart enough to look sideways and down. An elegant pose that suggested shyness if it wasn’t for the fact that shy people freeze up in the strangest of poses if you point a camera at them.
 The lawyer was not shy.
 He was suave. He was playing nice so you would understand that him not returning your mail, or not being able to make it, maybe his not calling you again after sex and definitely his aversion to anything that bore the characteristics of a relationship, that you wouldn’t take all those things so personal. It wasn’t you, it was him.
But the first pick was the best – the other profiles looked pale compared to his. They didn’t answer questions in three different ways as if reasoning with himself, only to then cheerfully declare: as you can see, still haven’t nailed this one! They didn’t say they would never want to suffer “unless it would make them understand themselves better”. Not that they wished they could stop projecting themselves onto others. They had professions like: Controller. Entrepreneur. Empty. Disabled. And ten of them had the same score on compatibility as the lawyer or even higher.
“I don’t like snobs,” Mister 109 compatibility stated.
Someone who even notices snobs clearly doesn’t have the unwavering self-esteem necessary to face me.
“It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.”
Mister 108 compatibility reasoned. Sounds like someone justifying not having a purpose in life.
“I like passionate sex,” photographer 107 compatibility announced and I could feel my cunt cramp up in disgust. It was difficult to understand why but it was like he managed to make every word sound ugly and distorted. Which was of course an achievement in its own right but making passionate sex sound like death by torture was not something I was going to pay €350,- for.
 Because yes. In the end, that turned out to be the amount I would have to pay. Give or take. It depended if you would pay per month or for the whole year in one go.
 € 350 was an awful lot of money to connect with my black or at least very dark male twin soul. Especially since the insight he had given me didn’t require his presence anymore. I didn’t really want a man. I really didn’t.
 I too, was done projecting.
 I wanted to get to know myself. Be my own Plan B, my own backbone, my own best friend, and my own lover.
 And the best part was: dating myself was completely free.

 

Day 2: The Sex Guru

It all started with a new and free e-book from sex guru Layla Martin: Epic Sex, a playful guide for lovers. I started reading the book on how to deepen your sexual connection in six arousing ways, and was struck by the four pages written especially for the male partner. They explained that women will get emotional during good sex, and how to deal with that, how to embrace that. And I realized that if this required a thousand words to talk him into this, then no man is going to give me that unless he is The One. I can never experience those six ways of groundbreaking sex and intimacy unless I find Him. And that’s when I remembered I still had this other course of Layla Martin to help me achieve that: her free video training how to attract your dream partner.
I had started this training in August but had dropped out when you were asked to make a list of non-negotiable qualities of your dream partner. “He is honest. You absolutely need that. He is totally devoted to you. You need that.” But Layla’s two supposedly no-brainers sparked so much resistance in me that I just couldn’t get my head around forming my own opinion on this. But now I was motivated to give it another try, because I realized I actually needed a dream partner in order to get my kinks fulfilled. Yeah, the kinky stuff…..  Not the Tantric, the sensual, or the Enlightened techniques. I was only interested in one path, and my enthusiasm for the other five methods to deepen your sex life was barely enough to lie I found it “interesting” and that it looked “profound”. It was all stuff that could work for other people. As in people interested in having normal relationships I suppose.
Throughout eight years of dating I had known exactly what I wanted and yet every man, every date, every loser, and every fantastic lover had failed to understand me. What I wanted was: to really like each other, be equally excited to have found each other and from there be with each other all the time. In which “be with each other” would roughly translate as to screw the living daylights out of each other. And then after a few months you would know what to do. Either break-up or stay together and try those other five ways to have sex from Layla’s book.
The end.
But my dates never understood that. The combination of diving in and experiencing total alchemy and yet at the same time not making any future plans, was something that blew their minds.
One man said he didn’t want to invest in it if we didn’t have a re-la-tion-ship.
Two were holding out because they still had a partner.
Three were hand-picked by me for being sexually interesting yet lacking all qualities that would have made me want to amalgamate with them in the first place.
And the rest of them were bedded for other reasons than sexual strength, but for companionship, love, or curiosity.
And now eight years later I’m back full circle, still wanting the same thing. But now I know why those men never wanted to dive in with me: because female emotions and connection scare the shit out of them. And unless you’re going to be there for the rest of his life he doesn’t want to walk through the fire of real intimacy not knowing you’re going to be there on the other side to take care of his burns. Burns that in his mind, might never fully heal.
And that even if you did make that promise, that wedding vow or otherwise, to be there for him till the end of time, it will still take a thousand words, a whole book, and a super hot sex therapist before he will even consider accepting real intimacy.
No wonder my lovers simply pretended to not understand what I was asking for.

 

Day 3: Mister Right

Following the training how to attract your dream partner I made a list of must-have qualities of Mister Right and my cherry-on-top desires.
I ignored the standard requirements of honesty and “totally committed to you”. Maybe those virtues were important to teacher Layla Martin, or maybe they were simply different words for things I did want, but honesty and commitment caused a numb dead feeling as if my Mr.Right was doing something against his will. Or because God made him. Or because he was afraid I would leave him if he kept things from me. My ideal man didn’t play by anybody’s rules, and he didn’t let me, nor God, dictate him how to behave. Honesty and commitment were probably legitimate wishes for other women, but for me they were traits to look for in a dog.
Which doesn’t mean that I don’t possess them. I do. I have zero capacity of lying, conspiring or doing anything behind anybody’s back. I’m honest to the point most people would find rude or offending. And I’m committed to the point that freaks out most partners because they think it means I’m making wedding plans. I’m not. I hate weddings so much I would not even attend my own. For me commitment and honesty are as much a part of me as my blue grey eyes. I’m so loyal that if I’m having coffee with two different guys in the same week, I already feel I’m working against my Golden Retriever nature, and insist on telling them both. I carry enough honesty and commitment to make any relationship work, and then I still have spare.
After I had convinced myself to only list qualities that really mattered to me, not what mattered to someone else, I got to work.

My non-negotiable list for Mister Right
1. There is an electric magnetic sexual attraction between us that is so strong it could set fire to a forest in monsoon
2. He is single, separated or divorced and is in no case secretive about us dating
3. He is sexually dominant
4. He’s not into leather or S&M
5. He loves, loves, loves to play, role-play, power-play, any-play. With me of course.
6. He can cook. No packages, jars or pre-fab seasoning mixes allowed.
7. He is moderate in his drinking, doesn’t smoke nor does he do any drugs.
8. He has a consistent work-out routine
9. He is super excited to be dating me
10. He showers at least once a day and always wears fresh clothes
11. He keeps his pubic hair in check
12. And his house and personal belongings too. He’s organized without being anal. If he uses coasters to prevent marks from the glass on the table then that’s a deal breaker right there.
13. He fully accepts me.

My cherry-on-top desires for Mister Right
1. He’s not more than 10 years older or younger than I am.
2. He likes cats
3. He prefers women over 35
4. He has a dad bod or one a little more cuddly
5. He has a strikingly beautiful penis
6. Smooth body with naturally little hair
7. He lives nearby
After making this detailed description of my future partner I was to get myself into a heightened state of awareness. And I was to visualize him when I masturbated, something which was going to get a massive upgrade. Instead of masturbating for an orgasm, diving deep into the pleasure pit of my darkest fantasies, self-pleasuring (as it was now called) was going to be a classy high-quality form of masturbation, to match the sensual love making you desired. For as long as it would take me to draw Mister Right into my life, I was to exclusively masturbate with him in mind.
Mister Right spooned up behind me, and nuzzled my hair sighing he was so happy to have me in his arms again. He pressed his sturdy torso to my back and his dick greeted my bum.
“You smell so nice,” Mister Right sighed again, as if it was the very first time he noticed.
“I always leave the sheets on after you leave.”
Something started to dawn on me. Not only that these were not sexual fantasies, but something else. I was very familiar with this husky, masculine voice and with this disarmingly cuddly body. One flicker in his voice, a few well-chosen words, and he would set fire between my thighs. One swift sweep taking my panties down and I would press my hips to him. One groan God you’re wet already, and I would spread my legs.
The man I was summoning into my life, with all sexual magical powers I could muster, wasn’t a truthful and committed dream partner. It wasn’t even my own happily available, non-secretive Mister Right. The man spooning up to me was the electrifying, the dominant, the will-cook, does-shave, owns fairly clean and tidy penthouse, Mister Big. And the only commitment he ever made was a lie-filled marriage.
And not to me.

 

Day 4: Becoming big

48 Hours into my  training how to attract a dream partner I realized I had two dilemmas. The first was that it appeared I did not want a dream partner. I wanted Mr. Big. Every time I was supposed to visualize my available, honest, committed man taking me into his arms, I felt a still-married Mr. Big taking me in far less innocent ways. If I tried to influence the fantasy, the only way it would move was towards the mental pit filled with non-consensual desires and other porn. If my real dream partner existed he was in some place very lonely while I was getting all my holes filled by Mister Big.
The second dilemma appeared after I registered for a dating site. That I even put myself out there on the market again may seem contradictory, but after long internal debate and one final Mr.Big infused masturbation session, I had decided that getting to know new men was exactly what I needed. Online dating is a powerful tool when it comes to moving on. First of all: it consumes ALL your time. If you thought social media were addictive, you haven’t tried this heroin among the internet addictions. Online dating triggers your mental reward center for being liked, for being popular, for being in a game, and at the same time it leans towards falling in love, developing crushes and sex. It is a feast of projection, an intoxicating set of stimuli that will block out about 80 percent of your connection with your real social life. In my case this meant reducing my Mr. Big addiction to 20 percent of its original strength in one hour or less. Which was the time it took me to fill in all the tests and create a profile.
Registration on Parship was free, and in return for filling out your profile and becoming a non-paying member, you had access to your test results. I turned out to be emotionally independent and Parship warned me few men were looking for someone so autonomous. But, as they assured me, because of my perfectly balanced psychological make-up where ratio, emotions and intuition played an equal part, I had a captivating personality and it wouldn’t cost me any effort to make a man like me. They had also done a gender-assessment and I was highly content to find my mind was functioning in a masculine way. I always find men a little intimidating, especially their capacity to emotionally disconnect and to separate sex from love. Having a man-brain indicated that I was at least not totally defenseless and able to stand my ground.
I was introduced to several male profiles and still in the process of deciding if I would become a paying member. The perspective to lose myself, and the best part of my Mr Big addiction, to online dating was appealing. I could already see myself getting up hurriedly every morning, checking my mail before breakfast or even feeding the cat. I would waste at least two hours a day browsing new profiles, revisiting favorites, writing messages, getting to know lawyers, and bankers and successful entrepreneurs. It wasn’t about the money for me, but I did notice I felt an attraction to men who were organized and able to verbally express themselves without spelling errors, obsolete dots…. Or staccato lists. Warm. Country music. No baggage.
The men I took into consideration were confident professionals. And one of them had an exceptionally strong talent to self-reflect. And it was this man, a lawyer, that made me see that I didn’t truly desire him, nor any man from that site. My deepest desire wasn’t even Mr. Big. It was a lot more bold: I wanted to be him.
I was suddenly convinced that if I re-read my list of non-negotiable qualities of a Mister Right, I could see how they were all traits I desired for myself. Before I was about to become a paying member, and before investing 2 to 5 hours a day on acquiring a partner who owned those qualities, why didn’t I spend that time on myself, on becoming who I wanted to be, and having all of Mister Right’s traits myself? It was a long list. It would not be easy. Many of the things was stuff I had been struggling with for years. But then again: I had never reserved 2-5 hours a day to solve it.
If I invested in myself what I was on the verge of investing in finding my dream partner, the pay-off could be off the charts. I had a chance of tackling every problem that had been bothering me for the last decade.

I only had one problem: no one in their right mind would invest half their working day into their personal development. That’s junkie behavior. That’s something you don’t do unless you’re addicted.
Which meant that my first task in becoming my own Mister Big was:
I had to make it addictive.

 

Day 5: Trickster

I knew what I wanted to acquire: the whole set of qualities that I had been looking for in a man. I wanted to be my own “best man”, my own Mister Right. Or, as was the case with me, I wanted to be my own cheating and charismatic Mister Big. After 9 months of being his mistress my obsession for him was still ever growing and my perspective was bleak. In silence, and sometimes a lot more verbal, I wondered how long it would take him to realize we were meant for each other. That he had done something right with God or The Universe and that I, a fair-haired angel with a pornographic soul, was sent to take that place by his side, that position under his thrusting hips, and that spot “married to” on the dotted line. For two out of three, it would take forever apparently. And although I had tried to end things, several times, in the first months we were together, just walking out had gotten me nowhere. Like I was tied to him by God’s hand, or dark magic, or the most likely scenario: that I was tied to Mr.Big by his infallible talent to wrap a woman around his finger. Even a white-hot frustrated one.
It was time for plan B: to become Mister Big. By acquiring the qualities I admired, I thought I would be able to get passed him, and avoid future projection of my own shortcomings onto men. Maybe there would still be heartbreak, disappointment, or not enough sex, but at least I knew I wasn’t reaching out because I had failed to get my affairs in order and was secretly hoping to be saved. Or maybe hoping that a partner’s talents were contagious and I would be infected and become financially successful, committed to a daily work-out, and all those other things on the long list of non-negotiable qualities for Mister Right. Mr. Right was basically a Mr.Big without the wife. But in Plan B there was no dream partner, no Mr. Right and no Mr. Big. There was just me. I was Plan B. And those non-negotiable qualities were the bar I was setting for myself.

I had estimated that I had 2 to 5 hours a day to invest in becoming “Mrs. B.”; the plan B, a female Mister Big. These were the hours that would otherwise have been wasted to an online dating addiction and going out on dates and meeting new men. I had experience with online dating. I knew myself well enough to know addiction to online dating involved still being in pj’s behind your computer at noon, being tightly glued to your Inbox, and short-cutting on meaty tasks that needed your full concentration. It – the sucking up of your addictive online dating fix – started before breakfast and it ended way past your bedtime. This ferocious energy was exactly the kind of fuel I needed to becoming my own best version, to become Mrs. B.
An addictive brain is one of the most powerful human assets, if not the most powerful. It is dangerous, yes. Toxic, absolutely. And it will backfire, on your mental health, physical health, your social life. But if I can make myself addicted to becoming Mrs. B. I know I will succeed.
And I will worry about the detox later.
These blog posts you are reading, The Virgin Diaries, they are my drugs. It takes a minimum of two hours to set them up. Then there is the rest, the “junkie behavior”: this includes the irrepressible urge to print, edit, refine, rewrite throughout the rest of the day, plus the first hour after rising, when I actually post and share the blog and find even more errors, mostly English words I’m not using correctly. I fix them and update the post, hoping the early readers missed them. Then I start writing the new post for the next day, and the whole cycle starts again. By the time the draft is ready it’s way in the afternoon, I’m still in my morning gear – a hoodie reminding me I originally intended to exercise – and none of my worldly tasks are done.
As long as my fuel, my online writing, is claiming 4-5 hours, there is no time left to become more successful in life. If anything, I run the risk of becoming less successful as I am actually cutting corners in my work as a yoga teacher.
This blog is keeping me accountable, and it has prevented me from starting Parship dating this week. Which already saved me € 350,- and a life-sucking online addiction. But my writing is still all raw energy, all consuming. In order to become the financially thriving, daily exercising, glorifying Mrs. B, I need contain it.
Instead of stampeding through my life, morning to night, the powerful beast of my writing needs to be tamed, trained and put to use. And kept on a very tight leash.

 

Day 6: Plan B

I gave myself one day to kick-start my new identity of becoming Mrs. B. and a permission slip to focus on the main stuff. A complete list of consistent habits to be implemented, new skills to be learned, failed plans to be fixed, and life-long frustrations that were to be dealt with, would be extensive and intimidating. So I would start with the things I could list right away. And even that could mean I was already in way over my head. I have a weak memory, but everything I wanted to do but didn’t, every good resolution I made and then dropped, and every 100 day challenge I failed within a day – it all seems to be stocked in the front, tumbling out immediately. When it comes to reminding me of failures my mind is inconveniently accurate.
I focused on my three biggest frustrations, eh, I mean Mrs. B’s three biggest goals.
1. to be financially successful
2. to have a consistent work-out routine
3. to keep house and body in check
This last one was the easiest: I had well-functioning routines in place for laundry, doing the dishes, and changing my sheets, but from now vacuuming, waxing my legs and keeping the bathroom clean would also get an official spot in my planning. And I would buy orchids for my bedroom and living. It was a matter of fine tuning.
The second one was kind of half-way: I’m a yoga teacher so four days out of seven I get a workout already. But my home practice was as good as dead. Even though I had some very good reasons to stick with it. About which I will soon tell you in more detail, and then you will probably wish I didn’t.
The first was the hardest: financial success. In a few years the number of active yoga teachers had doubled, prices had marginalized and the new colleagues (and some of the older ones) had finally found their way to online advertising. Which meant my online competition had quadrupled. On top of everything my website was practically unfindable and despite implementing three different solutions to get it up in the search results, the only available path seemed to rebuild the whole thing with software and hosting that were far less convenient than what I had now.
My company had been quietly sliding downhill. But suddenly I was in a hurry to save it. I was now Mrs. B. and we were not going to let this slip through our fingers. I was going to save myself.

 

Day 7: Cold Turkey

The good news was: it worked.
I sparked countless initiatives to get my business back on the road: an open study group for colleagues and other yoga devotees, ordered door sign, rewrote website, upgraded my Google Adwords and drew up a schedule of what to post when, and exactly on which social media. Especially for my yoga blogposts and online classes. No point in going through the trouble of making something authentic and then not using all available options to put it out in the world. I also came up with a hook to promote my studio, modifying website, Twitter, and Facebook accordingly, and made a reminder to design new business cards. I investigated a yoga training that I had dropped out of. They offered a link to graduates on their website. There were zero graduates where I lived, so that would give me a competitive advantage as well as boost my website higher in search results. Completing that yoga training and getting that certificate would be my priority for my company. I estimated that would take me 25 hours of study.
After setting up a schedule for weekdays I cleared the weekends to completely indulge in this blog The Virgin Diaries. That was the system: four days work and three days leisure. On workdays my writing addiction would be pacified with a yoga blog. Or at least that was the plan. The non-functioning, failing part of my plan. Because the urge to write did not get passed by so easily. I worked like a maniac, yet I still wrote hours every day. So even though I had done all my real work saving my yoga studio, I had still been ten-fingers deep into my writing. Didn’t do a work-out. Didn’t cook. Ate pizza. Barely slept. After a week I was a wreck. A behind-her-desk-before-breakfast doing-ever-more-writing wreck. With a tooth ache, a headache, and a bad conscience. I was like a high functioning alcoholic: getting all the work done, but not in a sustainable way.
My plan to use my addictive behavior to actually become high-functioning in the first place, was as effective as it was destructive. It was supposed to be a 100 day challenge. Not a one week guide to getting a burn-out.
Still in Cortisol overdrive I made a dentist appointment, took a pain killer, and  reviewed my options. Obviously the weekends would have to be cleared of writing after all. And of work. From now on Friday night I would disconnect from all social media, which were the catalyst that made writing/ posting even more addictive. Disconnect from email – which was the addictive ingredient in my business. Every weekend would be this mini-detox where I would go cold-turkey and refrain from all bad habits that disturbed my mental peace.
My phone buzzed. A Whatsapp message.
“How is my Baby Bee doing?”
It was Mr. Big.

 

Day 8: Fail

Mr.Big and me were on a three month break. My call. When dating him, I had changed from a blushing, healthy woman, to one whose hair was falling out, whose breasts were painful and whose menstruation had become fuzzy. It was preceded by a substance that I remembered from when I was on the pill; sticky brown to blackish stuff that didn’t even make an effort to look like blood. And now, six weeks totally Biggie-free, I had changed again. I was now an overworked woman whose hair was still falling out, whose breasts were still painful, with a pending root canal treatment, and exactly one clean blood-free week in her entire cycle.
“Baby Bee” as Big always lovingly called me, was not doing well.
In fact she was falling apart. All my efforts to heal myself and claim my life back, had gotten me nowhere when it came to my health.
“Biggiieeee!” I wrote back.
“Where are you? I miss you.”
My last tampon had come out almost clean. God knew how little time I had this month. If Big was in the country I wanted sex, and I didn’t particularly cared about the consequences. Six weeks without him, had done more damage than the last six months with him. And they were certainly a lot less fun.
As expected Big refused to be pinned down to a date. He was probably doing a preliminary warm-up, so that if he had time between his obligations I would be more than willing to see him. It made me sick that I put up with that, didn’t go look for a man for myself. Self-loathing always surrounded our dates. I never blamed him for wanting to be the pretend-faithful living-apart husband, or the fake-devoted father to his children, or for stretching giving me as little as possible. I envied it. And after all he was a professional when it came to optimizing profits, calculating risks, and client confidentiality. I once asked him if he had told friends that he was seeing me.
“Of course not,” he said.
“Although your story made me wish I could tell someone. It’s like I won a gold medal for sex.”
That was for my first erotic story, The Biggie. And he had liked them all.
“I read you got a new job.” I texted.
“Really? You’re into finance now?” he replied.
“I Google you when I miss you.” I confessed.
“Do you like London?”
“It’s what I’ve always done. Just busier.”
Hello thousandth rationalization for not having time for me. Yet I was disgusted with myself for letting him get away with it. And even more repulsed for wanting him more badly than ever.
This blog, The Virgin Diaries, was all about standing in my own power and becoming a female Mr.Big.
an independent successful woman.
Yet when it came to Big, one text, one Google search, or rereading one erotic story. And I was back to being a needy clingy amoeba.
And a very horny one.

