Categorie archief: Big

Porn King

James+Deen+Stoya+Canyons+Premieres+Venice+Q49L_LKLhV0lEvery time someone asks me how my summer is going, I answer:
“I m not going anywhere”. 

No days off or weeks on holiday.
And yet, I have this feeling I m overlooking something, because I feel as if I just got back from a 7 week surfing holiday in the bay of Biscay.
I clearly must be overlooking something…
And then it hit me! Of course! I ve started on my sexual bucket list with Mr.Big and his performance proved to be above any expectations. 

“You’re now dating a porn king,” a friend said. 
It was a compliment that at the same time indicated I shouldn’t be making any plans. Porn kings are not relationship material. Yet the thought rooted in my brain, and developed a whole new line of thinking.
First, let me admit I made a mistake, dropped the ball, neglected my defenses, that sort of thing:
I told Mr.Big I m in love with him, and that I would make him mine the moment he leaves his wife.
Uh oh.  That’s two things you should not do if you want a chance at winning or even surviving dating a player: To show your weak spots AND share your strategy.
But I did mean it.
The sexual bucket list hardly ever came to table with the other men, in the eight years I had been dating. I had started to believe that garden variety sex was all there was.
I used to have so much more potential and Mr.Big reminded me of that.
And to then think that in the beginning I resisted him!
I refused to answer The Call of him and me becoming lovers.
I remember a conversation, very vividly, where I told Biggie I would not date him because he was a “Major League player”, and would break my heart, and so on.
Until I went home and thought;
“Wait a minute!! I have devoted 8 years to my love life and sex life. And then I finally meet a worthy opponent and I say boo hoo hoo, you’ll break my heart?
Then for what have I been training?
If I m not ready to date in the Major League, then which woman is? I can’t possibly let a 20 year old take my place!”
So I went back in, faced Mr. Big, and said:
“Bring. It. On.”
And he did.
And a few months later, we were doing things from my bucket list.
Sure I wanted him to be my man; Who wouldn’t want to put a ring on that.
But when someone said:  “You’re dating a porn king,”
Followed by: “You’re his equal. If you want, he’ll keep you on as a mistress, regardless of his other relationships.”
The friend said not to underestimate the power of the forbidden;
Our affair had the potential to last a lifetime.
And I had never thought of it that way.
I had always approached it as a game, where the last woman standing would win. And me admitting my feelings to him, was not well played, but that our affair could result in a life long tie? I had never considered that.
For days, I kept thinking about it. How were we playing this game? Where were my advantages, and my weaknesses?
I reconsidered the role of his wife.
I had always seen her as my opponent, but now I saw it was a lot more complicated than that. That her presence was actually working for me, not against me. She was keeping him cornered. Sure, Mr.Big could still move around, and enough to fit in a secret mistress.
But nevertheless, his range of motion would be far greater, if he didn’t have his family to attend to.
If she was taken out of the game, he would be set free, and there was no telling for which team he would be playing or in which hoop he would score.
Secondly: what do I want out of this?
Contrary to Mr.Big I am extremely good with relationships. They’re harmonious, cozy, fun. And this goes for all my relationships. I have excellent credentials.
Yet what I want out of this, more than anything, and what Mr.Big is offering me where all the others failed, is a sexual partner in crime to work down that bucket list with.
To make up new things.
Of course I would love to really get to know Mr.Big, but I have a far 
better shot at getting what I want (great sex) if I leave the whole relationship theme out of it.
Porn King.
You’re his equal.
And that’s when it happened. That’s when the whole King and Queen dream came right back in, as the relationship between the biggest porn stars:
Stoya and James Deen.
Just think about it: who else are they going to date, right? Who would hold up?
Who else would be equal?
Suddenly I saw that seeing a relationship with Big as impossible, or him as too difficult, was just as chicken as backing out to date him. I am his sexual equal and have that impressive rep sheet of 100% harmonious relationships. If I m not ready to have a relationship with him, then who is?
I m in it to win it. I m gonna work the whole field, score in the right hoop, and if the court is cleared, and the new match starts, I won’t retreat but step up and say:
Bring. It. On.*