 

Day 9: Nerve

Consulting the dentist didn’t exactly work miracles for my self-esteem. As a little back-ground info: I’ve always considered myself a fearful patient. I basically see myself a fearful anything: from yoga teacher, to cat mother, to mistress, but it is only in the dentist office where this seems to be receiving special attention. I find that ironic, since a dental treatment is one of the few things you have perfectly good reason to be scared about.
Since ten years I have a dentist who I selected because she worked around the corner where she was a junior in a firm of cooperative dentists. But she moved out recently, and now has her own practice with her own website, which gives info that she is good with fearful patients. So maybe that is why over the years I built up quite some confidence in the dental chair. I still fear needles, and usually for good reason. After some quite unpleasant encounters with cavities-deeper-than-expected and infection-lessening-the-effect-of-Novacane I’ve learned to always insist on the jaw numbing ones. That’s the ones they use to extract whole teeth. That’s the ones that hurt. But aside from pain and needles, more than anything, I fear having nitrogen cold cotton wool pushed to a row of teeth, one tooth at a time, to inspect if my nerves are either dying or still in order. A diagnostic tool that, as I suddenly remembered after today’s incidents with the substitute dentist, my dentist did offer once to inspect the same tooth I was in for today. She dropped the proposal so quietly and friendly that I had completely forgotten about it. Whereas today will be vividly remembered.
I wasn’t scared of going to the substitute because my last experience with my own dentist, to get a filling replaced, had been strangely empowering. The injection of the anesthetic, as in the moment she pressed the actual liquid in, gave a violent electrical shock to the front of my jaw. I screamed and tried to wriggle away with the needle still in me and the area stayed sore for a week. Nevertheless the appointment was a pleasant experience. We laughed about her totally fucking up this injection.
“You’ll probably become one of the 20% of my patients who haven’t visited in two years,” she said.
And then sent me out to do some shopping, because she knew I liked to give it 30 minutes to settle in, so it’s at maximum potential.
With this dentist, I was put in a chair that most closely resembled a backwards slide, with my head lower than the rest of my body. He asked what was wrong, started inspecting the by me suspected area of infection, at which he called out “Caries.” to the assistant. With the location number of the tooth.
“You can put that in the computer.”
It was like he was studying military maps of Syria; since I had apparently no right to be informed on his findings. This impression was increased when he moved on to the teeth of the bottom jaw without telling me what he was doing. Or why. He then started tapping my teeth with the back of his instrument. Again without any notice, until he tapped a tooth that hurt.
“I’m tapping your teeth,” he said.
Something I was well aware off.
“That’s my crown right?” I asked.
Starting to get slightly irritated that he was inspecting an area that I had not asked him anything about.
“Yes, that’s the only tooth that is giving a reaction.”
“I know,” I repeated.
“That’s because that’s my crown. I had a double apex there and a root canal.”
I elaborated on the whole history of the tooth, even though I had already referred to it when I came in. An untreated lose filling, souvenir from living abroad, had kicked off years of operations, pain, but more than anything: uncertainty. At one point I was still walking around with a regular filling there, waiting if the tormented tooth would finally calm down and would justify a real crown, when I had enough and chose for the crown. After another two, three years, the wobbly feeling stopped, and I declared it healed, although the gums were still my weak spot there, and got irritated frequently.
“And it hurts if you tap it. So just don’t tap it,” I finished my story.
He pretended to laugh and now went to work on the other side of my mouth. Other as in: 180 degrees opposite of the side of my face that was hurting. Here too he tapped all the teeth. There was a switch of instruments, and suddenly I got an ice-cold freeze on my tooth. The only thing positive was that this was actually the side he was supposed to be working out. I totally freaked out shrieking “Oh my God!!!”
And he said: “I’m using a cold cotton wool stick.”
Again, information Syria would have liked to know beforehand. To threaten back with death, torture and decapitation.
“I know!” I yelled.
“I had no idea we were at that already!”
Meanwhile I thought it a little childish of myself that I was so freaked out over this cold-thing. Maybe I was overreacting. Somewhere between getting out of the chair, and back in, and opening my mouth, and then closing it, and finally calling it a day, and hear him out, I heard the remarks:
“I think we should proceed this.”
“I think it’s really brave you try it again.”
“Maybe if we do it really quickly.”
“This is the best method.”
“Let’s make a photo.”
In that line, the photo seemed like a good idea.
I was standing near the computer staring at the photo. At least I was straight-up, and it appeared he had given up on his ice-torture diagnostic path. But the photo puzzled me because it was from all the teeth, up and down. And as he hammered on and on about in what poor condition the tooth under the crown was, and that even the fact that it had been operated on twice was a sure sign it was trouble, and the pins of the filling were poorly set. And look there were the two cavities on the top jaw that he was going to fill. Yes two, as he now saw on the photo.

“Okay. One. You’re not filling anything. And two, where is the photo of the root of that top tooth?”
“It’s so much better to do a diagnosis with the cold stick. Sometimes you can’t see the infection on the photo of the root.”
“But we don’t have a photo of the root,” I repeated.
“No, but if we do the diagnoses with the stick I think we can leave out the photo. You don’t need it.”
“How much is an extra photo?”
“Fourteen euros.”
“You just tried to torture me over fourteen fucking euros!”
He kept gabbling on about radiation that was unhealthy and yada yada yada. I thanked him for his time and left. Still not understanding how he had managed to make me feel bad about myself, and even bad about my dentist who I absolutely adored. But he had spotted the caries with the naked eye, and she had not.
But then I decided I didn’t care. I would stand by her. Because even though she had missed a cavity, she had never, in that entire decade, ever looked passed me.

 

Day 10: Happy

I remember a tv show where a man, supposedly an expert on the subject, invited the host, audience and viewers to think of a moment they were happy. And my mind stayed completely blank. I knew what happy felt like, but it was impossible to find a memory connected to it. And if I could pinpoint, then I saw nothing special there that would justify being over the moon about.
The guest then predicted that this moment we had in mind, would be a moment we had shared with others, that we would have accomplished something and a third thing that I forgot, but that didn’t seem to do it for me either.
My moments of happiness are when I’m alone, when my floor is vacuumed, my bathroom clean, when I can cook my own meals and I have the entire weekend reserved for reading or studying.
And I am definitely an expert on that.
 

Day 11: Yoga

Self-practice. I always found that an erotic word. Probably because it reminded me of self-pleasuring. A neutral word like self-study had that alluring ring to it.
Self-practice. Self-pleasure. Self-study.
I instinctively understood that being so intimate with oneself, either physically or mentally, gave the practitioner the advantage of no longer projecting, but reflecting. To not reach out, but to delve in.
My study of self, and pleasuring of self, have been consistent. If they stopped I would naturally pick it up again by starting a new blog, by writing in my diary or by indulging in masturbation during daytime, when I was not as tired as at night, and didn’t have a cat insisting I would lay still so he could use my naked body as a pillow or mattress or a place to pierce with razor sharp paws for purposes unknown. Self-reflecting and self-pleasuring were second nature to me. But a consistent self-practice, which meant doing yoga other than taking a class or in my case other than teaching a class, that was an entirely different story. At least for the last decade.
It was tempting to say it was because of a power yoga teacher training. There was a before, in which I was a beginning hatha yoga teacher and had a daily practice. And there was an after, where I now had a double teacher qualification, and was so fed up with the mandatory home practice of the training, that I avoided my mat for months. Being held accountable for how much yoga I did at home had been an effective way to knock all the fun out of it.
In theory there were other ways of “doing” yoga than just yoga exercises. Meditation was one. But also how you lived off the mat. Self-study even, was one of yoga’s strongest paths. It wasn’t like I had been running around like a yogic villain or if I had behaved particularly unethical. It was just that I had not managed to restore my home practice to the same level as before that training.

But there was a fair chance that my home practice would have slipped anyway. Because I had started teaching more classes, and all that yoga just went straight into my body, decreasing the longing for yoga at home. It was just like the five star cook who didn’t cook at home and the competent psychiatrist whose children got off track. And those adjectives were of course subjective, and wishful thinking. Maybe they were lousy cooks and discharged therapists. That was probably what I was afraid of: that my lack of home practice was a sign I was a bad teacher.
But I had other worries now. My health. My hormones were causing havoc and unless I was fine with three week periods and hair loss rushing me straight to menopause, yoga was my best option. Yoga in a narrow definition; doing physical exercises. And I wasn’t just any struggling woman in her 40s: I was a yoga teacher. Dealing with this was my profession. Over the years I had designed several series for women, based on extensive research. So I collected them, printed, drew sticky-women dolls representing poses, and bound the sheets into a booklet. It was yoga time.
Self-study was no longer going to cover it.

 

Day 12: Big insight

People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.
~Maya Angelou

Pitiful. Pathetic. Disgusting.
The judgement I felt for dating a married man was a merciless stream of negativity. It had been when I saw it happening to other women, and now my hatred had turned towards myself. Dating a married man was a dead ringer for having little self-esteem, and for giving your power away. It was boo-hoo he won’t leave his wife. No bitch, of course not.
Who would leave his handpicked elegant wife for someone who has apparently so little self-worth you would have to build a nano-laboratory and assign three scientists to find it?
Unless you intended to date a married man to use and abuse him, teach him a lesson while getting off along the way, there was no way you could claim having a backbone and dating a married man at the same time.
Period.
But my ruthless self-hatred was not the whole story. It was just my ratio that said that. Or my ego. It was all up in the head, not in the heart. I didn’t feel insecure, I didn’t feel unworthy. Only when my friends or self-help gurus said I should want an available man, or when I thought of all the nice things we could do if he was mine, that’s when I wanted a single man. No, that’s not true: when I wanted a single Big.
I had always expressed to Big that I admired his ability to maximize profits in his personal life, just like he did for his clients. Of course it was unethical, but it also showed he did not need approval from other people and that he fully trusted himself. He didn’t shy away from conflict or problems; he estimated how much was in it for him, and if it was worth taking a risk he would do it. And if things turned sour, he would charm, buy, and trick himself out of it like he always did.
It wasn’t just my admiration for Mr.Big’s cunning ways that gave away that hatred and judgement played a marginal part in our relationship.  It was something else too. Something so obvious I wondered why it took me so long to see this: Mr.Big made me feel great. And vice versa. We celebrated each other like Bonnie and Clyde.
In the past, the moment I had been unable to be admire a man anymore, I knew my place was no longer there with him. And men who had commented on who I was, or what they didn’t like, I never dated them.
Because I didn’t do arguments. I didn’t do drama. I didn’t do: you need to change.
I only did “let’s only see the good in each other”.
A promise Mister Big had always kept.

 

Day 13: The Professor

It was a hotel I had been to once, about 18 years ago. To take a stroll through the woods surrounding the golf course and have tea at the sunbathed terrace. But the trees were naked now, and a watery sun was already fading, even though it was only 5 pm. A blueish mist crept over the greens.
My graduation process had not been exceptionally memorable, although my professor had saved my thesis and my will to live on several occasions. Usually in conjunction. We had never stopped seeing each other. Once every two years minimum, we would catch up.
“I ended my career,” I said when I became a yoga teacher.
“I ended my marriage,” he’d answer.
“I got a new one,” I continued.
“So do I,” he confirmed.
Later on I caught up with him, and had an average of two lovers a year. He was always amazed that I could recall in detail what the state of his love life was last time we saw each other. Who did what. Who betrayed who. What the stakes were, and what the irreconcilable differences.
“You have such good memory! Did you make notes the last time?” he asked.
No I didn’t. I only wrote things down if there was a good chance I would forgot them. Like the name of someone’s first-born after five years of trying to get pregnant.
The professor had never been there, at the country estate with the mansion like hotel. Although he had heard about their gastronomy, golf club, and the fact that it was heaven for the rich and famous. And unaffordable for the rest.
“So you’re on a break?” the professor asked.
It had not been easy for me to get there, using public transportation and a taxi. For three days my only program was to go for walks, to pick up my yoga practice, and to distance myself from the passionate wish that Mr.Big would finally choose for me. That Mister Big would propose to me. Or that Mister Big would clear his calendar and join me for a short night to make intimate love to me. Or fuck me hard. I had not decided there. But since it was highly unlikely he would come that didn’t matter.
“Two nights,” I answered.
“I hired a professional caretaker for my cat. I think he will be alright sleeping alone.”
“But will you be?” the professor asked.
The fetus position with my forever-baby-cat cuddled up under the blankets to my warm belly, had become ingrained.
I ordered more wine.
He knew about Big, because he read my blog. I told him the pivotal moment of Big and me. It was when I had not given in yet, and explained to Big I resisted because he was a player, and was going to break my heart.
“Yet when I got home I thought:
Wait a minute Lauren!
You’ve been single for eight years and you’ve given it your all; love and sex have been your top priority. And then life finally hands you a worthy partner, and then you’re all like boo hoo Mr.Big is so mean?
Get back in there; right now!

And I know this is probably inappropriate: but can you believe the excitement if you’re in bed with someone who is experienced? That you don’t have to go meet someone at their level, where they still have all these issues and fears. But you’re both good to go. I finally found a mate. It’s like Maslow’s pyramid, but with sex. We were both ready for that small triangle at the top.”
The professor understood immediately. And he was pleased that despite changing careers, I was still using Maslow’s pyramid.

 

Day 14: Utopia

I met the Archaeologist two years ago, when I volunteered to excavate at a site that had my interest. He was a vigorous rangy 50-something, who decisively managed the chaotic bunch of us. We went for drinks a year after, I can’t really remember the occasion. And he became the only friend with whom I had politically, and historically, charged conversations with. I never intended to, and I always thought I could keep our dates contained to three hours. But we needed 5. And we needed wine, bitterballen, sensitive subjects and complex problems, that I could analyze in one blunt one-liner. And then he would accuse me of using historic shortcuts, but always had something interesting to add.
We were somewhere on our third Chardonnay and I had already given an explanation why the biggest socialist party is currently in death struggle. That went back to the protestant reformation: if you first throw out all hedonism and mysticism of the Catholics and a few hundred years later you throw out God and Jesus, you have nothing but an empty vessel striving for equal rights for workers. The Archaeologist added that there were equal rights for workers now, so that its ideology had become quaint.
I had slayed democracy and referendums. Having elections every four years already bore a fair chance a dictator would rise to power. So then don’t make matters worse by taking polls in between. Even the whole idea of a referendum is questionable:
“After all when they asked the people who should be crucified, they chose Jesus. ”
And the Archaeologist said: “But the people were deceived.”
I answered: “As they always will be. That’s why you should not ask them.”
The next topic was how the invention of vaccines had caused overpopulation in the middle-east after. Within two generations of 10-children-per-household the population grew explosively, causing massive unemployment.
“And there are few things more dangerous than men who don’t have anything to do. Especially if you put them together.”
Our final conversation was after five wine so it was beautiful and optimistic. I had cherished the idea that the new inhabitants of the Netherlands would get an option to live in a new to be build city; a true Utopia.  The Archaeologist explained there already was a blueprint: the city of Auroville in Southern India. Founded in the late 60′s for a good part by American intellectuals. We agreed that the current stream refugees were largely skilled, entrepreneurial Syrians.
“And maybe in Utopia, they can then rebuild the antiquities that IS destroyed. Like an archaeological Disney Land that everybody in the world wants to come see.”
And who knew. Maybe in 500 years, on a chilly Saturday morning, a rangy archaeologist would put a messy bunch of volunteers to work to dig it all up again.

 

Day 15-21: Erotic Story A Virgin Start

I was two weeks into my blogging and life challenge, The Virgin Diaries: 100 days of dating myself. And aside from a consistent feed of one post a day, I had accomplished astonishingly little of what I had planned. Daily yoga to get my health back on track; minimize social media and email; writing daily yet without binging; extra exercise; home cooking. It was non-existent, still abundant or at best erratic. The only thing I had achieved, aside from this blog, had been to keep my house clean, my beauty regime consistent, and I had put my company back on track. Only to then throw myself headfirst in a holiday week with out-of-office alibi on my mail. I didn’t do anything even remotely productive. But now I had to get back to work and was determined to give this “dating myself” thing a second go.
I wanted a virgin start.
Until Mister Big called.
Mister Big is a cunning (and stunning, but I’m biased) business man in his early forties, who can be found either in a London hotel, in his bacheloresque penthouse, occasionally at home with his wife and children and about every three to six weeks in bed with me. I started this blog The Virgin Diaries because I thought I wanted a time out. Nine months of being a secret mistress had been taking its toll. And then after a couple of blog posts I started appreciating all the aspects in which our relationship was remarkably healthy and equal. I made my peace with my body failing and hoped Big wouldn’t leave me miserable until Day 100. Apparently, he wouldn’t.
So Big’s request to see each other was met with enthusiasm since this would be our first date with the new me, in full appreciation of the what we had. And I would never mention the W word and the D word again because unless a good fairy turned him into a reliable man, his marriage was doing me a favor. Maybe my new attitude, you may even call it virgin attitude, explained why our love making was exceptionally passionate.

First we went on a proper date.
He was looking sharp as ever, and his black hair slightly longer than usual, flaunting a full head of hair. I was wearing black leather pants, since Big had hinted they would look great on me. And I agreed. Drinks. Something to eat. Jokes, catching up, candid conversation. I confessed I had been one credit card click away from starting to date other men, and mentioned the self-reflective lawyer. That was the profile that had almost made me click, pay, and take my chances as a single woman. “There were a couple of reasons I didn’t do it,” I explained.
“One of them was that I realized I knew so little about what is going on inside your head. I can only see glimpses of it. You’re like this oyster. I’m sure there’s a pearl in there.”
“I seriously doubt that,” Big said.
And he told me certain themes seemed to be recurring in his life.
“Like my fear of commitment. I know that’s an issue.”
My jaw dropped.
“You know you’re scared of commitment?”
I had assumed his whole marriage hoax had managed to delude even him.
“Of course I know that,” he said.
“And why. General idea anyway. I will tell you one day.”
“See. That’s your pearl.”
“No. It’s not beautiful in any way.”
He frowned and looked defensive.
“You’re just like a troll, sitting on its treasure,” I laughed.
No! You can’t have it!”
Mister Big sighed.
“You know the more you press this, the longer it will take before I tell you.”
“OMG, that’s solid gold you’re sitting on.”

So maybe it was because we had shared that mental intimacy. Or maybe it was because I was the new me. Or maybe because, as I realized later, his apartment had been comfortably warm. But either way we started kissing. Or I started kissing, the moment he took my coat in the hallway. He responded but then delayed it; he offered tea, his warm and tidy bedroom, and asked me for the copy of that dvd to watch. I always shiver at the thought how fickle my sexuality is.
If he had pushed too hard, had undressed me and taken me immediately, I probably would have lost the desire for sex. At least temporary. If the bedroom had been ice-cold or messy: same thing. Looking back at our dates I always appreciate Mister Big even more, because it allows me to pinpoint those moments that could have easily gone wrong. And I would have had to ignore it, get over it, or I don’t know…use some lube I guess.
We settled onto the bed, still clothed just the shoes off, and he placed the dvd into his laptop. I had found the resemblance between him and Michael Madsen striking, and this was the first time Mr.Big would consciously watch his counterpart.
“I promised the kids I’d take them hunting,” Mister Big impersonated the husky Madsen.
Even their voices were similar.
“He’s in finance here,” I said.
“He’s more you than you are you. I watched it four, five times.”
“You watched it, or you masturbated to it?” a wicked grin on his movie star face.
“Both?” I grinned back and pulled my nose up.
“There is this part where he announces he will handcuff her in the cabinet, and fuck her hard. You have a cabinet.” I pointed my head in the direction of a small light room, raided when he moved out to live with his wife. It could have made a study, baby room, or walk-in wardrobe, but it had its entrance in the kitchen.
“You fancy that? Handcuffs?”
I shook my head.
“But the cabinet could be a doctor’s office!”
Mister Big nodded in appreciation.
“It’s close to the kitchen. I could transfer some equipment.”
We laughed and started to think of suitable kitchen appliances. Even joking about it was fueling the fantasy.
Big and me always had these fantasies. Or I had them, and in the first half year he had fulfilled two of them. Anal sex (“Done properly!” I always added) and a rape fantasy. Which he had passed with flying colors. After that, for reasons I’m still not a hundred percent sure of, it stopped. My most likely explanation is that part of me (and a fairly large part) had expected him to choose for me. And when he still didn’t do that, not even after the sex had brought us together so powerfully, I realized he wouldn’t. And his guilt came at a price: after his five star porn performances, there had been days of silence, grumpiness, break-up. So now we only used the remaining fantasies as fiction. To just let the thought spice things up, instead of playing it out. It took the drama and the neediness out of me and stabilized our affair.
Like I wrote earlier, our love making was particularly passionate that day. We had started making out in the hallway, then I had this double candy experience when I had Michael Madsen onscreen and a real life Big next to me imitating him. And I had been doing this exercise where you learn to masturbate on your dream partner, where I couldn’t think of anyone else but Big. I had been masturbating on him for weeks. No wonder it would get so good.
We started by kissing fully clothed. I always loved that. It reminded me of teenage sex. One of the things I had never liked as an adult, was to have sex from out of the blue because you’re both in bed. Or kiss and cuddle downstairs, and then go to the bedroom where we would undress ourselves, and lie in bed waiting for the other. I always wanted to start as teenagers. Playful. Hungry. Insatiable.
When we had just started dating, Big and me had complimented each other on sexual skill. I on his virility, which I could only compare to the strength of two black lovers I had. And Big had complimented me on my blow jobs. And those were condomized. Especially in the beginning. So maybe that was why I had been uncertain he had meant it. And similarly, he had been kind of unsure about me complimenting him. He thought his penis was okay, but had never attributed special powers to it.
“I’ve been around the block,” I assured him.
“So I know what I’m talking about.”
“Well I’ve been around the block too,” he answered.
“And I’m telling you that blow job was magic. And you didn’t believe that either.”
We had decided that this was ridiculous and that it was safe to assume a compliment was genuine.
But it had soon become apparent that Big was always clumsy undressing me. He couldn’t find how to unbuckle my belt, my watch would get stuck in the sleeve if he took my vest off, not to mention finding my bra fastener.
“For someone who has been around the block I would have expected a little more routine,” I had teased more than once.
He always replied:
“Some people would find that cute.”
Maybe it turned me on. The reference to some people. Although one of the few things Big had to promise was to never tell me with how many women he slept. I didn’t need to know how many some people had had their belt unbuckled by him. Or maybe still had, I didn’t rule anything out.
The movie kept playing as we started to make love. It seemed so, so long ago. His body and mine responded, the skin-to-skin magic that had often surprised me. Maybe because there had been so terribly few man with whom I had had that chemistry. He rubbed my clitoris, finding exactly that ridge that I use when I masturbate. Since I was five. I had never bothered with clitoral orgasms when I was with a man. No one could beat me at my own game, so why bother playing. But this time Big was spot on, and gave me a clitoral orgasm. And cuddles and recovery time. I took it to penetration, taking a condom and joking that we sure didn’t need extra lubrication.
I strode on top, with my knees pressing violently into his sides with every Oh God and lifting my pussy up, from inside. Squeezing him, milking him, but more than anything: making myself come. It was like Anais Nin said in one of the first books I read from her:
“I climax so much easier with my legs together, but Henry always wants them spread wide so he can look.”
My Henry did too. And so did I. But sitting there, climaxing by pressing and squeezing everything, I realized what I usually missed out on.
Again recovery time. And I don’t remember why I suddenly took on the prostitute role, just that I did, and I said:
“Because you made me come, you can ask for extra. Ask anything you want. Do anything you want.”
“Take it in your mouth.”
He stood by the bed and I sat on the edge and took him in my mouth, and dear God, yes I know, it’s face rape. So fucking what. Please, yes.
“Turn around.”
And I was fucked relentlessly, doggy style with me on the bed and him standing behind me. It hurt so much I thought several times I wouldn’t be able to take it, but then I thought of another 6 weeks without him. Who knew how long. And I could feel the tears coming, not knowing from which kind of pain they came.
“Can you feel I’m abusing you?”
He had quickly understood that I liked words, and that his voice was the biggest aphrodisiac in the room. It was the ultimate proof I was in love with him, although I never told him that. That husky voice creating intimacy, expressing desire, and pushing for a full submission in a porn like fashion.
“It’s okay. Come lie down.”
The voice said honey sweet. Maybe I had groaned too hard, or expressed how much it hurt. The last time we had been together Big had been completely gentle, taking me in different positions but never too deep. When I had asked him about it, that I had felt a difference, he had told me he could feel the cervix. It was the first time I had realized that Big was always aware if he was giving pleasure or pain. Or gambling in that risky area in between.

We laid down and he wrapped his arms around me. Cuddling me, asking me if I was okay. And I enjoyed that moment, which was probably the closest thing to love he would be able to give me. After rough sex we often had this haze of “My God did we do that?”
Only to then discuss it and get excited all over again.
“Come sit on top of me.”
It sounded friendly.
I took the same position as before, so not squatted but knelt, and lowered myself over his dick. A sigh of relief, to have him in me again, and I leaned forward. He wrapped his arms around me, and as I started to move I felt a finger pressing my anus. I gave an appreciative groan, and gasped in surprise as I felt it going in, even though that was ridiculous since I could have known that’s what he would do.
I didn’t say no.
Not even when it went in further and it hurt me.
I didn’t object to the sharp pain, and even searched for a slow and steady rhythm so that he could predict my movement, and wouldn’t slip out. The build up from my orgasm, deep inside my pelvis, had started yet again. It was as if every cell in my body was in anxious anticipation, and I heard myself stammer Please don’t stop. The finger went deeper and he repositioned himself under my clingy full body wrap, to get a better reach. I squeaked when he pushed in a second finger.
I still didn’t dare to move my hips faster, but didn’t have a choice. I had to. That climax was right within reach and stalling it with this relentless sharp yet totally gratifying pain, wasn’t an option. I would not be able to take this for much longer. As I moved quicker, he managed to stay in. Both ways. And at some point I forgot about him, about the pain, about having the closest thing to a double penetration I had ever had in my life, and that Big was acting out another fantasy that I had told him so often.
I didn’t realize that. Not then.
Just that when I stopped moving, and Big’s fingers slid out, that my first words after I had caught my breath were:
“I can’t believe the control you have over your orgasm.”
He smiled and kissed me.
Then he said “Ow!”
And laughed: “Don’t squeeze!”
I looked at him puzzled since I had no idea what he was talking about. Since when didn’t he like me squeezing his dick with my pussy?
“It’s a little sensitive now,” he explained.
“What? You mean you came?” his dick was still rock hard.
“Yes. I told you when it happened.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“I didn’t hear it. Nothing. I was so wrapped up in myself.”
I held his penis, at the condom ridge, and lifted off of him. And snuggled up onto his chest, receiving his embrace. I still couldn’t believe he had actually climaxed at the exact same moment I had.
“Now I am even more impressed how well you control your orgasms.”
There was a hesitant silence and then he spoke in a clear voice.
“Thank you.”

 

Day 21-30: Catch 22 (The End)

This is the final post, hereby prematurely ending  The Virgin Diaries; 100 days of dating myself by LS Harteveld
My friend Ivy defined it a Catch 22 for me; a paradox. The first part of the paradox was: if I wanted to keep writing autobiographically, I could never have a normal relationship.
This blog is a two sided sword: it celebrates what a man has with me, yet it is a constant reminder not to screw me over. It has the power to please and to paralyze, to seduce and to manipulate.
My blog is like a super power; I can both claim and recreate reality. Ivy was right: it was a threat to having a balanced relationship. And yet: even though I was closer than ever to getting the relationship I wanted, I didn’t know if I was ready to give up writing. I was kind of attached to playing God with the pen. And besides: wasn’t I entitled to have defenses? The men I liked were not exactly beacons of safety.
First Biggie. My main man and clandestine lover Big was still married. Few people knew he was doing a terrific job occupying my heart and everything further South as well. When I had started dating Big I had said to him:
“With you, I’m dating in The Major League.”
For the first time of my life, and not without being totally terrified, but I was holding up. And the only reason I was still playing (instead of being heart broken and degraded) was because my blog was doing its job of defining the truth, remarkably well. It was an exceptionally valuable tool when it came to coping with Big who, like most Major League players, depended on hiding his emotions and concealing the truth. I had never gotten a single I love you, and yet after ten months of dating Biggie, it had become unimaginable another man would ever touch me again. At least it had been until Mister X entered the game.

Now Mister X, to whom I swore secrecy to never write about this turn of events, was equally unclear about the state of his current relationship. And dismissed all else he had going on the side with;
“I’m not that bad, don’t exaggerate.”
 Not that bad.   
That was vague enough to include a whole harem. Either way, Mister X was the first serious competition Big was getting. It was the first time I could see my whole body, mind and soul, breaking free from being cornered by Mister Big. But contrary to Big, Mister X had made it clear that none of our interaction could go on record. Not the part where I tried to find out how significant his other still was. Not the part where I desperately tried to push away my feelings for him, claiming he wasn’t “fair”. We were fascinated with each other, and yet he would be defensive whenever I tried to give words to what was going on.
So when the first part of the paradox had been: if I wanted a normal relationship, I needed to stop writing about it.
The second part was: The type of men I fancied, were far from normal and I would need my writing, if only to keep myself sane, and cope with all my emotions.
I wasn’t dating baby koalas. I was dating men at the top of their sexual game and playing to win. And Mister X had negotiated I could not use my blog, my main weapon. But despite the spooky incantation of his name (Mister X?!) and his demand to stay anonymous, Mister X was less scary than Mister Big. And there was a sexual tension, an emotional connection, and we shared similarities in background. That is the maximum of what I can reveal, but there were more signs he could be The One.
After witnessing me being toyed between sure signs Big would choose for me, and then tending to my wounded ego when Big retreated – “Your cuts are getting deeper every time!” Ivy would warn – Ivy was heavily in favor of Mister X.  Although she would probably have favored the whole alphabet over Mister Big.

I had joined Ivy to one of her networky-hot-shot gatherings. It was some kind of festive thing. By the time I got there the official program was over, everybody was in some state of being drunk, and the catering obviously had not counted on that number of people. Ivy said it was always like this, and that she couldn’t understand which amateur was put in charge.
“The other meetings are fine. But this is an annual fuck up.”
I didn’t expect to see Big there. He would either still be in London or with his wife. And Ivy said she had not seen him anymore since we had started dating.
“Apparently he was never here to meet new clients in the first place,” she had concluded.
Ivy didn’t like him. They were never introduced, but it was a small world, and Ivy immediately regretted taking me to the New Year’s party when she had witnessed me and Big being drawn to each other like magnets.
She told me everything bad she knew about him, including a crooked business deal that had damaged his reputation, and pointing out two women with whom he had more than likely slept. But it was all in vain. I was into him, and she had dutifully listened to all my sex adventures and emotional despair ever since. She had even given Biggie the benefit of the doubt on more than one occasion, and had been a supportive friend. Although probably one with grinding teeth.
A Catch 22 means a paradox.
You can’t solve it.
But Ivy and I had found a loop hole. First of all, as long as things were not serious, as in someone bringing a ring and going down on his knees proposing something along the lines of till death do us part, I didn’t have to choose between X and Big. I’m not the type to date multiple men. There even is a story how difficult it was to make love to Rutger when I was also in love with Big.
But I agreed with Ivy on this: First collect, then select.
Mister Big was stalling his divorce hoping that he could block it till the youngest was 18 (at least, that’s what I suspected the plan was). And Mister X too was a player. I expected them both to be strong enough to handle competition, and by dating two men there was something in it for both of them; I was meeting Mr. X request for privacy. And Mister Big could stop feeling guilty for not providing for me emotionally. For not choosing for me.
If I had two partners, one I could write about and one I could not, I would be surprisingly close to a balanced love life. I had gone from a Catch 22, to a Catch 2.
High on the prospect of becoming a queen bee,  I profusely thanked Ivy and made my way out. That’s when I ran into Big. An undeniably drunk, surprisingly courteous and unapologetically happy to see me, Mister Big. We were next to a bar near the wardrobe, where they had just brought in some food. The low hallway was noisy, crowded, and cramped and it smelled like old men’s sweat and deep fried food. I immediately decided to stay, and Mister Big and I spent ten minutes shouting in each other’s ear, conquering snacks and grinning at each other like idiots.
I considered running into Big a good omen.
Good omen being an understatement. I saw it as a sign God existed and that she had been listening to everything me and Ivy discussed and was now throwing a boon at my feet. The fact that Big was drunk only added to the fantasy that this spontaneous encounter was a gift for me, not for him. He would probably not be able to remember much of it. And because he was drunk, he had a disarming straightforwardness that I had never seen before. It was only then that I realized how reserved he had been.
We went to his penthouse after an hour or so. We were both by bike, but had to walk because it was irresponsible for him to cycle. He could barely find the keyhole and for a moment I was afraid he would set off the alarm because he appeared to have forgotten the code. The house was a mess and he asked me to snuggle up on the couch. I lay on top of him. A freshly pressed shirt. I remember this because I thought it was remarkable that he was as spotless clean and nicely smelling as ever.  What followed was something that I can only describe as ten months’ worth of intimacy, poured over me at once. And ten months’ worth of tears sprinkling back on top of him. I had been holding back my sorrow, with the same stubbornness he had been hiding his feelings.
I got about a thousand I love yous, including the first ever. And he asked if I really, genuinely, thought we could have a real relationship.
“The real thing. Nothing half-way,” and with our gazes connected – in my memory we spent two hours looking into each other’s eyes-  he gave me a glimpse straight into his soul as my tears just kept coming and my sobs were making it difficult to speak. I nodded.
Yes.
It will work out. It will work out, and it is the only thing that will. Because I’m the one. And you’re the one. And you can deny it, but that doesn’t change it.
I spoke from the heart, not the mind, and the heart said I was right. And yet regardless of his alcohol-facilitated openness there was one thing he didn’t talk about: Her. Every time we brushed on the subject of why he was still with her, he said:
“You don’t know the whole story.”
Or:
“I’m not defending myself, but you don’t know the whole story.”
He said it without hostility, in a loving way. At least I learned there even was a story. Aside from the fact that he still had feelings for her (which I had guessed pretty early on), there had apparently been something else. And that something was probably a reason to cheat, but not a reason to leave her. For all I knew it could be a reason to stay. And regardless of everything he had done, regardless of how much alcohol he had had, he was loyal to her. In his own way.
That’s when I knew he would forget most of what happened, and would let go of the emotional value of what he would still remember. He would censor and desensitize the memories of our night of honesty. His feelings for me, symbolized by him as a King and a Queen, were opposite to his actions. He was still fighting to save his marriage. Or what was left of it.
Since that night, I try to understand what happened. Was the night a message? That he would never choose for me? Was it a goodbye gift? I still don’t know. I try to estimate how much it would hurt if he would finalize things between us, just to see if I’m ready for it. But then I quickly retreat. Cross that bridge when we get there, and all that,
But I do know that whatever the future holds for me, it improved by having that night together.
We really were a King and a Queen. Even if our reign lasted only for one night.

The story continues in 
Big Part 3, Trickster 
It will be posted here asap, but Saturday 18 March latest. 

For part 1 check erotic stories with Mr.Big,
more temporary free reading at the books overview page.

Big – erotica and diaries. Part 1: An Affair

In 2015 and 2016 I wrote erotic stories and diaries which will be published in book 8; Big.
Part one, An Affair, are erotic stories. They’re really explicit, and contain as many trigger words as I could possibly squeeze in, so you should strongly consider not reading them.
 But in case you’re having doubts I can guarantee you they were all consensual and written with so much love, you can lick it off the pages.
Enjoy, my friends.
~LS

The Biggie

Lauren was wearing her red hooded cape because she had made jokes he was a wolf, to add a sense of drama to the encounter, and because it made her feel like Anais Nin. The coat was exactly the right piece of clothing for the weather: chilly but dry. She rang the bell to the penthouse from the man she coyly referred to as Biggie. She had chosen this name because she made a perfect Carrie, to have six television seasons and two movies to let this develop, and because his penis had been larger than anticipated.
“And you’re so virile!” she had exclaimed when she had witnessed how much condom interventions and sex negotiations his hard-on could take without giving in as much as a millimeter. After an orgasm he was back up in less than 15 minutes.
“I only get this with black guys!”
She was just in time to keep herself from adding “in their twenties”.
Mister Big had earned the name in every way, but unlike his Sex and the City counterpart, he had absolutely no intention of leaving his wife, nor to date Lauren exclusively. He did not acknowledge in any way what Lauren had known since their first kiss: that he had fallen for her too.
Hard.
Mr. Big had done the work. She smelled a fresh shave with the kiss and his wet hair was proof of a shower. And he was wearing maroon leather shoes, even though he was obviously not going anywhere. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, but a tight plain T-shirt. No pants but jeans; dark, new and expensive. A clean yet casual look.
“You’re so disarming,” she smiled.
“You keep thinking I’m a wolf,” he countered, as he took her coat from her.
“But I am not dangerous at all.”
“That’s exactly what a wolf would say.”
She unpacked white chocolate coated strawberries, and he put on water for tea. The kitchen was a dark grey and black, with messy corners, a collection of booze and half a dozen colorful flower pots with fresh herbs in different stages of being eaten.
“God you smell good, ” he kissed her softly.
Their embraces were innocent, no rubbing crotches, no yanking head or hair. For the second time she realized it was his ability to play soft that made you leave all your defenses at the door. Suddenly this appeared the last place on earth where you’d need them.
“Earl Grey?” he asked.
She liked it strong and despised the Dutch habit of using a tea-for-one bag in a pot, and then the nerve to pull it out after a minute.
“Please,” she said.
He gave her the cup, bag and all, and took their chocolate to the living.
They took off their shoes and settled on the couch and he started an art house movie they both still wanted to see. Three times, she asked him to play back because she’d lost the story, until she gave up:
“I would like to watch porn,” she said.
“Stoya.”
Stoya was Lauren’s favorite porn actress. Which meant she read Stoya’s blog, watched Stoya interviews and collected Stoya pictures.
“You never saw it. I remember,” he recalled their first sexual conversation, which was within 30 minutes after they met.
“Well let’s enlighten you then.”
And Lauren watched in awe, how the pale, wide smiling, Snow White actress showed off her natural pussy and enjoyed sex to a level no woman had gone before. And probably no woman would ever go after.
“This is fascinating!”
Lauren even changed her mind, that the risk of downloading a computer virus could be a fair price to get this for herself. So she’d be able to watch her fairytale twin in action anytime.
While Lauren was still enchanted by her first Stoya streams, Mr. Big went for ice cold wine, and made Lauren her favorite savory snack. With her sugar levels up, her alcohol permillage rising, and Stoya setting a good example, innocent cuddling progressed to naked embraces.
“Hold on a sec,” Big pulled away and switched porn for music they both liked.
He returned and whispered after a kiss.
“Can I go down on you now?”
“Please. Yes!”
Lauren had resisted his tempting offer on their first encounter, and on their second she’d been in her period. This was what she had been looking forward to. And so had he.
She was still enjoying his gentle licking, and the tender pulse of one finger moving in and out, when she felt something brush her anus. It went away, and she dismissed it. Probably accidental, she thought with relief. She didn’t want to make decisions back there: about something she’d always fancied but that was surrounded with clumsiness, failure, awkwardness and break-ups. Her lovers had a solid reputation for leaving halfway into their sexual safari, and the two who’d been backside explorative had run immediately after. Despite her fantasies, she had learned to associate anal sex with rejection.
His tongue was ruthless now. She started moaning and her desperate fingers grabbed his head, then yanked away. Fists pinching the pillows of the couch. Pressure on her anus. She still wasn’t sure what to make of it, when it already went in.
“I’m not sure if….”
Her voice was feeble, and she didn’t finish the sentence. Instead her hips lifted towards him and she could feel him moving deeper. The gentle push and pull of his fingers, and the steady rhythm of his tongue. She did not speak, but her body shook violently and she managed to redirect her limbs, not to kick him with her spastic legs. Not to knock her fists into him. Not to scream in a way the neighbors would call the police.
“Please stop…just stop.”
He held still and came up to hold her, for her cry. A ritual that he was getting used to, although the intimacy still confused him.
The cries had almost faded.
“You okay?” he asked.
She smiled and kept her eyes closed.
“You fingered my ass!” she laughed.
“No kidding. You even tried to object. Weak attempt though.”
“I thought you had backed off!” she now joyfully opened her eyes. “Like in the beginning, I thought I felt something, but then it went away. I thought that was it. That my ass was off the menu.”
“Those were the scouts,” he answered.
“We’re just getting your ass on the menu.”
She sighed and stared.
“This is only the third time we’re together. I’m not sure if I’m ready for this. Although waiting too long is also problematic….”
She was getting caught up in her analysis.
“If he waits too long, I feel he doesn’t want it. Or that he’ll leave.”
She frowned as her thoughts kept racing. Soon she’d think of more objections, and stumble onto more painful memories.
“Lauren? Be honest here. What do you really want?”
His voice was stern, almost mocking. As if he already knew the answer.
“Or are you afraid to ask? Think you’re too horny?”
His face softened and his gentle stare waited. No longer pushing for a specific answer.
“Okay. Here’s what we’ll do,” she said, as she reached for her bag.

*

I recognize the bottle of lube. We used it last time, at her house, when she was in her period. She also had a cold, and couldn’t breathe through her nose. A blowjob had been out of the question.
“I thought today would be perfect for our first time real sex,” she had said, when I was left panting after my orgasm, resting my full weight onto her.
“Did you notice it went right in? Like magnets!” she had commented.
She had been pretty clean, considering her period. The first time anyway. The second and third and the I-lost-counth time, it was a bloodbath. With more lube needed every time she parted her legs for me.
“Hold out your hand,” she says.
And covers two fingertips in lube. I take it down and play safe, touching her pussy.
“No, the back,” she says.
I like the decisiveness in her voice. She can be so emotional, but that’s post orgasm. I touch her ass and press one finger in. She immediately closes her eyes, swearing by God, Jesus and Mother Mary:
Fuck, that’s good.
I lube her up some more, using the other finger, and ask what position she wants.
“Like this,” she says.
We’d be in missionary.
“Never done that,” I admit.
We’ve been frank about anal sex. She only knows failure and my experience is limited to one woman.
“Don’t you think doggy style is a bit easier?”
But she shakes her head.
“I want to look at you.”
Her pull on my arm indicates she’s ready. As I rise towards her, she tears the condom foil, and skillfully rolls it down. I take the tip in front of the entrance and gasp at the view of her pussy and ass, all spread wide open. I peel my glance away, and connect with her eyes, as I slowly push it in. My turn to swear; she’s gruesomely tight. It squeezes every thought, doubt, guilt, right out of me, leaving only this. I have instinctively closed my eyes and open them. She holds my hips, and pulls me in a little deeper. I draw back. She micro-pulls in. A sweet, gentle swaying between her and me.
“God, you need to see this,” I say.
She lifts up her head.
“It’s more than half way in!”
She’s all excited about our home porn frame.
“Of course. What did you expect?”
“It doesn’t hurt at all. I thought just the tip or something.”
Her wide smile is infectious as she drops back, and grins as I fuck her a little deeper. Later we embrace, making it a standard missionary, if it had not been from behind. At one point I slip out, she cramps up.
“Enough for now,” she says and hugs me close, showering me with cuddles and profusely expressing how great it was.
We keep it at that, but she stays for a few more hours. Now that we got the biggie out of the way, the other sex has a newfound lightness. She unabashingly enjoys it when I go down on her, and I get one of her premium blowjobs with a condom; a battle already fought the first time she was here. She didn’t want sex because she had come in just to kiss. I remembered her raging fear of STD’s, and her comment:
“You probably didn’t have an STD check since the Clinton administration.”
“What if I put on a condom?” I had offered after her refusal for oral sex.
Her face had brightened.
“Cool!”
And I got the best blowjob in years, yet she refused to believe me. Still ashamed she lacked the nerve to take more risks.
We lick, we suck, we have normal sex a couple of times and I love the way she pulls up her knees; wide, in full submission.
It is after midnight, back in the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table, fully clothed again yet with the same insanely happy grin she’s had all night. She has asked for tea.
“What are you having?” she asks, pointing at my glass.
I hold the clear liquor under her nose to smell.
“Just guess.”
She pulls a sour face.
“Methylated spirit?” she laughs.
“Gin,” I say.
“That’s for real men.”
“Of course,” she agrees.
“Real men. Who fuck women up the butt.”

 

Credit

By seeing London, I have seen as much of life as the world can show.
~ Samuel Johnson

She never asked why he didn’t leave his wife. Cheaters always marry the sweet ones, angelic beings, victims. An unearthly status that grows with every childbirth she suffers, with every holiday he neglects, and that blinds him with guilt every time he cheats on her. Lauren assumed his marriage had been his final hope of becoming a better man, and now his wife was his penance for having failed miserably. Being torn apart by guilt was his punishment for being the bad guy when she would be eternally holy, above suspicion.
Her phone rang. When she saw his name on the screen her heart made an immature jump, as she picked up with a smile.
“Biggie!”
“Is this my baby bee?” a husky voice asked.
“Baby bee! Oh my God that is so cute!”
She pulled her nose in happy wrinkles, and curled up her lip in a childish grin.
“I like this much better than Lady!”
In fact she hated Lady. She hated Babe. She hated Hey you. All things he reserved for when she forced him out of an after-sex Whatsapp silence, when she was still sore from him and fear for STD’s lurked beneath her everyday mask, and she needed him to let her know he was still there. And he wasn’t.
“I guess this means we’re not breaking up!” she concluded.
Suddenly last week’s sleep-over became a vibrant memory, her happiness flaring up, as if she had been worried that enjoying the afterglow would set off a full-blown panic attack.
“Breaking up? Of course not. I still want to take you with me.”

Big and Lauren had been on and off for four months, a couple of sexual encounters and an increasing number of platonic dates, hang-out-togethers, run-in-to-you-gethers and left-my-sweater-at-your-place-drop-overs. Lauren had slept hugging and smelling his sweater, that Big had forgotten after he had helped her move house and had met most of her friends. Something she could still not believed had actually happened. And he had inaugurated the house.
“I want you to make tender love to me,” she had demanded.
At noon, they had breakfast at a restaurant because Lauren had warned:
“No matter what’s in my fridge, we’re not going to find our dream breakfast in there.”
“I felt a bit guilty,” Big said.
“You asked for innocent sex and we ended up being very loud and your bed was banging to the wall.”
Lauren laughed.
“It was the first night we slept together. Like babies. That’s pretty innocent.”
And now he was calling her Baby Bee and wanted to take her on a trip. It was progress.
Lauren only had one suitcase; a small white one, with red and pink stitching on the sides, and a print of 50s drawings. It was a suitcase that you could pull off if you were twelve or if you were 42 and wore coats that were so stylish that no one questioned your sense of fashion. Lauren adored her suitcase. It was a part of her identity, and just like her two cats it had become a deal breaker if you didn’t appreciate it.
They were waiting at the check-in at one of the remote gates.
“I do feel a bit boring now,” Big nodded to his stark blue Samsonite. The sun was shining relentlessly. He was wearing pilot sun glasses.
“You look like Michael Madsen,” she said.
“Far from boring.”
“Who’s that?”

Sometimes she forgot that contrary to her, he had actually studied in college, that he was actually making good money with his business, and that he had never invested in developing a hobby or an interest other than finance, booze or other bad habits she definitely did not want to know about.
“Oh, you’d love him,” she said, realizing she could never trust him if she continued that line of thinking. She forced herself to focus on him calling her Baby Bee and complimenting her pink suitcase.

*

The second the hotel room shuts behind us, she immediately turns around to kiss me. As if the neutral hours on the plane, in restaurants and cab, have created a buildup that now requires immediate release. She rubs her pelvis against me, my hand slides into her white coat. Taste of soft mints from the lobby. Appreciative moaning in my neck as she kicks off her heels and lowers half a head. Our coats off, my shirt open, her top over her head revealing a purple lace bra. Her warm pale arms wrap around me. More skin. I pull off her jeans over her ankles, as she lies lip biting on the box spring, anticipating to be fucked soon. I kiss her undies and sneak a finger in. Wet enough to do this quick and give her the pleasure of force. I turn her around and rip the string down to her thighs. We chuckle when we realize we need to break up our play to get a condom.
“Amateur,” she teases me, as she pulls up her string and walks to her handbag.
I laughingly give it up, undress, and stretch out on the bed. She puts two condoms and lube on the nightstand and straddles on top of me. So wet I can feel it through the lace.
She sighs as if she’s thinking, then lowers down to my nipple and licks it, softly blowing it cool.
“Other one,” I instruct.
She looks up, surprised about the order, then smirks and repeats it on the other side. Sticking out her tongue and keeping eye contact.
“Take it down.”
She hesitates. I can spell out her thoughts reading her face. If she obeys this is the first time we do this without a condom. She drops chin to chest, her hair falls in front of her face. She starts to move back, I pull my leg from underneath her and spread. She sits in between. Blonde curls shielding her away. A warm hand takes my cock. A peck at the base, near the balls. Another warm hand cups my dick in the L shape of her thumb and fingers, pressing firmly into my belly. She strokes upward, down. A lick on my balls, a gentle suck. She tilts her head to the side, revealing her face and presses her tongue to the base. She lets the wet tongue trace the hand all the way up, and licks the foreskin, sucks the tip then pushes the skin back. A firm tongue pressing against the back. My gasp catches her gaze, looking up, and she continues her tongue and lip play around the tip. A warm hand again, now stroking together with her warm mouth.
“Christ, let me fuck you.”
She sits up throwing me a self-content smile and turns to the stand to pick up a condom. One hand pressing down the bed, the other reaching. As she leans over, her hips arch seductively.
She tears the foil and rolls it down. She’s sitting there like a naked fifties pin-up, with her hips broader than when she’s standing or lying down.
“Let’s get this off,” I help her out of her last piece of fabric. “And what about it? Do you want to be fucked in your ass?”
“What? Now?” her laughter is loud and merry.
“Oh my God…. I don’t know!”
Like hell she does.
“I guess…… Just really didn’t expect it!”
She takes the lube, kneels back onto the bed, knees wider this time, and tells me she appreciates me asking boldly, or taking risks. She likes to hear my voice.
“I could have rejected you!”
She’s holding the bottle, and I sit up and let her put lube my fingers. We did this once before.
“Reject me?” I say.
And take my fingertips to her ass, and push one finger in. She collapses with pleasure onto my shoulder the moment I press deeper.
“I know you better than that.”
She has the same strong physical response as the first time.
“I want to be on my back again,” she insists.
Apparently wishing for a rerun, rather than trying something new. I do as she asks. Lying on her back, her knees up and wide, I take my dick to her ass and press it in. She screams in pain. I immediately retreat but it’s too late. Tears fill her eyes, as she cries it hurts so much, and cups her hand over her ass in horror. I give her a moment to catch her breath, and then take her hand away.
“Let me feel. What’s going on?”
I use just one digit, and can see her relax. Still weary, but it clearly doesn’t hurt anymore. I move it, massage strategically. A shallow, slow stroke. Her breath deepens.
“Can we try again?” she asks, widening her legs.
“I think you need to turn around.”
A feeble smile, yet curious. Her strong back turns towards me.
“You can lie down all the way,” I say when I see her wonder if she should be in doggy. She snuggles down onto her belly.
It’s different this time. More relaxed. I can slide in easily and there is no sign of any pain. She squeezes the pillow, occasionally saying she likes it, or lifting up her head and looking over her shoulder. Something I reward by saying something about the view of her ass, or how good it feels. And she talks back, the same light conversation. The small talk connects us but we’re apart this time, and I can feel her drift away, needing less reassurance. I lean forward and lie on top of her, sliding a hand under her. She can ride my fingers. She relaxes even more, and I slide in deeper. I rock back and forth, fucking her, cradling her with my body.
“I can’t take any more,” a small voice sobs. “It makes me cry.”
I slide out, and lie there, hugging her sorrow.
“You’re always so happy after sex,” she says when the crying has stopped. “You don’t have any issues.”
I tell her that she’s right.
“But in a few days I can feel totally different.”
“You mean guilt, right?” she asks.
I nod silently.

*

I wipe the steam from the mirror and look at my blushing face. My wet hair wrapped in a towel around my head, cheeks a radiant pink, and with a growing smile from being blissed out by a.m. sex. In moments like this I know I made the right choice: to become single, and to develop my sexuality. Because nothing else, no money, no career and especially not a decade long relationship, can bring me the buckets of happiness that is shining in this reflection. Despite of the many fears that haunt me. Or as I begin to understand it – because of them. The fear is the fuel. A violent demon, yes, but also my strongest ally. The fear of lifelong viruses. And so many of them so disturbingly contagious. Hiv should have been the least of my worries, although when you’re younger you have more to lose.
Biggie’s phone call vibrates through the thin wall. Something about his appointment today. I’m curious if he’s put on a suit. I pull the bathroom door open and walk to the messy bed. He throws me an appreciative glance from his chair, as he continues his conversation.
“Yes, I’ll hold.”
I take the bathrobe off and leave it on the desk. I crawl onto the messy bed on all fours. I touch my pussy. He makes a soundless my God and comes over to caress my butt cheeks, and then licking my parted labia.
“Does half one suit you?” a muffled voice on the phone asks.
“That will do. Thanks.”
I stretch out fully, the sheets are cold to my naked belly.
“I like that you’re dressed, and I’m not.” I say.
“And that you’re wearing a suit.”
“What else do you like?” he sits next to me and resumes caressing my butt.
“The potential. Everything we still haven’t done. It makes me happy.”
The hand is still caressing me.
“Will you spank me one day? Like really spank.”
He hesitates.
“It’s a bit tricky. Like where exactly. And not too hard.”
“That doesn’t sound very Christian Grey.”
“I am not Christian Grey. You’re not a 20 year old virgin. Thank God for that.”
“Did you ever have virgins?”
“Not on purpose. It’s not a happy place.”
“I think it’s a real turn on!” I reach my hips up to him.
“I wish you would be my first. And that it would really hurt.”
“It hurt yesterday and it nearly killed you.”
“Oh my God yes! What did you do? Within one minute I went from ouch and crying to Fuck me. What was that?!”
“A secret.”
“So you did do something?”
“Yes. Not gonna tell.”
He slips his hand down between my thighs. I open my legs. He touches the entrance.
“I’m so sore,” I giggle. “I’m horny but sore.”
He places me over the rim of the bed, and starts to kiss and lick, but I can’t enjoy it.
“I want to give you a blowjob,” I say.
“A proper one. Sit on the chair.”
The man in the suit sits down and I squat down, and open his pants. As always, he is hard.
“Don’t come in my mouth,” is the last thing I say.
His offended look convinces me he won’t.

*

His pants are on his ankles, his shirt is open. He watches her hands work him, and her mouth spitting saliva, as much as she can produce in those crucial seconds where she can’t use her mouth. She keeps looking up. Everything excites him: her played submission, her joy to please him, her eye for the visual effect of having her kneeled and naked before him. His orgasm comes as he closes his eyes and throws his head back, despite his desire to keep looking. He can feel the drops of sperm on his belly and chest. She’s still stroking him, slowly. She sees a million ways in which she’s at risk, but only one thing prevails: than he can be trusted. He warned her. He acted responsible in the only area where she needed him to.
He looks down and she looks up, still stroking, her hand covered with her spit and his sperm.
“God you should see yourself,” he pants from exertion. “Look at you…. smiling.”

 

Intermezzo

Jealousy is all the fun you think they had
~Erica Jong

Over a month since Big had shown interest, and it was getting on Lauren’s nerves. The pacifying effect of his “attempts” to see her on weeknights, when she taught yoga till 10 pm and was pressed to go home to take care of her four-hour-feeding-interval sick cat, the charm of those attempts was wearing off. He knew very well she wouldn’t make it. And every time he then told her they would “see how the weekend turned out” she was hurt. She was no longer worth planning for in advance. The next Tuesday or Wednesday he’d run the same scenario all over again.
She thought there was a fair chance there was someone else, or maybe his guilt towards his wife was flaring up. To make Lauren’s position worse there was nothing for him to conquer anymore. Big knew Lauren wanted to be monogamous (for her own pleasure, not loyalty) and aspired to have sex with him at least a million more times. With zero dates scheduled, she needed to act. Soon enough even his faint weekday attempts would stop, and she’d be dumped in a passive aggressive silence with all her sexual dreams unfulfilled.
She logged on to Twitter, and wrote:
Both my lovers will be in town. But according to my sister that does not count as having a problem.
Then she waited for him to call.
She stalled the date because of her period, but Big didn’t know that. Hopefully he thought she was unavailable because she was having wild jungle sex, in which case her plan was working out even better. The nine days of waiting were filled sharing sweet messages with Big, and a friendly chat with Rutger, who would be visiting this summer.
It had been a hot Friday, and now ink-black clouds were gathering over the city. Big was checking his phone, seated at one of the sofas on the ground floor of a restaurant. He looked his showered-well-dressed-super-datable-self and smiled when she came in. She smiled back, so wide and happy she was probably risking his whole renewed interest in her.
“I missed you Biggie,” she whispered when they had a neutral peck on the cheek.
“Now did you?” he answered, in a husky voice that kicked every cell secretly longing for a father figure out of hibernation.
“You appeared quite occupied.”
“So did you,” she said, suppressing both her impulse to comfort him he shouldn’t have worried, and the cry to fight him for having neglected her.
“We’ll see how the weekend turns out,” she mocked as she made quotation marks with her fingers and rolled her eyes.
“Do you have any idea how cold I get when you say that?”
“So cold you’ve got someone else?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
Big knew about Rutger, but right now he wished he had paid more attention when she had told him about the last lover before him. The man from America, who after two decades of friendship had turned out to be the best lover she ever had.
“Well until this,” she had added.
Blinded with pride, Big had not recognized the potential competitor. A single father, thousands of kilometers away. What were the chances she would ever see him again anyway?
“I don’t think I have a say in this,” Big said bitterly.
He was relieved that nothing had happened, but angry with her for manipulating him. And angry with himself because it was working.
“Do as you please.”
Lauren sighed and stared at her wine. She looked sad.
“You’re not making this easy for me.”
“What do you mean this?” Big lashed out.
“You’re the one sleeping around!”

“Really?” Lauren felt her sadistic side taking over, who immediately took control after weeks of insecurity.
“Because technically, that would be you.”
She grabbed her purse, placed € 5,- on the table at which point Big started making insulted noises.
“I never should have come here,” she said and left.

The Bucket List

I made notes to write this story, about our most carefree lighthearted date. What the name was of that fancy Italian coffee Big always orders, and that I keep forgetting. His admiration for a cute elderly couple that was having lunch two tables further down.
“And they still dress up. Even after a life-time together.”
That I suggested to go over to his place for tea and a cookie to-go, and how one of the last things he’d say when he showed me out was that at least he now knew what I meant with a cookie to-go. How we had inspired sex, and funny conversations and how he threw a glance at the door when I said I couldn’t imagine having sex with refined people. As if he expected a well-mannered suitor to walk into his apartment, and spoil all the fun. But the truth is, I think you would not believe any of it.
Not that a stone cold cheater carries his heart up his sleeve. Not that a man who lives in a penthouse can be so easy to get along with. But especially not that Big talks in bed. That a man talks like that. Because from what I know from previous experience, oh-
wait.
I know you’ve been wondering about this, how many partners I had? Let me quantify: Twelve men intercourse, 5 men other, a few dozen just kissing. Career span: 27 years, with about 80% of all adventures taking place in the last 8 years.
I hope I have your full attention now that I cleared that up for you.
So as I was saying: men who talk in bed are rare. And especially if I rule out men who sex talk in bed, since this barely counts. Whore talk, dirty talk, and anything starting with do you know what I’m going to do with you will not get you kicked out of bed, but I wouldn’t go as far as to giving it extra points either.
The last man who talked in bed was my most recent lover before Biggie, Rutger. He was sensitive and complicated, which was a very happy surprise because I knew him for the better part of my life as robust and cheeky. I was prepared to see the experiment blow up in my face, when we finally kissed after all those decades. That he’d be pushy and overly sexual, and that I wouldn’t be able to connect with him.
My assessment couldn’t have been more wrong.
And he shared everything. What he liked, what he loved, his fears or anything else he was struggling with or curious about.
I had hit the jackpot.
Shame though, that jackpot had migrated shortly after our college years and was now bound to another continent by two beautiful children and an ex-wife.
Every summer he visits the Netherlands, and I’d told Biggie about him, which lead to one of our infamous week long break-ups.
But Big made his peace with it. The carefree date was our first time we saw each other again. As usual we wouldn’t talk about the incident, or about what drove us apart. As usual, I felt butterflies and excitement when I saw him. Reading a paper in the late morning sun. His unpronounceable coffee in front of him.
He gets up and we peck on the cheek. That whiskeyed out voice asking me how I am, like a warm hug.
“Are you okay sitting outside? I saved you a spot in the shade.”
He uses his charm to get us a late breakfast. I take a large one with extra bacon, and he orders a continental.
“That yoga must burn off quite some calories,” he says, as he appreciatively checks out my physique. I remember the first time he kissed me and he grabbed my love handle and said:
“Oh! You have that nice extra bit!”
And I said:
“Of course I do. I’m very sexy.”
“I wish I could eat as much as you can.”
He sighs as he peels his boiled egg. Biggie works out the quadruple amount of me, and that’s only because I count commuting on my bicycle as sports.
“I still have space in my Wednesday group,” I grin.
Of course I would never let him even near my yoga classes or my students. They would all see what was going on. God knows, they may even know him. Or his wife.
“I may need something sweet after though,” I add.
“You know, to tap it all down.”
I make a gesture as if I’m tapping a sand castle, until it’s firm and smooth.
As we walk from the terrace to his house, he points out some of the historic buildings and landmarks.
“And there is that hotel I told you about. With the sauna.”
He uses their waterside restaurant for business meetings, and befriended the staff. Or he bought them. Or both.
“Do you like the sauna?”
I shake my head.
“But the hotel could be nice. We can play that you pay me. Like an escort.”
“Oh…. You mean we plan that right? Not that I put ten euros on the table after.”
“After? Those ladies need pay in advance.”
We have our tea and he serves my cookie is served to me on a saucer. We sit down at the couch and I throw my legs over his. He immediately begins to caress them, sliding his hand up the legs of my trousers.
“You’re always so new to me,” I sigh, as I happily nibble from my cookie.
“It’s like every time you’re a stranger. It’s brilliant.”
I tell him that my friend Ivy has told me she’d be completely fed up with him by now. That she would insist he’d divorce.
“But I told her it’s okay. It’s not that I don’t want more. But when it comes to being new and exciting, nothing can top this.”
Big slides his hand between my legs, pressing his middle finger hard, violating me through the jeans.
“So I need to conquer you?”
His kiss tells me this thought excites him as much as me.
“You’re new. Every time,” I confirm.
“I’ll go easy on you then….”
It’s something that happens when our clothes come off and the skin touches: my body relaxes completely in his presence. People usually describe that chemistry as sexual attraction, but either they have it all wrong, or they are experiencing something completely different. Because it’s not sexual at all. It’s safety. Familiarity. It’s having a deep understanding, and being understood, merely from a physical perspective. Sex is in the mind. You can have sex with anyone, if you create the right context. But you cannot hug, cuddle, kiss, be happy with someone’s sheer physical presence.
It’s like that coffee Big drinks: it’s so good, you don’t have to add milk and sugar.
I could be happy just being physically close to Big, without having another day of sex in my life.
Which is of course a highly unlikely scenario. Especially if you know the amounts of full cream milk and luscious thick foam I add to my coffee.
Big kept word and we made love in that soft, explorative spirit, as if it was the first time. And that he licked me for the first time, intruding me with a ruthless fingertip that made me gasp for air. And we were both in awe, all over again, when we saw his cock going in. As if I had forgotten that it was always like this: rock hard and entering all by itself, as if we were magnets.
Our embrace was exceptionally tight. A full body, full wrap, clingy experience. Two lovers amalgamated to one pulsating, sweating, orgasmic body; whispering everything we could say without saying I love you. As if our bodies had not already given away what our hearts were feeling.
We lie together for a while, before Big pulls our sticky bodies apart and gets up to clean up the condom. He returns wearing a pair of black rim glasses.
“Oh wow!” I exclaim in appreciation, and I feel yet another wave of excitement and novelty.
“You like it? My contacts were bothering me.”
He settles onto the lounge sofa again, where I snuggle under the blanket he brought me.
“Oh no, not on me. I’m still hot!”
“You look like a doctor,” I say.
“That’s why it turns me on so much.”
There’s another reason I’m not with Ivy when it comes to Big: I have so many fantasies and want them all with him.
“Maybe we can make a list of everything I still want to do,” I suggest.
“So first, playing doctor of course.”
“Of course,” Big agrees.
Big had been surprisingly unshocked by my doctor fetish. It was on one of our early dates that were supposed to stay platonic (for my part) because he was married, where I had compensated the lack of physical intimacy with brutal sexual honesty. I had informed him that the biggest flaw in 50 Shades was that it had a hard limit on gynecological instruments. And that the book committed a mortal sin against writing erotica when it described what must have been a dripping good scene of the first ever pelvic exam of a recently deflowered Anastacia, in a meager four words as:
“After a thorough examination”
Chapter 19, look it up. Full on heresy.
“A proper exam. And I want it to take very long,” I say, just to make clear that we’re going to milk this. I’m already aroused at the thought of lying there with my legs pulled up for what hopefully feels like an eternity.
“We’ll reserve a whole night,” Big says.
“Noooooo… not at night! It’s a doctor’s appointment, it has to be by day!”
“Okay, by day,” Big laughs, realizing he’ll probably have zero input when it comes to playing out my fantasies.
“And I would like double penetration…” I dream, as if I’m planning a romantic wedding instead of asking for sexual acts that would count as hard limits for even pretty broad-minded woman.
“Like being fucked from behind. And a dildo in the front.”
“You mean one of those giant ones?”
I laugh.
“No, that would make more like a solo event. A normal one. But I would like two men also.”
He gets up and seizes the remote from the tv.
“I’ve got a new Stoya. With double penetration.”
At the sight of Stoya’s frail, pale body being touched all over by four rough male hands, I feel a pinch inside, between my legs. A sudden violent horniness.
“How do you want to organize that?” Big hints, as we watch Stoya taking it in her mouth and pussy.
I love the happiness she displays.
“Who do you have in mind?”
“Well I have you in mind. And Rutger of course. But I can’t plan it. Either it happens or it doesn’t.”
“But how do you divide your attention?” he asks.
It’s what kept him from pursuing two women.
“Yes. It would be a challenge. Especially since I like you both a lot.”
Big appeared to be completely over any jealousy he had felt.
I flip over onto my belly and turn my head away.
“My bum needs some TLC,” I wiggle my hips.
He comes closer and starts to polish my butt cheeks. I can feel his eyes staring.
“I like your butt. It’s so great. Like it’s standing or something.”
I give an appreciative moan. His hand slides between my thighs.
“You’re so wet!”
“You made me watch double penetration!” I defend myself.
“And showed up with those glasses.”
“Yeeess….” he muses.
“I think I’ll keep them on. I’ve got a whole new sense of self-esteem.”
I chuckle as I turn my head towards him, checking him and his sophisticated glasses out. The more or less familiar face of Mr.Big, looks professional and distant.
“You’re probably seeing me as the doctor already….”
I part my legs eagerly and the finger moves in deeper.
“I hope he takes advantage of me,” I admit.
For a moment I consider telling him my final fantasy, the one I kept from him deliberately because I never had the guts to share it. It’s the reason I’m doing this recap of everything I already hinted at, or talked about, during other dates. I’m mustering the courage to ask it.
“I need to be a little deeper,” Big says with a solemn face.
“Just try to relax as much as possible.”
The doctor fantasy stays with that line. And with him wearing his glasses. Perhaps we both feel this is pretty intense, and shy away from playing it out spontaneously. But it does the trick of getting me incredibly hot, and we have sex like teenagers: with me wanting to squat down on top of him, and him comforting me and retaking control every time I accidentally hurt myself because his dick slams in too deep, and I cry out from the sharp pain deep inside.
We watch my pussy taking in his dick, the thrusting, over and over again. It’s explicit, mature, R-rated. The porn has moved from the screen to between my thighs.
“I need to rest,” I say, with my quadriceps on fire.
I pull my feet back one by one, and collapse onto his chest.
He lets me catch my breath, and cuddles me, gently stroking my hair.
I reach for his cock, holding the condom as I pull out, and roll over on my side. He takes it off. His cock is still so hard he needs to draw it away from his belly, to handle it. Forty-two going on twenty-four.
“You’re so smooth,” I caress his shoulders and his upper arms.
Big has little chest hair and appears unmarked by the hormones that must be ravaging his body. I slide my hand over his chest, belly. His hard on lifts up, when I wrap my hand around it. I work the thin foreskin with my fingers, and massage the shaft with my palm. Slowly up and down. I want to feel him, taste him. It’s the best part of sex I think. Oral. I tease him with my mouth hovering, and small kisses tracing the line from his balls all the way up. He moans uncontrollably when I finally take it in, and suck it in as deep as I can.
The blow-job is easy and effortlessly, although I know Big could delay it if he wanted to. Just to make me work, or to increase his own pleasure. But he’s not pushing it, and gives me a warning before he comes. I take my head away, and finish it manually. I feel his cock jumping on the waves of his orgasm, and the sperm pulsating under my hand, on its way out. It’s so strong that I half expect it to reach the glasses! But I’m not going to look, I might laugh. And I play my role of bringer of pleasure, appreciating his orgasm. Moaning. Biting my lip and looking up seductively.
“You have it on your glasses!”
We clean Big up, and I ask for Stoya back on. As sort of a back-drop. She’s the only woman who can make me want to be even whiter than I am, and lose four dress sizes. And aspire a career in porn.
“I think we’ve got most of it,” I summarize what we talked about.
“Like the prostitution thing. And a double penetration. Two guys. And playing doctor of course.”
“Of course,” Big repeats his earlier response.
He’s again very warm and every time I throw the blanket over him, probably instinctively just to have him closer, he throws it back instantly. He’s drinking a glass of water.
“Well…. There is one more thing….” I start.
“Yeah, you wanted the rapey thing,” Big says.
I’m taken aback.
“Oh well that too!”
“That goes without saying?”
I chuckle.
“Yes. Like we can do the rapey thing on other days. When we’re not up for anything heavy.”
“Like playing doctor,” he smirks.
“Yeah well….so there is this one thing. And I’m a little worried you may not like me anymore.”
I tell Big what it is. He replies with “okay”.
“Okay? Now you’re not asking how I want to do that?”
“I think I get the idea.”
“But it’s perverted. No one asks for this.”
He shrugs.
“It’s pretty flexible. You can pass a baby through there.”
Big tells me how you can widen it, by massaging it. A good midwife knows that. And I have a sudden flash back to Rutger, who massaged me like that. And although it was fully sweet, there was clearly some experience behind it.
“You actually did that?”
I feel like I just dropped a bomb.
“Like I said, I get the idea,” he smiles, apparently forgiving my intrusion.
“And I still like you.”
We talk a little bit about my list, fetishes, shame. And I ask him about what would be on his bucket list and he jokingly says:
“I don’t think you’ll like me anymore if I tell you…”
“Oh my God! That good?”
I get all excited even though I’m pretty sure he’s just humoring me.
“So. When are you available for a doctor’s appointment?” I ask.
“Soon. Even though I’ve seen the hospital a little too much lately.”
I shrink back. Another landmine.
“You want to talk about it?”
He stares at the ceiling, his fingers mindlessly fiddle over his chest. He shakes his head, still gazing at memories.
“I like what we have. Like you said: it won’t get any more exciting.”
There’s a smile again as he turns to his side, pulls a knee towards me. He rests his head into his palm.
“When I’m with you, I don’t want to think about all the other stuff.”
His eyes are a friendly blue. His sadness is almost tangible.
“But you are thinking about it,” I say, as my fingertips trace his eyebrows to his temples.
I notice a few gray hairs between the black.
“You think about death. And sickness. It’s the reason you’re with me.”
I suddenly understand why we go so well together.
“You and me…. This is like our Carpe Diem.”

 

The Major League

It’s just sex. That’s what I keep telling myself, and that’s what keeps popping up. Her legs pulled up, her face close to orgasm. Or her despair when she took it doggy style. The tears were real, but her hips were arching up towards me. The maddening horniness of the darkest corners of her mind.
Just sex.
“What are you waiting for?” she had said.
We had not seen other hikers since we crossed the cattle grid. Waist high fields of grass waved in the wind. We followed a sandy trail, carved out by water and surrounded by trees.
“You’ve done this before, right?”
Her hand was warm in mine.
“Kind of,” I dodged the question.
“But you can’t copy-paste. It depends.”
“Player!”
She made a cheerful hop.
Every woman I rape is special.
We had not talked this through. We didn’t even have code words or anything agreed upon.
It was just sex.
Now is the right time to break up with her. Now, that I still have my marriage and my kids and Lauren still has her reservations about me. Not about how she feels; she made it pretty clear the only reason she’s playing this game, is because it’s the only game I’m playing. She called it the Major League. Must have been on our first real date. According to her, the Major League was home to the premier players, the heart breakers, the sexual omnivores. It was a place with few female participants, since they had little to win. But she would play. She even gave me the score after our dates. If she had rejected me sexually, she’d win. If I gave her the cold shoulder, not replying her texts, she’d break up. But afterwards she’d appoint me that one. I asked her how she knew who had won. She answered:
“The one with the least emotional damage, wins.”
I am the one to end this. And if I strike now, I win. Match point.

A dreary weekday. I had asked to meet her A.M. She agreed, providing it was on the other side of town. She needed to clean her yoga studio. We both showed up wearing sports jackets, and she made a remark about my three day beard.
“Sorry. Bit of a rough patch. My wife wants a divorce.”
Lauren was visibly relieved, confessed she had thought I wanted to break up with her.
“What good news could a date be on Monday morning, right? But okay… the wife. And now you want her back?”
“I want her to stop divorcing me.”
“And stay separated?”
“Maybe.”
I tell Lauren I bought my own condoms, as if I wanted to rebel against the divorce, and promptly ran into a mom from the playground. I managed to sneak the condoms through the register, but then the alarm went off and the young employee shamefully asked me to come back.
I flash Lauren the pack of condoms.
“Thoroughly demagnetized. Front and back.”
“You’re trying to turn me on? Back to your old tricks, already.”
We order breakfast and she tries very hard not to be excited about my divorce. Not to say anything about it. But she can’t help herself.
“Listen, you must have your reasons to stay with your wife. I don’t want to interfere.”
“Good.”
“But…playing devil’s advocate here. Why is this all so hard? And secretive? She knew who she married, right?”
“We don’t have an open marriage or anything.”
She pulls a face.
“Of course not. It’s not the 70s. But what is it then? That you’re not some kind of domestic daddy tucking your kids to bed?”
“More that I don’t tuck her into bed,” I can’t help but grin.
She shakes her head, and plays with her glass. Spinning her Latte around.
“I must have told you about Nathan, right? Maybe not everything.”
Nathan was the one who broke her heart. He was the reason I scared her, the reason she could just see herself losing it again, crying for days on end. And Nathan broke up with her because he was with her best friend. For five months. Behind her back.
“Half a year later I ran into him. They just had a fight. His eyes were wet, he was stammering. So we sat down and talked and I get all this stuff about the mean things she said, and how she’s breaking him. He was ruined. There was nothing there anymore.”
“I’m not ruined,” I say.
“Yet,” she answers.
She takes the subject on pretty seriously. Like I’m some exotic animal that just needs to be handled correctly. By her preferably.
“What would you do then? Let me fuck around?”
She shrugs.
“Not like that. But you could have your secrets. And your moods.”
Suddenly she breaks into a wide smile.
“And every Summer I have my fully transparent love affair with Rutger!”
Rutger. Still in the country of course.
“Have you seen him yet?” I ask.
“Yeah…it was nice. No sex though. Just daddy time.”
I pick up the bill and she invites me to see her studio. We are just down the street when it starts to pour. She sneaks under my umbrella, and I give her the what will people think-look.
She mocks:
“What? You’re not suggesting those cozy arches, right?”
I couldn’t resist touching her for one second if we would stand there dry and surrounded by rain.
“It’s that way!”
She points across the street to a narrow alley.
The studio has a nameplate between the regular tenants. She opens the front door and pushes it open with her hip.
“Fair warning. I just had my party. So it’s a bit of a mess.”
“Oh yeah…your birthday. I still wanted to get you something this morning…”
“It’s okay. I didn’t expect it anymore.”
She turns on the light and we descend to the basement. Suddenly it seems very hot. We take off our shoes and put our vests on the hooks.
“I thought: how bad is it if he forgets my birthday? But it’s okay. Especially since you won’t be giving me what I really want anyway.”
She smirks but I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“What? You mean the threesome?”
“No! I meant your heart. But a threesome is cool! You’re giving me a threesome?!”
“Well, no, it’s just that…”
“Good to know you’re game!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t give me a birthday present. You’ll just have to comply with my wishes.”
“Did Rutger give you a present?”
“No. But I would never force him into a threesome.”
“And you would me?”
“Absolutely!”
She grins, clasps her hands, shakes them victoriously over her head.
“High score!”
It’s a small studio with a cork floor and an Indian statue. Pillows and mats are set up against the walls, but no sign of cups or plates anymore.  She goes from corner to corner, lighting a serpentine of lights around a mirrored wall.
“Welcome to my lair,” she speaks solemnly.
“It’s probably not a good idea to fuck you here right?”
The space certainly looks inviting.
“I would love to take you over one of those bolsters.”
“Not gonna happen,” she says, and wraps her arms around me.
We look at each other in the life size mirror. She grins her teeth bare.
“That’s my favorite emoticon.”
I grin mine.
“And can you do the one with the eyes open?”
We both try and look like Ashton Kutcher.
“Did you really think I wanted to break up?” I ask her mirror image.
“Yes. That’s why I’m not wearing make-up. Even though I said to myself I’m not gonna cry.”
“Why did you think that? The break-up?”
“Because you were short. And absent. I barely heard from you.”
“Well…things were rough. I told you.”
“And that’s why I thought you would break up. To get one problem out of the way.”
“You’re not a problem.”
Our gaze still hooked in the mirror.
“Are we going to have sex?” she snuggles her nose to my chest, and looks up.
“Not here I mean.”
“A hotel? Like the escort fantasy?”
“Escort? I wouldn’t earn a dime if I wore this as an escort.”
She scratches my beard. “We can do rape! You look the part!”
We agree to go to the nature reserve.
“And I think I have a knife here somewhere. From the cake.”
“Is that necessary? Somebody might beat me in the head if they see that.”
“Okay. No knife. But they’ll probably just masturbate to me getting raped.”
“I will masturbate to you getting raped!”
She smiles in anticipation.
“Me too!”

We park our bikes on the cycling path near the freeway, climb the crash barriers, and then down the hill on the other side. Our jeans get wet from knee high bushes, as we find our way through.
“It’s behind these trees. You can already see the road.”
The entrance is deserted. A concrete square with a sign on park etiquette and a map behind glass. The ground is still damp from the rain. We stroll hand in hand, casually chatting, as if we’re waiting for some kind of cue. She makes a joke what’s keeping me so long.
“I shouldn’t have said that right? You can’t possibly start if I initiate…..”
I stop and she turns towards me. A long kiss, warm tongues entangled. I touch her throat, light as a feather. She gasps and the kiss stops. My fingertips grab around her neck, my thumb penetrates the weakness under her jaw. Other hand on her shoulder as I force her down, sitting up high, knees in the sand. I swiftly open my pants.
“Not a peep!” I hiss aggressively, cupping one hand around the back of her head and directing my cock straight into her mouth.
She gags as I jam it up her throat and grab her neck. My other hand on her head, like a giant claw seizing her scalp.
Desperate moans between gagging and holding it in, and sucking while tears fill her eyes. She holds on to my legs for balance, and I feel her hands creep up, giving my butt a little squeeze.
“Slower…slow it down,” I hush. “Now take a deep breath.”
She inhales, mouth wide open around me. Eyes closed. Then wraps her lips around me and starts to work it up and down.
I pinch her nose, holding it closed. Her eyes fly open, but she keeps moving.
“I’ll tell you when you can breathe….”
After a few strokes I release and she inhales sharply.
“Again.”
I’m no longer holding her head, just the nose. And she obeys, three times, four. Every time I make it longer for her to hold her breath, and I shorten the breaks. I release her nose and immediately grapple her head again with both hands. Tiger’s claw around the back, and sadistically prodding the soft spot in her throat. I pull her mouth over me entirely, and the tears come back.
“Yes, take it in…. Enjoy it now you can. Before I ram it up your ass.”
She retreats immediately, frowning, looking up.
“That’s…I don’t know.”
“What?” my voice has immediately switched to normal.
“Because it hurt so much that one time….”
“That’s not my problem,” I step back into my role.
“Get up!”
She does as I tell her.
“Take your pants down!”
A sulking frown still. Bit angry. She starts to unbuckle and I get the pharmacy bag out of my pocket. I’ve got the condom out of the foil when she’s standing there, pants down, waiting for instructions.
“Hands and knees. Ass towards me!”
She turns around, falls onto her knees, then all fours, her head hanging in submission.
“Knees wider!”
I position myself behind her luscious bottom, my jeans in the same wet sand as her bare knees. I invasively stick two fingers in.
“God I’m going to fuck you so hard… get lower!”
She places her forearms down, her back rounds as she starts to sob it will hurt this way.
“Yes, it will,” I grunt and bang into her. She shrieks out and I immediately thrust again.
“Ow, it hurts so much …. Please no….”
She sobs down to the ground and yet her hips are opening towards me. “It hurts, it hurts so much!” she wails over and over.
Finally drenched in her darkest fears. Until the words fade to plaintive howls. I slow down and release her. She rolls onto her side, still sobbing. Her legs limb. Ankles bound by her jeans.
“Turn around.”
She shuffles onto her back with difficulty.
“Pull your legs up.”
Her hands wrap around the backs of her knees, giving me the full view at her pussy.
“More!”
I kneel and fold her legs further forwards her. Diamond shaped legs with her pussy wet before me. She holds onto the bound feet, her head up, keeping an eye on what I do. I hover over her, as far as the pose and the bound legs allow, and enter her again. She lets out a sigh and her head falls back, for one moment relaxing into it. I fuck her with long, slow strokes, leaning onto both hands like a wide push up with her under me as a toy that only my dick can enter. It slips out, and lands straight on her ass. She lifts her head.
“That’s the back…..”
“So?”
I press the tip in. Her pulled up legs are giving it the easiest access imaginable.
“Oh my God,” she stammers.
“Fuck…”
She bites her lip, head lifted up, piercing between her legs although I’m sure she can’t see beyond her pussy. Gradually I take it in deeper.
“You didn’t think you’d escape this….did you?”
She pulls her feet even closer towards her, and then looks at me. Giving up her effort to watch.
“It’s …” Her nervousness prohibits her from speaking.
“Too bad!” I fill in the silence, giving it a few strong strokes as deep as I dare to go.
I take it out, and right back into her pussy. She gasps. Opens her mouth as if she wants to protest. And then her face gets that familiar haze of pleasure. The speeding of her breath.
“I’m gonna come…. Oh my God…”
She squeezes her face and I lean further forward, folding her legs closer towards her.
“Ow! Ow! That’s too deep!”
I keep going, beating that sensitive spot deep inside. The orgasm expands and mingles with her pain. I hold still. Her breath and tears find their peace.
“You liked that, didn’t you?” I pull back and withdraw to my knees.
“Yes, it’s….”
A bewildered look. Not knowing if the game is over. Normally I would let her recuperate.
“I lie down and you’re going to sit on top,” I announce.
“With your back towards me.”
“No!”
Reversed cowgirl. It’s the only position we ever aborted because it was too painful.
“One more no, and you get it in your ass again. And this time not so gentle.”
She starts to snivel but sits up straight. Mourning her fate.
“Take your pants off, ” I instruct.
She does as I tell her, and has to take her shoes off to get the jeans from her ankles. I lie down on my back. She kneels over me, butt and black hoodie towards me. Her shins down, toes in wet socks.
“Put it in!” I command harshly.
She cautiously takes the tip in, and I pull her hips down. She screams
“Ow it hurts! Ow!!”
Every thrust is more violent and she leans forward. Back. Desperately looking for a way to make it less agonizing. I tip her forward and push my finger in her ass, as the crying increases.
“No don’t! No!”
“No?”
I push in a second finger. I consider ass fucking her again, but she could be close to her limit. I stop the thrusting, my fingers are pushed out. Her head hangs in defeat.
“Not again…  please not again.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
She slowly rises, I feel my cock sliding out of her depth, that tormented side of her vagina. She turns around, face wet, and I push up to sit as she straddles in my lap, embracing me with arms and legs. Her tears buried in my neck.
“That was scary…..”
I rock her back and forth until I hear a little chuckle.
“You’re good at this!”
“Of course I am,” I joke back, cuddling her funny half naked body.
“This is the Major League.”
“I never had that…” she’s smiling through the tears.
“I mean, the guy always needed reassurance. And with the ass thing!” Her appreciation volleys through the trees.
“And then back into my pussy!”
I had broken just enough rules to make it exciting.
We rub her clean with a tissue, and she takes her socks off before she puts her sneakers back on. I lie on my back. Grey clouds make way for the blue sky. I hold out one arm and she takes the invitation and cuddles up next to me onto my chest.
“I’m jealous of you wife, do you know that?”
“Why?”
“Because she can divorce you and you still want her back. You obviously still have feelings for her.”
“Of course I do. But I have feelings for you too.”
A warm sigh.
“Off the record, how much more do you need? You’re as crazy about me as I am about you.”
“Off the record? Why didn’t I meet you ten years ago?”
She caresses my cheek and stares into my eyes, with a Mona Lisa smile as if she has the key to everything.
“Because you didn’t have those cute wrinkles ten years ago.”
“I do not have wrinkles!”
She laughs it off, the tension melts. We resettle into our hug.
“Okay,” she starts.
“And I say this just because it’s a rainy Monday and you just ass-raped me.”
She is quiet, as if she’s gathering her thoughts.
“It’s like…when I met you, you were everything I didn’t want. You’re dangerous emotionally. Physically. You’re so sexually active and I haven’t even told you half of how scared I am of STD’s. And you break hearts. I had to deal with all of that to be with you. And it’s the same for you. Sooner or later, you have to choose.”
She lets the words sink in.
“You need to decide what you want.”
I still look at the sky as I think about her. Me. The choice that haunts me.
“I don’t want to lose you. But I don’t want to lose her either.”
She shakes her head to my heart.
“That’s the whole point, Biggie. You’re afraid to lose.”

 

Deadline (Intermezzo 2)

There was a time I would have looked back to lock eyes with the beefy young man with the sun tanned baby face and the perfectly groomed black hair. I would have even allowed his friend to point that tattooed elbow in my direction, leaning sideways onto his chair, hovering between our tables. Maybe I would make a joke to the inked guy, but only to immediately connect with the handsome young man. Everything about him breathed cougar hunter. He would take the bait.
But instead I took a mouthful of Chardonnay and wished Ivy had not gone to the toilet, leaving me a sitting duck for male attention. I shielded with my phone, pretending to be texting. There was a Whatsapp from Rutger which I answered, and then I sent one to Biggie. A question about something practical but with a sexual reference so strong I felt a sudden warmth between my legs.
Big came online immediately and answered in a business-like fashion, with a kiss smiley. I put the phone down with a sigh and saw Ivy return from the loo. She took the wine the waiter had brought in her absence.
“To what shall we toast?” she cheerfully asked.
“I already drank half of mine,” I apologized.
She took a sip.
“How are things between you and Big?”
“Just normal.”
And I realized how ridiculous this was for two people having hardcore good sex less than two months ago.
“That bad, huh? Did you have vanilla sex?”
I washed the last wine down.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
That was the disturbing thing: on the surface nothing had changed.
“Are you still breaking up with him this weekend?”
“Of course not. Our deadline has not brought anything I hoped for.”
Somewhere in the process of Big struggling, of Big not deciding, of Big not seeing that we were obviously made for each other and that his marriage was doomed, somewhere in there I decided I would do the dirty work for him.
“Let’s set an expiration date,” I suggested.
“Like in six weeks. That way you don’t have to decide anything and I don’t get frustrated.”
Big had wondered if a planned ending of our affair would work. But I assured him I had done this before, and that it was a drama-free solution for both of us.
“But we still have your whole bucket list,” he remarked.
That was true. My biggest sexual dreams, unfulfilled.
“Well better not waste time then,” I had smiled, looking forward to six weeks of sexual slavery and Biggie stretching my consent to the utmost limits.
But instead our sex menu had been cleaned up. The most vulnerable sex acts quietly disappeared, along with the intimacy they nourished.
“Makes sense,” Ivy said. “He’s retreating.”
“You don’t understand,” I explained.
“Big always has great sex before a break up. He pushes how far he can go sexually. He drains them down to the last drop, told me so himself.”
Ivy gave me a wide smile.
“That’s when he wants to break up. Not when you want to break up.”
My jaw dropped and I gazed at her.
“I thought it was because I had sex with Rutger,” I disclosed.
Ivy shrugged.
“Well that probably didn’t help. But that’s not what’s causing this. Big is worried he’ll get hurt. You know what that means right?”
But I was unclear about everything.
“It means Mr. Big is in love with you.”

 

Love Letters

Dear Big,

It’s been 24 hours since I told you we can’t see each other for a while,  and already my body is throwing a tantrum of nausea and razor sharp pains. It was a rational decision. The stress had been wearing me out for months, and after you revealed your recent medical history, I know you were suffering too. Our health is being ruined, one layer of immunity at a time. I had been disappointed with our sex life becoming less intense, and yet you were probably right when you replied:
“So what if we turned the heat down, to a level we can sustain. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
But just turning it down wasn’t enough. Still having you eat my pussy on red silk sheets while I could watch myself wriggling with pleasure in the mirrors over your bed, was not exactly relaxing. Maybe it was the bedroom itself that forced us to ditch the rough stuff.
Originally I wasn’t allowed into your bedroom. I remember you showing me out after one of our dates. I had to get up early and wasn’t interested in quickies.
“Is that your bedroom?” I had asked as you were hugging me close and kissing my neck, in a last playful effort to win me over.
“Yes. But before you can go in you’ll be stripped from your last thread of fabric.”
You laughed and failed to notice you had turned me on. Even I myself was sometimes amazed at the forceful fantasies that jumped on me, usually right after I had said no. Right after I had chosen a good night sleep, a lady-like exit or a menstruation-blood-free week of celibacy over being with you.
“I wish he would bend me over and ass rape me right now,” my inner sex goddess with La Tourette would blurt out.
She had no inhibitions about staining the sheets with blood until she saw your bedroom where the sheets were already red. She fantasized about being a whore until she was taken to that room with its tasteful anthracite colored walls, and the dark double curtains weighing straight down from the ceiling.
It was that room, a residue from when you were still a bachelor, that paralyzed me. I imagine how you will have told your wife, then fiancée, that you would keep your penthouse as a real estate investment. I wonder how long it took before you started taking women here again. Or if there ever was a time you gave up your promiscuous lifestyle in the first place. That room oozed danger. And I needed to feel safe for my sexual bucket list of submission. Not like a porn actress with her legs pulled wide, regardless of how much I liked that view. Every slap on my ass echoed all the ones before me. Every glance in the mirror reflected all my predecessors. Every line seemed scripted, and none of them could ever be I love you.
Nine months ago. You could have had me at hello, if it wasn’t for the fact that you already had me at wearing a suit, and staring unapologetically from the other end of the network meeting. I answered your gaze by boldly staring back. Ivy had just pointed out her Jaguar dealer, as she had promised herself her next car would be a jag. She had brought me to meet new clients for my private yoga sessions, which came at a rate you could buy sexual services for.
“Oh God, not Mister Big,” Ivy sighed at us exchanging glances.
And not because the sparks could have set fire to the New Year’s decoration and to anybody wearing polyester.
“I could have known though. Of course Mister Big.”
A minute later you excused yourself and headed my way, and Ivy left me to meet my doom, or dream prince, or whatever fate had decided you would be. I waited as you maneuvered through the room, and tapped on a shoulder to pass.
“Hi.”
Our smiles melted together and your steel blue eyes pierced me. Black hair with only a few gray ones, sparsely scattered. A pattern I only knew from my eldest cat. He died a few weeks back, I didn’t even tell you that. Mental intimacy of any kind has the potential to bring us back on track, back to that rollercoaster of desire, and fantasies. But you left that path. And even though I often feel I am still there, waiting for you to come back and play, I want it to be out of free will. Not because I played the pity card when at five in the morning he was in pain and slowly dying, yet it was still hours before the VET would open and I needed someone I could talk to. I called Rutger. He was in a better time-zone to pick up the phone, but he was also better wired for the occasion. That night when I was with him this summer? I cried. Several times. And it was okay. When as with you…well. I think you “allowing” crying would be the best description of your ambiguous attitude towards it. Funny. I think crying is what moves sex from great to magical. And your recent resentment of crying is what is moving sex from great to not so great. From I never want to lose him, to I need to end this. From we are made for each other, to choking when instead of comforting me, your irritation gives me a real reason to cry.
My hair is falling out, my throat is sore, my breasts are painful. My period is starting to get messy around the edges. I know when all this started: after you fulfilled my rape fantasy with flying colors I got a violent cough. The doctor said it could take up to eight weeks to heal, and it did. And on the road to recovery you and I kept sleeping together, but merely brushing on the topic of my fantasies. They had become fantasies of fantasies, and although they did the trick of turning me on I kept wondering why we had stopped fulfilling them. No: why you stopped fulfilling them. And it took me until now to realize it was never you. It was me. Like with any healthy power play it is never the dominant who determines how far they will go. It is the submissive. And after the play rape I withdrew. It wasn’t right. Not with a man who is so emotionally absent.
I didn’t want to lose you, so I chose normal sex. Something I could handle. Or so I thought.
Except I’m still not well, and neither are you. We’re still wearing each other out.

Last Sunday started the night before. I barely ever feel lonely but I did then. And after fighting it for hours I gave in, sat down with my diary, ready to spill my misery on the pages. That’s when your text came in.
“I miss you.”
That was a first.
We set a lunch date for the next day, and like always I felt I didn’t know that mysterious man and was again struck at how casual you could dress without losing an inch of charisma. You kissed me on the cheek, asked me how I was. A stranger all over again. And I looked forward to yet another divine first time sex with you. But not before being properly fed. You laughed when I greedily ordered leaf lard in my duck salad.
“You’re probably the only one eating leaf lard,” you said affectionately.
“No fancy Italian cow for me. But we’re both connoisseurs. At least we have one common interest.”
“I can think of another one,” you replied.
Sex of course. Oh absolutely. And we’re definitely connoisseurs there.
Maybe the reason I’m calling it quits for now was because last Sunday was different. Not your voice…God your voice. It should be forbidden for a man your stature to have a voice like that. Raw, husky, free of any insecurities. Free of innocence, I’d say. Your voice is like the equivalent of a woman sitting in a bar wearing something red with a navel deep cleavage: something you can only answer yes to. Yes, I want to go to your house. Yes, I want to go to the bedroom. Yes, I want to be fucked. If you would ask me if you could ruin my life, and wreck any future prospect of a normal loving relationship I would still say yes. I regret you never asked.
We went to your place, and you excused yourself for the mess, and opened a bottle of red wine. You confessed you only did that when you had someone to drink with.
“And I have chocolate too. Want some?”
From all the men I’ve known you were the only one who put so much effort into downplaying yourself, as if I was a nervous deer that could easily be scared away. How accurate.
Your charm. Our dance of trust. Me being won over by your chocolate, kisses and hugs, and in awe of how hard your cock was. You have the only binary dick in the universe; it’s never halfway.
But none of all that was new.
What was different was how you fucked me: for the first time it didn’t hurt. Not that I ever got damaged. That happened once and was totally of my own making because I was masturbating too recklessly. I never told you this, but after our rape scene? I was horny for days. I didn’t get any work done, because all I could think about was more sex. Or more masturbation, as the next best thing. The rape had definitely hurt at the time, but the pain didn’t stay in any way. Nor in any cavity ;) It was as if it had never happened, had it not been for my vibrant memories and ruthless horniness. You were obviously a lot more skilled at penetration than I was. Although you also had better equipment of course.
But even if we didn’t play rape, I would always beg you for more. Deeper. Harder. And you would give it. And the pain that followed would never fail to shock me. But also soothe me. It was comforting to have some real pain to focus on. Not heart ache, not doubt. Or fear….so much fear. Of losing you, that would top of the list. But at moments like that I would just have that pounding pain where your tip hit the cervix. Or breached it, I don’t even want to know.
I am lying in your arms. You’re cuddly as always, as long I respect that you don’t want blankets anywhere near you when we rest during or after sex.
“You didn’t hurt me….” I suddenly realize.
I had asked for it, but this time you had answered by forcing my knees wider, grabbing my throat or by turning me over making me shiver at the thought of taking it doggie style. And then you slapped me, harder than usual, and slid into me. Effortlessly, smoothly and yes…lovingly.
“You like this, don’t you?”
The insanely husky voice would ask the face buried in the pillow. Yes, yes, I did. And now I realized something had been missing.
“Like on the inside I mean. When you fuck me hard.”
“Well good. I don’t want to hurt you. Always say so when I do.”
As if the danger was in the physical pain you inflicted, instead of what I had to sustain mentally. Being the other woman. I don’t think I said anything. Maybe “okay”.
“I’m thirsty. Want some water too?”
You left for the kitchen and I turned on my back and studied the mirror above. And despite your remark I saw that incredibly happy blushing woman again. That curvy body that looked as if God is saving it for a career in porn. It was one of our standard jokes since I started working for Ivy as an actress in her web shop videos. Her husband did the camera and he kept referring to me as The Talent, something I only knew from porn. I had brought the idea of them filming us into our already very lively fascination with porn.
You came in handing me the water, and I took it saying:
“You know, if we get our own porn channel, people will know we have something. You can’t keep it a secret anymore.”
“On the contrary,” you said.
And I noticed you didn’t sit down on the bed with me, but stayed there standing next to it.
“If we get a career in porn, it’s just business.”
You announced you were going to take a shower and needed to shop for groceries.
I heard the shower as I lay on my back again, looking up.
The blushing woman was gone.

Love,

Lauren

 

Dear Lauren,

You know I don’t like this, and I’d much rather meet in person. But I’ll write. You are making the right choices. Your health must come first, as I suppose mine should too, but I’ve turned living under pressure into an art form these days. To say I would give you up for my health is a lie. After all, you know I never give anything up for anything, no matter how obvious the choice may be for someone else.
I’m always surprised at how you see me. It’s so…I don’t know… dark, I guess. Is that how you see me, as insensitive? A womanizer? There was someone. It was an accident, more or less. We used to date briefly and she had invited me to her birthday. I shouldn’t have done that, and maybe it did influence the mess we were already in. But it wasn’t planned or anything like that. I don’t have some malicious plan of breaking as many hearts as I can, nor do I ever force myself onto women. It reminds me of one of our first conversations where you already accused me of being a bad guy. When I told you I would never do anything against your will you laughed and said:
“Of course not, that is for amateurs. You’re worse. You’ll manipulate me until I’m begging for it.”
Maybe the words were prophetic, I don’t know. Recapping our story: you did start out not wanting it, and after a few weeks you did. With me as the bad guy, but okay. I can live with that. I was the one taking all the responsibility, so you could let go. And you did.
I’m sad we didn’t make it. As long as I’m married it can never be the relationship we knew we could have. Or more precisely: the sex we knew we could have. Because face it, that is what binds us. It’s a powerful, maddening, intoxicating sexual attraction that you never experienced with someone else. And neither did I, not like this.
Don’t think I didn’t hear you. Each and every one of your fantasies. The escort. The threesome. The doctor. And the last one that you were so afraid to ask for. I even noticed how they changed and redefined themselves. How whenever we talked about it, they morphed into new ones. Last Sunday I said I needed to have a special bench to put you over to spank you and you recalled a hotel where they had SM rooms. And then you told me something you had seen on tv, about a prostitute who was a submissive. As a job.
“That’s brilliant right? To get sexually abused for money. That’s so hot!”
You were really enthusiastic about the idea.
So I said we could rent a room like that. And I joked I would pick up every piece of equipment there and test it onto you.
“You will just lie there and be spanked and penetrated. And paid.”
You buried your face, grunting in the pillow and then smiled:
“Do you know how horny that makes me?”
I know, Baby Bee. I know. And damn, I wish for a lot of things but mostly that one day you will have someone to do all those things with. Someone who loves you, and chooses you, and with whom you can cry as much as you want. And I will never say that can’t be me.

Xxxxxx

Big

The story continues in Big Part 2, The Virgin Diaries

For more temporary free reading check my books overview page.

Mirage (diary 2014)

1. Person au GratinMirage cover

 After finishing Bedtime Stories, Lauren picks up writing her friend Elliot. In honor of her idol Anais Nin she calls it Mirage and illustrates it with Paris’ most famous photographer in the 30′s, Brassaï.

Wednesday September 3, 2014

Dear Elliot,

What came first? The doubt, the insecurity, the gnawing itch that implies everything about yourself and your life is wrong yet refuses to speak in clear terms? Or was it my decision to focus on my books for the next few months, that ignited those feelings of worry and worthlessness? Chicken and egg. Either way they seem to be companions. When I’m happy, or at least numbed by daily life, I have no need to write. Yet when I feel awful or hopelessly insecure, preferably both, I need to write with an urge usually reserved for running to the toilet. And yes, I know that was probably not a comparison you were wildly enthusiastic about. I’ll try to be less literal and more lyrical.
I’m on day 4 of my Writing-first-spree, the successor of my yoga-empire-first campaign that dominated this summer. And the insecurity I feel has little to do with writing, nor with publishing, more with how I function as a friend, a yoga teacher, and of course a cat-mom. Things are not running smoothly between me and my best friend Marieke. She is going through stuff I can’t help her with but which does tend to make her grumpy. And instead of letting her be, I immediately switch to this pleasing-mode, ending up feeling frustrated. I’ve also had a disagreement, with someone in that quarrel-prone area between friendship and business, and ended up frustrated because I had reached the point where I could no longer be happy for the things she values in life, because I had already given too much and was angry for her giving too little in return. Rutger, my long distance lover, cut me short in my rant, stating holding an opinion can be valuable in business, but only if you make a decision. Otherwise opinions are just judgmental and annoying. I realized he was right, and that it was even applicable outside of work. If we’re not ready to draw conclusions and move to action, disagreements are a waste of everybody’s time. So I took action, yet stayed angry that I had gotten involved emotionally, and that my mind was now polluted with something that was basically just business.

Saturday September 6
night time

Went on a date with sexual omnivore Michael. We went on a date years ago (let me check my boy’s calendar to give you a date) and since then our online chemistry was so strong we nearly ended up having hook-up sex several times. Yet instead we never saw each other again. His fault. He dropped out of communication every time we were in the when-where stage.
I was surprised he agreed to see me, especially since I stopped flirting ages ago, refused any suggestive locations and insisted on broad daylight on a terrace of a well-known café. But now I think that may have been the reason he actually did show up: that he only shows up if I have a boyfriend, and will never be interested in him.
Rutger may live in the US but that still counts as being present for Michael apparently.
Over coffee I suggested we could visit book readings together. He emailed me and is suggesting completely different things. I ignore it. I’m not the least bit aroused, our date did nothing to change that, and even if he manages to push the right buttons again, I know he’ll just vanish into thin air. It’s pointless. I went on this date because I think he’s fascinating, not because I want to have sex. As a born-again writer I need interesting, I need complicated, I need dangerous. But merely a sniff, a flavor, just enough to get the idea. Not to get sucked in and have adventures.
The second writing-related man I reestablished contact with this week is Henry. Our meet & greet early this year fell through because he was occupied finishing his 20ish novel, and I was saving Max (my small cat).
I reread a diary from 1996 this week – in shock over the emotional mine field my 20s were – I stumbled on an entry about a book signing and the conversation Henry and I had. I made a picture of the page and sent it to him, and that’s how we started talking again. I have some concrete questions, regarding publishing, that I want to ask him. A date will be very welcome.
The third writer that just fell into my lap is an old friend. He stopped seeing me around ‘06, ‘07. Out of the blue I received an email. I welcomed him back but did ask why I had become this persona non grata. Or, as I jokingly called it, this person au gratin. I warned him that I was still the same loud ballsy woman, although ignorant about what it had been in particular that I had done wrong.
But it didn’t have anything to do with me.
Next to laying the foundation of my writer-worthy circle of friends, I also made pictures for the book cover. Medium shots and portrait. The first showed an arm, and when going through the rushes I wondered if my chubby arm was supposed to trigger a new a serious attempt to lose weight….. I felt ambiguous. But then I saw the portrait pictures; a 42 year old with no wrinkles, blushing cheeks, vibrant eyes! And for the first time ever I embraced my full weight and size. If I would drop 10 kilos I would age ten years.
Today I tossed out all clothes that were 1, 3 or 8 kilos too small and ordered bras and jeans in my real size.

Monday, September 8

Some Monday! If you would Google trivial problems, it would give my morning. Although anything involving my cats can only phonetically count as a petty problem. They’re my babies.
Yesterday was alright. Together with a friend, I did a small refurbishment at the yoga studio, and when I came home I was so hyped up I took on the task of carpeting the hallway upstairs. I’ve lived here since 2011, and although I took care of most of the things, despite having a temporary contract (which keeps being extended, it won’t be demolished until they start to build the new houses here), the hallway was dangling somewhere at the bottom of my to-do list. Together with clearing out the shed, where I kept the left-over carpet. I dragged the carpet in, leaving a trail of spider dust, earth, and insect eggs. After an hour of cutting, I had it fit. But the floor was chaos, and probably still contained potential new life forms. Before cleaning it I decided to put up some photo frames, since everything was dusty already anyway. So I did that. The frames still contained 2012′s vision boards. Another half hour later I vacuumed the stairs and the whole second floor, mopped the kitchen and the living, and fell asleep admiring the third and last super moon from my bed.
I felt enormously content.
Until the first person making contact with me this morning was Michael.
I was taking care of my cats and my phone kept buzzing new messages. I thought it would be Rutger, as I sent him a love letter yesterday. I finally had time to read the messages “only” to find out it was Michael. Apparently, ignoring his overheated emails after our date was doing little to cool things down. My curiosity had won last week: I had agreed to see him again after (still owe you a year/date here!) those years of not seeing each other, not having sex, and me being angry with him for not showing up, dropping out, and lying. But although the date was not disappointing, I felt shockingly unmoved by his presence. Perhaps our sexual attraction only existed digitally? Or was the damage of his unreliable behavior simply too big? Had I been naive to think I could just go on and be inspired by him, after all that had happened?
Either way, he wasn’t giving it any time to develop, and was clearly not picking up that I was cold to the point of freezing. If anything, his attention was worsening my condition instead of improving it.
Angrily I texted back. Starting with that I didn’t know what to write, but soon lost in a sermon. Rant. Declaration of war. All bottled up anger just spilled out. Although that’s exaggerating. I was still polite. But nevertheless he didn’t sent me even one letter back.
So that was the first hour of the day.      \

Second hour  

I’m watching the news and Willem my cat is purring on my lap. Yesterday I bottled his poo- he did it in front of the litter box, giving an excellent litter-free sample to get a lab-test. He’s had diarrhea off and on for 2,5 months now. He’s had three courses against a parasite, and two runs of antibiotics. Getting his feces tested for a full check was one of the final things the clinic could do. Maybe it would bring an underlying cause why the parasite was returning all the time, why his immunity appeared so low. I bottled the poo, but had also found (presumably his, Willem’s) diarrhea again this weekend. And it had left me worried and depressed. Not again…. Also, I’m planning to go to Rutger in November and felt sorry for myself for being glued to my house this summer. I had intended to travel more, get more people to take of the cats instead of just Marieke, but as long as Willem was in poor condition, there was no way I would introduce new care takers. Week after week, month after month. Instead of becoming more flexible, more independent, I was totally sucked into mothering over my cats. And now Willem was back to diarrhea…. so I made a decision to stop planning for Rutger in November. I just gave it up. Connecting Willem’s recovery with yes/no November was only making things more stressful. And I don’t even endorse that way of thinking. Your first priority, and even your first joy, should always be to take care of those who need you.
And then I heard a sputtering sound from the litter box. It was Max. It had been his diarrhea! The one I had found this weekend too of course. I had already found it weird that Willem was making both poo as well as diarrhea. I called the vet for advice on poo and parasite.
It was 9 o clock and it was the most mundane, least promising start of the week imaginable.
Love,
Lauren
ps:
Sweetie, I just checked my boy’s calendar: my first contact with Michael was early 2011, then we get numerous cancelled dates – cancelled by him, or just not confirmed as he vanished into thin air presumably with a dead battery or such. Then in 2012 we had our first and only real date. No kiss, no promises, but nevertheless the next day my lover Nubian Prince and me found it a good time to have goodbye sex, and give Michael a chance. But Michael didn’t respond to invitations for a second date.
With a price like that paid -wasting a perfectly good lover-  no wonder was overly sensitive and easily infuriated. Nubian Prince was a sexy, honest, academic 22 year old; we’re talking solid gold here.
Michael got exactly what he deserved. Just that he got it two and a half years too late.

2. Le Petit Mort

In theory Lauren is dedicated to her book and to writing for this blog. In practice she gave it up weeks ago. The former hedonistic cougar is home bound, mothering her little ones, sick with worry and about to get dumped. When it rains it pours.  

Sunday September 21, 2014

Dear Elliot,

It was somewhere between the pasta pesto and the apple crumble in a restaurant at the boulevard. I never visit the boulevard, it’s further away than my regular hang-outs, but I took my long lost writer-friend Kay for a walk along the shore and suggested we’d try the strip of restaurants overviewing the water. It turned out to be a terrific choice; dignified, affordable and wine by the bottle. Fresh food blended with old stories as he remembered the first time we had seen each other informally. It was quite a while after I had given up running. He had been my trainer. We bumped into each other in a bookstore.
“You pointed out a new book from Henry,” Kay remembered.
“It was a diary, named after the year it covered. And some tagline about how it had been such a terrific year. You were disgusted. Said you could never read a book with that title. Your father died that year.”
Henry’s diary!
I had always assumed that I had missed it all those years ago, struggling to keep my job and dealing with the sudden loss of my father. But I had not missed it; I had revolted against it. Time must have healed me.
In 2013 I happily picked up the diary and sent Henry a note how much I liked it, pretty brutally confessing I had not read him in over a decade.
“I have no idea why I dropped out,” I wondered, clearly without any recollection that he had been my arch enemy.
“The diary is your best book to date.”
Kay’s anecdote of how we became friends (we exchanged the book store for somewhere with alcohol) provided a vital piece of my personal history. Suddenly I could connect the dots on me and Henry and explain the unsettling ten year gap in between.
Despite the exuberant night with Kay I feel hung over today, or in Dutch katerig. This Dutch word for hangover literally means tomcat, and it is applicable to grogginess caused by too much booze, too little sleep, or the rude awakening after a one-night stand. I had neither but still felt very tomcat. Physically I am fine. I picked up yoga today with brutal enthusiasm, cleaned the yoga studio and rearranged classes so that I have the weekends off this fall. And I have an unsatisfactory feeling about this weekend, haunted by a never ending to-do list. The reason is threefold.
Willem. My big cat has been ill for three months. The underlying cause of his returning bowel parasite has been found, and it should be a treatable condition. But the initial meds were rejected by him and I’m now waiting for the alternative to arrive. Three months of lingering around the house, waiting for him to feel better before I can pick my life back up, and can ask friends to babysit. It’s exhausting.
Snails. To save Willem from being relentlessly exposed to parasite eggs, I need to de-snail the garden. At the VET they give you this brochure with extreme hygiene rules for your house, yet the garden is only briefly mentioned (“Throw away bowls and other objects that collect rain water”). How is disinfecting the kitty litter box going to help if every blade of grass and every flock of the moss between their toes contains three generations of larvae? I was on their tail once I saw the snails eating Willem’s feces and these are snails that get premium food like cucumber and apple peel from me. They voluntarily ate his diarrhea. Willem is on his fourth infection now, this course of meds ends Wednesday. By that time I need to have evacuated most of the snails. But I hate it. I keep their stress (and mine) to a minimum by collecting merely for 10 or 15 minutes, and then immediately transport them to the forest, but the container packed with snails still reminds me of genocide.
Apotheosis. Yesterday I discussed my blog with Kay, and that I’m choosing French titles for Mirage.
“I hardly write, too occupied with Willem. But I do have a worst case scenario title. If he dies I can use Le petit est mort.”
The little one has died. It is a reference to the expression le petit mort, the small death. Which refers to male ejaculation. Kay said that even in Dutch they call an orgasm the small death. And that he understood why.
“Post-orgasm can be this big disillusion,” he explained.
Ah, the infamous disillusion.
“You lose all your energy. I mean for a man of course.”
Years ago I discovered older men suffer from this relapse. In their 20′s a man may get tired but he won’t shut you out, nor is he suddenly ashamed of what he has done. Taking post-sex rejections pretty seriously I made the shift to dating younger.
“It must be your age,” I commented ruthlessly.
“Maybe some residue of Christian upbringing.”
I never bought into that wasted energy excuse for suddenly feeling disgusted after sex. My orgasms can be so intense and my fantasies are by any standard disgusting, yet afterwards I fall asleep happy and satisfied. Kay and me reminisced, remembered, and everything was as good as it used to be. Rebounding from my date with Kay I am fully capable of feeling petit mort for an entire Sunday.
Kay has a troubled relationship, but one in which he sees beauty. Also in a literary sense. He writes about her, his peculiar girlfriend, who is his opposite and probably embodies everything he never looked for in a woman. He acknowledges that she is perfect for him, that her unconventional personality is exactly what he needs.
And it threw me back to Rutger. It has been over a week now, we barely talk. I explained to Kay that I wished Rutger would be like that, that Rutger would see that I am perfect for him.

“He’s mourning what we can’t have. I can’t be in his life like the others.” I explained.
We are separated by two continents, two children and two cats.
“He’s looking for a real relationship.”
And look how that turned out. Every time I thought of Rutger I was biting my tongue.
Last weekend he had offended me, practically denying we were more than friends.
“We’ve been in a relationship for 23 years. Just we don’t relate like man and woman.”
In Dutch the words for husband and man, woman and wife, are identical. Maybe he meant that we would never marry, which is cruel enough by itself. But it felt as if I wasn’t relationship material. That I had merely stuck around long enough to have sex with at some point.
It was the kind of insult that inflicted a small death and that could evolve into ten years of silence. Minimum.

3. On y va!

 After feeling sorry for herself for four months straight, Lauren finally hits rock bottom. And the only road left leads back up to the light. With special thanks to Elizabeth Gilbert for leading the way.

I didn’t write because the thought of another update on my cats was making me sick. They’re elderly and will need increased care one way or the other. And I embrace that. I know it’s my task to be here with them, and also my joy to live, cuddle and sleep with them. Even when they were in good shape, their presence limited my radius of action. I only asked friends to take care of them for micro holidays or an occasional weekend with a lover or my mother. I’d say never more than a dozen nights annually, even in my top year. I’ve always accepted being homebound in favor of my unexpected task: to take care of the little ones.
But it wasn’t just this worry and the further loss of freedom that caused my self-pity.
There is my best friend Marieke who is making plans of migrating, marrying, and probably children. Even Alcatraz had more escape routes. And I considered pointing this out to her, but since she is the smart one of the two of us I reckoned she could do the math herself. Besides I had other troubles because two people close to me fell ill. I can’t share more but having those close to you struggle with disease that could very easily have been yours, is like getting a secondhand wake up call. A mild blow in the head. The moments when I was confronted by those battling an illness were the first I stopped pitying myself.
And last but not least my affair with Rutger ended. I have known him for 23 years and we finally FINALLY hooked up this summer. In June I had made a decision to stop dating. I had craved intimacy, not sex, but eight years of being single or going semi-steady (semi stands for not making long term plans) had brought mediocre results. I got a final STD test to close it off, and was calling it quits. Three weeks later Rutger was in my bed, and I was nauseous with happiness. After he left he became my overseas holiday prospect and long distance muse. To him I became the woman he could never have a normal relationship with. Something I silently referred to as “to pick up your socks”. Two days ago I broke it off. Or maybe I just verbalized what he had been trying to tell me for months. And his response was so loving it made me cry and threw me head first in the well of self-pity.
Yesterday Marieke came over to say goodbye for a month. And I said I was feeling so bad, because all my relationships seemed to be ending and my life was stuck.
“But I know I’m close to a breakthrough,” I assured her, not wanting to make her feel guilty for moving on with her life. “It’s like when you feel sick, and right before you throw up you feel the most miserable. And afterwards it’s such a relief. I’m at that point. I’ll vomit soon.”
“Maybe write a blog,” she offered.
But that’s not entirely how it went.
Because this morning I clicked to an interview with Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Eat, Pray, Love. This is a book I got for an early 30′s birthday (we’re talking stone age here). I had felt reluctant to read it. I respect women who insist on throwing away perfectly good lives to children, marriage or career but that doesn’t mean I have the patience to listen how they were disappointed. Women’s books opening with how miserable married life is, invoke this irrepressible TOLD YOU SO reaction in me. Accompanied with a not-so-gentle smack in the face.
Half a year went by and out of guilt towards the giver of Eat, Pray, Love I started reading it. I was sure I would hate it, but I had to try it before I could give myself permission to silently deport it. But surprise surprise! Eat, Pray, Love became my favorite  book.
Eat, Pray, Love is not a novel it’s a memoir and I luuuuve memoirs. And it’s extremely positive because Elizabeth Gilbert escapes when she realizes she doesn’t want children. At first she ignores her red flag period prayers (“Thank you Lord for letting me live another month.”) but she has a light bulb moment when she runs into a brightly happy pregnant friend who has spent two years and a king’s ransom to get pregnant. The mother-to-be is radiating and Liz realizes the only time she had that exuberant expectant look on her face was when Q magazine asked her if she wanted to go on a boat trip over the Pacific to hunt a mythical giant squid.
At last she realizes getting all fired up about an octopus might be a sign that changing diapers is not the level of adventure you’ll be satisfied with.
Now a short reflection on my own lifestyle, my ambition and how I got trapped into being a stay-at-home writer.
I didn’t volunteer to become a single-cat-mom. I could already see that being a sole care taker would be problematic, so when my long term partner and me went to the animal shelter back in 05 (a full year before I started writing), I had negotiated the cats to be officially his. When we would break up – I mean if-  they would be his. But that didn’t work out and two months after I moved out the cats were dropped at my place. One night together and I couldn’t believe I had ever given them up. Still can’t. What an idiot I had been. So from then on I have lived with my cats, and whenever I was going semi-steady (where semi turned out to be a man cue to set up a future mate on the parallel track and commence test-driving behind my back) I would ask a friend to take care of my cats when I slept out. Preferably Marieke because she would stay for the night, making her the perfect surrogate mommy.
And workdays were easy. By teaching yoga I have one of the rare professions that allowed me to work through years of diabetes (the cat’s, not mine), to accommodate seperate diets and foraging habits and still let them spend ample time together. I never had work weeks where I had to lock them up separately with a food timer, pull the door behind me, and come back 10 hours later to two estranged animals and smelly litter boxes. I also never had to cut on medical expenses, which has been a true blessing. I’m not rich, but I can afford the best care since my VET has long stopped charging for his time. I only pay for tests, food and medication.

Before I realized my cats were probably never going to fully heal, I was just in the phase of Increased Mobility. Surely I could find ways to go away more often! And now I had Rutger, who lived in America. I looked forward to visiting him, so that would be a good opportunity to arrange more care takers and give myself more space. Which was great in theory, but what started with a simple diarrhea of one cat, progressed into the medical freefall of the entire herd. My time windows away from home narrowed, Marieke planned to migrate, Rutger shut me out and people with illness reminded me life is short and that you have to reach for your goals.
But how?
It is no secret that I want my work to be read, but every line of thought for promotion would die feebly. I just couldn’t understand how to go out into the big world when my moving space was shrinking to miniature size. My responsibilities lie at home and with providing an income for all of us through teaching yoga. And then I saw the interview with Elizabeth Gilbert.
Elizabeth told a story about an 28 year old Irish immigrant who was left by her husband, with their 5 children. She made a promise to herself that she would one day see the world. Every day, she put a dollar in a coffee can, and after 20 years, when the last child had left the house, she cashed her coffee cans, bought a ticket, and traveled the world.
And it was that story that sparked something in me. Elizabeth made me realize that my responsibility for my cats is temporary. If the youngest – Max, a mixed rag doll breed, whose age was estimated-  lives to be 20, it would mean that in 9 years my responsibility ends and I can cash my coffee cans.
I dived for my vision board box of 2012: a money box I had crafted for gifts on my 40th birthday. It was plastered with pictures of everything I would like to do. Swim the waters of Calabria. Learn to surf in the Gulf of Biscay. Read at the London Book Fair. And in this box I put a note that said: Het Boek Benjamin, my collected works. And another note that said: Dutch American Diary, the three English diaries from ’08-’14. It were the titles of the two books that I have ready to print, and that I can still self-publish. And then I emptied my piggy bank into the box.
If, no sadly when, I no longer have to take care of Max and Willem, I will send my books to publishers and one will make me a good offer; one will know the English market and how to position a bilingual camera-ready author. And I will take time off from teaching, pack my suitcases, close the door behind me and live out my coffee can down to the last euro.
Attraversiamo! 

4. Solitaire

Leaves are falling, temperatures dropping, rain is pouring. Lauren’s annual cue to fall in love. Most likely hard and with a Dutch writer.

OMG OMG OMG OMG…

But first: raise hand if you thought me finding closure on Benjamin was real. That I could stop writing about this next to mythical man who had been my muse ever since I picked up a pen in 06. Stand up if you thought that last summer’s email where he said that he wanted to keep the memory but saw neither opportunity nor need to see each other, was going to suffice. Be honest! Getting over him would have been the grown-up thing to do of course. And it had looked like an easy to follow three step process.
1. Get watertight alibi from the Universe to make the long journey and visit his city.
2. Write email I am there and await answer.
3. Either see him or be rejected by him. Both would crack the shell of mysticism.
At my 42nd birthday I would finally have reached maturity.
In theory. Because the moment I read his email and it didn’t feel like I was going to die, I already started to doubt its effectiveness. Sure, I cried. And I was happy to have my new friend Ivy there with me.
Ivy had been my yoga student for over a year, and was also a fanatic reader of my blog. We became friends in June, both defining friendship as sharing copious amounts of white wine. It had been a real home coming. Two weeks later, when she heard I planned to go see Benjamin – uh, I mean do that alibi thing, there –she offered to come along. She was even more into the event than I was (I knew this was true), she was fascinated with the Benjamin story line in my blog (I knew this was also true), and she assured me that I could freely break down on our trip without having to feel guilty towards her. This last bit I simply assumed to be true. And if she was going to be disappointed after all, by her yoga teacher being a rejected suicidal cry baby or a home wrecking harlot, at least she had known what she had gotten into. I was making no guarantees I would be there all the time, nor did I promise to be pleasant company. And yet I was remarkably relieved when she said she would be honored to be there with me.
So Ivy was there when the email came in. She even read it for me, as we still had our event scheduled and it was crucial I didn’t break down for at least another 12 hours.
“It is a really nice email,” she said.
“But it can wait until tomorrow for you to read it. You are not going to see him.”
By the time I read it the trembling had faded, the crying had stopped, and we had a warm lunch with pasta and salmon, because Ivy is the only one who understands everything appears catastrophic on an empty stomach.
“It is a really nice email,” I repeated her words.
And then I felt nothing.
A few days later, when I was back home, Rutger was coming over to see me for the second and last time on his vacation to the Netherlands. Rutger is a Dutch expatriate just like Benjamin. We have known each other from 1991, just like Benjamin. And there is an undeniable sexual tension between us, although far less mystical than with Benjamin. Rutger is closer to home, literally. His student room was one block away from mine, we went to the same supermarket, we had the same friends (among which our class mate Jeroen who was my boyfriend). Rutger and me have a contagious light hearted chemistry, and this summer, after 23 years of relationships, and his marriage and children, after all that we finally lit it. The fireworks were just as magnificent as we had anticipated and there was a childlike joy in our encounters.

So no wonder I didn’t feel wrecked by Benjamin’s letter, I was on a high. Rutger and I were making each other happy.
That Benjamin didn’t want to see me was at that time not something I could feel the magnitude of.
“I will feel it later,” I thought.
“When Rutger no longer wants me, then I’ll cry for Benjamin.”
And now Rutger no longer wants me. He let the flame die out, and I saw no other option than to write him I would not come see him twice a year. We’re still on speaking terms, or even flirting terms, but the best scenario I can hope for is that the dreaded Facebook status update;
Rutger now has a relationship with Mrs. Rutger
is something that I will see after summer of 2015. Not before. I am rooting for a few more nights with him, but I have to take into account that female breeding-anxious America will not keep him on the market that long. I may lose him for as long as a new marriage will hold.
So my love drug Rutger, the reason I didn’t feel Benjamin’s blow, that haze has worn off. But instead of the reality of Benjamin’s email finally hitting me, something else sneaked back in. Love for Benjamin. Memories of 8 years of writing, always alone but so intimately linked to my own soul my desk needed cleaning from bodily fluids and I laughed out loud, as if in post-coital relief and wonder. No one was as happy as me. Everyone looked for love in the real world, and I found it in my own head. And I have found it there, in my imagination, fueled by movie stars and other unavailable men since I was 12. Even the 14 years I was with Jeroen, a perfect relationship in which I didn’t fall in love with other men even once, were complemented with 14 years of admiring Brad Pitt.
Together with Geena Davis I started panting like a puppy, begging Susan Sarandon to pick up hitchhiker Brad Pitt. I saw every movie, bought expensive American magazines, saved clippings, everything. I may have been Brad Pitt’s biggest fan on Dutch soil right up to 2004′s Troy (where he deflowers Briseis – sigh!).

And then Angelina Jolie happened.
Next to her Brad Pitt looked plain. I frowned wrinkles in my otherwise smooth 30-something forehead. Brad fathered her adoptive son, they adopted others and then Angelina got pregnant. A rainbow family was born. You could see Brad Pitt age by the day on the E-Channel. Jeroen and I broke up 5 months after Shiloh was born and Brad Pitt was starting to look like Yoda.
With the real life men I admired something similar happened. First there was Nathan, the American. The moment my best friend started sleeping with him, he became damaged goods. I saw him once since then. My best friend was stunning, just like Angelina. But she had a similar destructive side and the night I ran into him she had picked a fight with him. Seeing him defeated erased any residue longing for this American lover.
The second was young Valentino. Summer 2013 I still dreamed to see him again one day and I wondered when that longing was finally going to stop. This spring, that’s when. A mutual friend added me on Facebook and I had free access to his profile. He was posing with a child. Whether his promiscuous behavior had finally taken its toll, or whether it was his preconceived plan to become a father at 25, I don’t know. But he looked depleted, so I do know it was his own child. Valentino even shared Pitt’s aggressive hair cut from that year he played some Nazi.
Exit Valentino.
But the magic with Benjamin will remain. Unless he starts a rainbow family with Ivy, shaves off half of his hair and poses with an infant tied to his chest. But any chance of that was blown this week. Because I now know what he looks like. For real.
It all started with the stress of taking care of my cats. I’m closing in on the Willem-the-big-cat-has-been-sick-for-five-months anniversary, and it’s a good thing E-Channel doesn’t follow me because I’m sure I’ve aged even more rapidly than Pitt. Thanks to my around the clock care 16 year old Willem is still up and running, but he needs an increasing number of medicine to keep him there. This week was particularly emotional, even my yoga classes suffered. Every time I had to talk them through the long relaxation and intended to say: “Feel the weight being released from your shoulders,” I fought back the tears and chose another expression.
Willem didn’t respond to his 3-weekly injection of anabolic steroids and only consumed miniature portions of his soft food with pancreas powder. He vomited occasionally as if just to scare me. Yesterday I took him back, the VET put him on painkillers and Willem immediately picked up.
And then I felt I deserved a reward.
I bought a book.
Now a word on me and books: I don’t read them. The last book was by Brassai on Henry Miller’s years living in Paris, and although it is highly entertaining I have stranded on page 50 or so. And I should have known this because the pattern with which I buy books that I do read, write about, and then fall in love with the author, that pattern is becoming predictable. In 2012 it was Rafael. In 2013 it was Sam. And now it is Estas.
I’m not in love yet, but that is just a matter of a few more chapters, and we’re there.
For me to fall for a novel and its writer two things are needed:
1. the book has to be iconic and
2. the writer needs to be idol worthy.
He needs to have so much charisma that if you drove by at 100 miles an hour you would start panting at Susan Sarandon if we can pleeeeeaaaaase take him in. He needs to have so much charm that him stealing your $6000 dollars, destroying your dignity and violating your sexual integrity would be worth it. You would even offer it to him freely.
Estas looked the part.
His hair was long and sleek; Valentino’s blend of Western strength and Asian beauty. Estas was about my age, generously out-smarted me and his book was already iconic. Pushing a third print within ten days of its release Estas’ book was taking The Netherlands by storm. Some critics complained it contained too much sex, which was probably good for another four thousand copies sold.
The life-long love story of a man and woman, meeting in hotel rooms, cheating on their spouses, an unacknowledged love that existed predominantly in the mind. A dream world. That was the story everybody wanted to read.
And that was the book I deserved.
I started to read.
Within a few chapters of this dream world book, my pacifier for troubled times, the reward for being a dutiful herder of cats, I understood exactly what this book was about.
And who it was about.
And for the first time in years I Googled that one single name: Benjamin.
I smiled when I saw the photo. You bastard! I had never bought his whole I’m a middle aged man now bullshit from his email but this very recent portrait of him surpassed all my expectations. The first thing I noticed were the hands. They were as elegant as I remembered. The suit was formal, a connoisseur would recognize the designer; the cuff links and the tie a personal touch of the bearer. We were wearing the same black watch only his must have cost a fortune and it fit his wrist and gender. It wasn’t oversized. He was giving a seminar, the hands talking, the eyes vibrant, the eyebrows stern. The mouth a little open, as if he was thinking. No smile. A short cut, every ink black hair in place; no trace of gray nor scalp. The light brown skin was smooth, covering high cheek bones, a sharp jawline, a small straight nose.
The eyes were still thinking.
Looking up, as if in a dream like state.

5. Au Naturel

“His hair was long and sleek; Valentino’s blend of Western strength and Asian beauty. Estas was about my age, generously out-smarted me and his book was already iconic. ”
After her last blog post Lauren suspects she may fall in love, and struggles with the age old questions on life, death and what to wear.

A puzzled look in the mirror. An inch of dark root, but the rest of the hair light. The subtle honey tones of earlier dye had faded, leaving only the bleached base tone. My hair was already long enough to pull it back into a low ponytail if I sneaked in some bobby pins to hold it together. Soon I would have to decide if I would continue the faux pas of my hairdresser, who had given me a Marilyn Monroe like cut, setting my curls loose for the first time since the 80s. Or if I would ask her to clean it up and work towards a more modest bob line, daily straightening or my favorite hair do; cool blonde side parted hair in a low bun. It made me feel together, in control, like Sharon Stone. Especially with my white coat. I always wore white coats in winter and just bought a new one. It had deep pockets on the sides, exactly like the one from Basic Instinct. Every time I slid my hands in I half expected to find a silver cigarette case and a lighter of 30 St Mary Axe.
“Shall we get a bite to eat first?” Famke texted.
“And drinks. It would be inappropriate to show up sober.”
I looked in the mirror again. As long as I wore my contacts I could still sport no make-up at 42. And my gray hairs were so rare I could never spot them when I looked for them. The dark root could pass. It would give my hair extra volume, and save me a hasty dye session.
“I can be there at 18.00” I texted.
It was two hours by train.

In the 90s, Famke had gotten me interested in literature, or at least in writer Henry who was about our age. I was into Brad Pitt and studied to be an engineer, but somehow Famke managed to squeeze Henry’s book in, and my brain was delighted to get something different than math or movies. I devoured Henry’s book.
Without Famke I would never have resumed reading after dismissing the whole thing after mandatory literature in high school; I would never have started writing, and would have remained unaware of good looking gorgeous men like Rafael (2012), Sam (2013) and now Estas, who we would visit tonight. Famke was excited too; she looked forward to meeting Dijin, the Marlon Brando of Dutch literature who had gained weight and addictions with every brilliant book he had delivered. And just like Brando his charm was still evident, and the markings of his addiction magnified his status.
“I couldn’t stop drooling over his chest hair,” Famke would confess later.
Famke and I met in an old café where the best seat of the house became available the moment we realized we should have made reservations. We ate fish, pasta, and Famke went fearless on the garlic.
“No plans to see your boyfriend this weekend, I reckon?”
But he had the children over.
“Estas’ book is about what you have,” I mentioned.
Famke and her beau had been together for a few months.
“Adolescent loves meeting again.”
Famke shrugged.
“Yeah it’s cool. And how are things with you and the American?”
I had hooked up with my college sweetheart Rutger on Independence Day, which had been symbolic for how our relationship had developed.
“Rutger is Dutch. He just lives there. Probably holding auditions for a Mrs Rutger as we speak.”
“Did you read any of Dijin’s books?” Famke changed the subject.
“His first. I didn’t understand all the words. Probably straight from Arab or something.”

“Medieval Dutch. But you wouldn’t know that.”
“I did write an erotic story about his sister. Does that count?” I offered.
“No. Leave the Prince of Darkness to me. You stick with Estas.”
My belly expectantly jumped up to my heart at the sound of his name. Contrary to my earlier writer idols I was still unsure how I would respond to Estas. He classified as “my type” but I hadn’t been able to pick up his energy on screen or from audio. Probably because his voice was so much softer. Estas didn’t speak with Sam’s rough consonants, which made you feel like you were phonetically raped, nor did his voice radiate Rafael’s warmth that wrapped you like a blanket, soothing into an easy surrender.
Even Henry, who had never classified as my type, owned a magical husky voice that had been the reason I went on crusades to bookstores and readings, desiring an autograph and to hear that enchanting voice.
Estas didn’t have such a voice.
And there was something else that made me doubt the real-life attractiveness.
His male protagonist was disturbingly ugly. I could find a way around his maniacal obsessive side, but the acne, non-existent body hair management and most of all his womanly hips, made it difficult for me to sympathize with the female character. Why on earth would she choose him?
In his favor: he was great in bed. But I knew from experience that a dirty mind can be a joy for a month or four, providing you don’t see him too often, but after that womanly hips, acne and failing body hair management will become a problem.
So what if Estas had written about himself?
What if the legs that had still looked fine on tv, would in reality look like the Venus of Milo would miss them?
It was windy, dark, and we were medium drunk. The small distance to the theater was covered with tracks and an indistinct intersection. Trams and taxis sped by from unexpected directions. We patrolled what we believed to be a sidewalk for the duration of her two cigarettes.

“I almost started smoking again. I have pics.”
Photos on my phone of me smoking and a half eaten pizza.
“Cool. Who’s the guy?”
“First guy I ever kissed. We met at a reunion. He turned gay after his early teens.”
A rough beard, brown long hair and a wide smile. His blue eyes stood apart, adding to the child like grin.
“Tasty. Too bad we lost him.”
He had been highly popular with timid virgins. As if we sensed he wouldn’t grab or grope or otherwise bother us with heterosexual clumsiness.
“And I’m seeing Henry this week,” I said. “We’re going for lunch.”
“Wow! What did you do to deserve that?”
“I don’t know. We know each other through Twitter. Henry saved Sam. I hooked them up after Sam’s debut exploded in the media and he wasn’t getting any guidance. Sam would have been on heroin if it wasn’t for Henry.”
Now that I saw how sluggish the media were with Estas’ book, I realized things indeed had been absolutely crazy last year with Sam. The media all fought to write about him, to have him on their show. With Estas’ book it was different: he had been invited to only one show, a program that only covers serious literature, but was boosted bottom up, by bookstores and readers. There had been five star reviews, of course, but no paper had the shamelessly long interviews that had been published of Sam.
“Maybe Estas needs saving too. You should hook him up with Henry.”
But I shook my head.
“It’s his fourth book. Estas can take care of himself.”
“You never know!” Famke insisted.
“Dijin might get him. Could have him in an opium den before the clock strikes twelve.”
We picked up our tickets, and looked for a seat that allowed us a good view at the big couch on stage. There was already a musician, playing a string instrument, probably inspired by either the Arab or medieval background from Dijin. The lyrics were odd, like poetry that doesn’t rhyme.
“He has a weird accent,” I whispered.
“As if he just got back from milking cows.”
Famke nodded.
“Alcohol doesn’t help to appreciate this.”
The audience looked at the ceiling, fondled with brochures, solemnly nodded. The average age was 104.
And then I spotted him, talking to Dijin in one of the side aisles, leaning to the wall. Estas was taller than on tv, his long hair darker, maybe a dye. A slender elegant body. The pants weren’t shrink to fit, nor could I see his butt, but no doubt his butt cheeks were firm and he wasn’t a hormonal mess like his protagonist. And the face! On tv the light brown skin had leaned towards white, a Southern European tone rather than Asian. But in real life it showed its true beauty. Even the features, that had appeared slightly out of proportion, suggesting a bloated face and interfering with ratio of nose to lips – were peaceful and balanced.
“First eye-contact with Dijin,” Famke bragged.
But Estas stayed focused and didn’t look into the audience.
The evening started. It was modelled like a talk show and Estas was first. The interviewer came remarkably prepared, and was professional. Not someone who is there on stage to steal someone’s glam nor to idolize his guests.
“The longing to unite with someone is the only big myth we have,” Estas explained the uncompromising content of his book.
“I wasn’t interested in writing about meaningless sex.”
He finished by reading from his book. Two people in a room and their nearly insatiable desire to feel the other, to claim and to be claimed, to possess. Estas’ soft voice meandered through the explicit paragraphs, carefully articulating, only brushing on the strongest words. Lifting them until they floated on his breath.
The interviewer sighed.
“That’s how you write a novel.”

Estas appeared satisfied.
“If you do it right, yes.”
I spent Dijin’s interview staring at Estas, who took position at the first row.
After the show they set up the stage for book signings. Most people planned on coming back later, and went for refreshments. The authors took their place, the banjo player started his medieval songs again. The interviewer and some publishing people wandered around and kept the authors company.
“Has the signing started?” I asked.
“Or are we interrupting?”
The interviewer gave way with a friendly smile and I got Estas’ table. Famke was the first with Dijin. She brought two glasses and a bottle of green liquor, which he immediately opened.
“Hi, I’m Lauren” I stared into Estas’ eyes as I shook his hand.
“Will you sign my book? I already have one. A first edition.”
And I wished I had brought him absinthe, although I was sure he wouldn’t drink that.
“Why do you write in Dutch?” I asked Estas.
Estas had studied English literature and strongly favored Anglo-Saxon literature. Like Henry, Estas had idolized Henry Miller, particularly Tropic of Cancer. A book I didn’t even own yet because I was afraid that just like Catcher in the Rye, it would stay untouched.  Henry Miller was the lover of Anais Nin, in Paris in the 30s. That was my strongest motivation to one day read it.
Estas’ English was more than likely as good as mine plus he actually read the American Classics.
But that’s not how he saw it.
“Oh no, I prefer Dutch. There is still so much that can be achieved there.”
He looked unbothered that only a fraction of the world would be able to actually read his achievements.

Our moment together was light. I noticed how the gentle voice created space around him that didn’t fill up, didn’t respond to the weight of man meets woman.
“I will give you my name,” I dived into my bag for my card. That is the only concession I do when I write about famous people. Even when the subject doesn’t realize yet that I’ll write about him.
“You’re not Lauren?”
“I’m also Lauren. When I write erotica. When I teach yoga I have a different name.”
“You try to separate it. The romantic you and the business you.”
“You say it like it’s not working.”
“We carry our most intimate side with us all the time. We all do.”
Meanwhile on the table next to us, they were less shy with their intimate sides. Dijin was drawing hearts in Famke’s book. She was giggling and sipping the green liquid.
Estas’ pen cautiously started to spell my name. Then his own. No L word, X’s O’s. His wedding ring flashed, catching the stage lights. A sharp ray of light.
“I liked your sex scenes,” I said, suddenly unabashedly.
Pages dense with intimacy. Two people cheating but with a monogamous desire for each other. The type of sex only Rutger had been able to give me.
“Thank you,” Estas closed the cover.`
“I tried to stay truthful. It is what really happens.”
I smiled.
“If you do it right. Yes.”

Le Grande Finale. Je t’aime

New Year’s Day. Almost two months since Lauren’s last post: that can’t be good news. And it isn’t.

This is me abandoning project. I’m leaving this book, Mirage, and I’m taking everything that was left of it with me. The final blog post, already written, about my four writer idols – Sam, Rafael, Dani and Henry? Too bad. I just can’t find the heart to finish it. It was just a few sentences really, all in Henry’s part. All the elements were there, I just had to weave it together, get his approval and then chapter six  Quatre Men was done.
Maybe it was that: the approval. Maybe that is what delayed me until I just didn’t want to invest any more energy into it. It’s not that Henry literally asked for veto rights, nor even brushed on the subject of what to do when meeting a blog-all diarist. He didn’t have to. During our date he mentioned two things I couldn’t write about. Which were not unreasonable, but I think just the fact that he didn’t trust me with it took the fun out of writing. And it made me insecure. What more things were there that I would thoughtlessly share, that were painful for him?
But in all fairness: it wasn’t just Henry. There were a lot of reasons why I am pulling the plug on putting my most intimate thoughts online. But before I leave, let’s have the good part first: the paragraphs, on seeing my three younger idols, Rafael, Dani and Sam. All in one night. And the timeline is in reversed chronological order, because, hey! I wanted to try something new, okay?

 4. Dani

I have known of Dani’s existence since a crowded barbecue, attended by soccer players, young families and other illiterate like my boyfriend. It wasn’t exactly my crowd but at least it proved my boyfriend was unrelated to wanna-be journalists, freshly-debuted-authors, and other nearly-graduated 20 somethings. An incestuous group and effective pet peeve.
A half-naked gorgeous man was chasing a football. Sleeves of his sweater tied around the waist. He was wearing jeans and sneakers but despite his casual clothing the skill to handle the ball was obvious. A Golden Retriever ran besides him, barking enthusiastically.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“That is Dani, he lives in Amsterdam. He has a lot of sex. He’s writing a book.”
I had to hate him.
This was of course highly immature. When a half-naked athlete turned writer, good with animals, playful approach to sports, when someone like that comes within a 100 meters there really is only one suitable response: To go in, and give it your best shot.
But there was another reason I didn’t do that, aside from the fact that he was up to his chin in the circle of my arch enemies. Because Dani was not my type. I fancied dark sturdy men like Rafael, who had lost 15 kilos since I first met him in 2012, but had managed to stay attractive. I fell for gym addicts like Sam, who was not only the most successful author his age but also the only one who could still become an Armani model. I liked big bodies and childlike big brown eyes. Dani had small eyes like a predator, just like me. He was white, just like me. He had a blog (guilty) and was promiscuous. Something I was always accused of but that was definitely untrue. Hooking up with Dani would be as lethal to my reputation as doing his whole team.
So in the end it was a well-considered decision to hate Dani.
And he didn’t know me. He wouldn’t feel a thing.
Fast forward Spring 2014.
I’m killing time in a book store at the station. I have to wait. Long. Too long. Meanwhile Dani’s book is staring at me from the shelve, with the most ridiculous title. Shall I read the back cover? Probably a hideous hotchpotch of recommendations from women’s magazines.

I turn it around.
I read.
And I recognize a man who writes about himself without trying to hide his flaws.
“Yes, I do drugs, I did too many women, hurt the ones I love and I don’t deal with my emotions. And it makes a hell of a story.”
He had been blogging for years about his messy life. Just like me. But he had managed to take his blog to print and get it the attention it deserved. I didn’t. Not for four years.
And what was my excuse?
At best; A business to run, two fragile cats to take care of. And I kept my house clean and my affairs in order.
At worst: Lack of back bone and an internet addiction.
Dani had beat me by a miles length, half drunk, definitely high and screwing more in one year then I’d probably do in a life time. This man deserved my respect.
Fast forward November 2014, around 11 pm.
The show is over. Even the group selfie has been taken with all authors – including Dani, Rafael, Sam-  and the entire team responsible for making this annual event a success. I’ve left my seat and walk up to the stage. Dani spots me and walks up to meet me. I’m not sure if he recognizes me from Twitter or by the book I carry.
“Hi, we’ve never met in person,” I introduce myself.
“Lauren.”
He squats down to my height, a friendly slender suit with disarming sneakers. Black hair nicely groomed, the small brown eyes connect curiously.
“So cool you bought my book.”
And he takes it from me and starts to write on the first page. Sam walks by, quickly ruffling Dani’s hair.
“Stop teasing me!” I shout to Sam.
And then to Dani:
“You were constantly touching each other during the show. It was highly erotic.”

Dani giggles, handing over the book.
“Want me to introduce you to Sam?”
Before I can say that won’t be necessary, he jumps up, grabs Sam’s wrist, and pulls him in, briefly explaining the situation. Like me, Sam doesn’t get a chance to explain. So he plays along.
“Hi! I’m Sam!” He shakes my hand for the second time that night.  “Nice to meet you!”
And the two men laugh and resume their bi-curious fondling. Retreating into their own world.

3. Rafael

He looks lonely. I recognize him at the first row; a the dark haired figure in a simple bright blue vest, that I know will highlight his light brown skin tone.  The only writer not dry-humping around between the fans and other readers, the only one who already took his seat. Tonight he will be last, and I already know he’ll be their strongest speaker. The only one not wearing a suit, relying entirely on the power of his words. I tap his shoulder.
“Hi, I’m Lauren. We’ve met before.”
That magnificent face. Western features, sensual lips, and large brown eyes. A gorgeous just-under-30 year old who could never fool me no matter how much he downplayed himself.
For a moment I feel out of place, like I shouldn’t have bothered him.
“I had no idea you would be here,” I  excuse myself. “Sam told me.”
“Yeah…” he lets his warm voice drag.
“You got your whole threesome together tonight, right?”
I stare in disbelief. Not only does he remember me, he also knows my blog and who the two other writers are that I write about. Him, Dani and Sam.            

2. Sam

The line-up consists exclusively of young writers, and even among them Sam is the youngest. It has been a year since his debut shot him to fame. It is his anniversary.
I am leaning over from a ground floor balcony of the theater, and Sam is hugging me from the aisle. I get kisses too. Maybe it’s because my midsection is shielded by the balustrade, or because I have the advantage of height, but unlike last year I can still talk and make sense. I can enjoy being star hugged in a sold out theater, without fainting from every atom in the air resonating with sexual tension.
“I could come on Sam’s aura,” I had testified to Henry.
“Henry told me what your second book is about,” I smile.
“If he is right, then you are brilliant. Everything up till now was just foreplay.”
Sam gives me even more banister intervened hugs and a high five.
“That other writer is here too,” Sam says.
“Who? Dani? I know.”
“No the other one. Rafael. Want me to call him for you?”

1. Henry

Henry is sitting in front of me at a tiny table for two. I admire his long black eyelashes as he orders veal for lunch. The waiter stutters, visibly trying to make a good impression on his famous guest. I recognize Henry’s supple way of moving, the husky voice, everything so much more vibrant than on tv. I can see why I fell in love when I went to book signings in the 90s. And his books were spirited with boy-like wit and rebellious enthusiasm.
“I brought our break-up book for an autograph,” I say.
A cheaper edition which I had bought only recently. I was no longer offended by the blasphemous title that insulted the year my father died.

“I’m sorry I doubted you. It is your best work. I responded overly sensitive.”
We stare out the window of the monumental building, overlooking the canals.
“You had your reasons,” he contemplates.
“I think you’re a solipsist. You take everything personal.”
“You’re being kind. It would have been easy to say narcissist.”
Henry’s stories about the world of publishing, and about my ambition to be recognized for my English, caused an avalanche of thoughts and insights, and made me change course. Some decisions were consciously: to stop hoping for a publisher to save me, an agent to help me or a miracle to happen. Others were less traceable to Henry. I decided to stop writing in 2015 until I had my books in print. I had been keeping a blog since 2010, and all those years I had failed to publish. Only a fool expects different results from repeating the same behavior. I had been a fool for too long.
My decision to stop writing in 2015, in favor of publishing, took flight instantly. I collected my manuscripts, made a final decision on how to publish, arranged for two editors and one graphic designer. I set up concept covers and ordered two books in draft. They were stunning. Clearly the new approach was working.
I had an unfinished blog post Quatre Men, but at least my publishing was finally up to speed.
And then my heart began to ache.
It’s not that I don’t know this pain, just that, well, it’s been a while…. The first time was somewhat predictable: after someone broke up with me. Not the first months after. I had been sad but it was still all too fresh for the truth to sink in. I still had hope. Hope doesn’t hurt. But after I found out he was sleeping with my best friend, that’s when the numb pain around my heart started. The second time was when I was writing an erotic story. It was not autobiographical.
The location and situation were unknown to me. But I knew I was the female protagonist. And I although I had never slept with slept with the man it featured, I knew who I imagined him to be.

Benjamin.
Ouch.
Benjamin whose name I’m currently using in my book title of my collected works: Het Boek Benjamin. Because he is the common denominator. From the first novel that I started writing in 2006, to the diaries; they can all be traced back to him. And some erotic stories too, for the perceptive reader.
I remember when writing that story, and feeling the toll it was taking on my heart, I considered stopping. But I knew I couldn’t. Either I would detach from the story, lose touch with it, and then I would be unable to finish it later on. Or – more likely – the unfinished story would stay in my head, and the pain would stay until I had finished it.
I kept writing, and it is one of my absolute favorites.
It became the last erotic story I ever wrote, as if I had found closure.
So now it’s not about writing one story; it’s about printing my collected works Het Boek Benjamin. It contains Dutch and English.
Now that I feel the physical drawback of this, my body screaming at me as if threatening to die if I continue, I know with more certainty than ever that I need to finish them.
Because after eight years of writing I finally, finally, need closure.

—–

Mirage (diary 2014) is book 7
and the Epilogue to the Dutch American Diary trilogy
Mirage became indeed the final book that featured Benjamin.

The next book is book 8, Big.
Diaries and Erotica (2015-2016)

I will start editing Big tomorrow, and publish the first part Sunday March 12, latest.
Check the overview for all books that are currently online for a limited time.

Bedtime Stories (2014)

BTS cover kleinOh Bedtime Stories!
A ten month long “correspondence”, although the messages Elliot sent me were not included.
Bedtime Stories reintroduces all popular characters, such as writer Rafael and his legendary mythical counterpart Benjamin.
Closing the Dutch American Diary trilogy, the 1991 story lines are finally tied together. With an extremely satisfying ending! Yup, sex.
Although not in a way anyone saw coming.

Bedtime Stories Chapter 1-9 

Bedtime Stories Chapter 10-19 (the end)

The next book is a Mirage, the epilogue to my threesome Dutch American Diary, LS Diary and Bedtime Stories.

I will start editing Mirage tomorrow.
Check the overview for all my books that are currently online for a limited time.