An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

* note from the author:
Porn King was originally sent out as a newsletters on 8 August, 2015
and will be included in my upcoming book:
Big Mistress
Looks like my friend was right though, because it seems we’re still playing the same game!
I never became his queen.
PS: The first two years of our affair, including a story “the Bucket List” can be found in my book: 

Big, diaries and erotica

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new books

I’m in the process of publishing my new books:
1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2018
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW – confessions and columns
3. Big Mistress – life and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

Best. Sex. Ever.

big-carrie2I wrote my first erotic story in English!
I m stepping up my game, obviously.
But this is a story that could use the English abbreviation;
Which means: too much information.
So unless you’re that gay friend who has agreed to listen to all my gore, you have never heard this story.
Because I would never bother you with this.
You re all respectful mommies or struggling daddies (oh yeah…maybe we should tell them poor daddies) and the idea that in a parallel universe women like me have great sex with married men is not something that would deepen our friendship or family bond.
Or that I actively long for the sexual acts that are potentially an endless source for domestic quarrel?
Not helpful.
But maybe after reading the story The Biggie(it has been published in my book Big) you will understand why I need this.
Why sex is so very dear to me.
Why fooling around mindlessly will never be my thing, but neither will settling down and choosing a lifelong partner.
Because I get something out of this.
There is a theory that the more imagination you have, the more love has to offer. 
Yesterday, King’s Day in the Netherlands, I spent the entire day writing erotica, instead of going out. And I judged it to be one of the best holidays ever. That’s what I get out of it.
I have exciting sex, and then I relive it, again and again. I turn it into great stories that I can cherish as my personal memories for ever.
A short while ago I saw Mr. Big again, the lover from the story. There was very little time, and because every sexual encounter of ours has this horrible aftermath (in which we break-up) I judged it unwise to have sex. One hour does not outweigh days of drama. It has to be worth it.
Naturally Mr.Big did not agree and did everything in his power to make me change my mind.
It didn’t work…. And just as he had given up, and he was accompanying me to the door, we passed his bedroom door. Now it’s his condo – his wife doesn’t live there.
But still I found the bedroom a very private matter and I didn’t want to think about who had slept there. Maybe even recently.
He looked at me and said:
“Oh you’ll see it one day. But only after you’re stripped from your last thread of fabric.”
I nearly broke right there and there, hungry for a new adventure.

Best. Sex. Ever. Part 2: The Opus

Nick: How’s your new book coming along?
Catherine: It’s practically writing itself.
~Basic Instinct

It took a while before I recognized it. Sure! I knew writing my first erotic story in English was more difficult than Dutch. And autobiographical erotica was more challenging than plain diary writing. Nevertheless, because my story The Biggie was “merely” erotica, I didn’t really label it particularly positive. I suppose part of me still hopes to evolve into Elizabeth Gilbert who after writing Eat, Pray, Love, settled down with a husband which such vigor that she now judges all her previous romantic involvements as being a waste of time compared to what she could have established if she had focused on her own mind, feeding her spirit.
In all fairness, she was talking about her love life as a teen, but in my opinion that makes it even worse. Out of all my love affairs, the ones I had as a teenager were the most precious. I would never wish to trade that for having read more books, visiting more museums or for speaking fluent Mandarin.

But despite the unlikeliness of ever becoming a serious novelist or self-help writer, I was a tat disappointed that it was yet another sex story. That after writing 22 of them in Dutch I was apparently still not satisfied, still not settled down, and still not Elizabeth Gilbert.   
Until the second story came, Credit.
Just like The Biggie I didn’t write it until weeks after “it” happened. Unlike the events in my diaries, sex seems to take more time to digest before I can put it to paper. More time to transform it into a real story. Where regular diary writing is about everything you do in daily life, giving it a build-in liveliness, erotica is only about sex. For me anyway: I’m not a firm believer in writing three books about one 20 year old confused virgin and one late twenties even more confused millionaire. (I came half-way book 2 of 50 Shades of Grey by the way. Holding the record in my circle of friends.)
Lacking the variety of topics of a regular diary, and not aspiring to become adult novel lengthy – the erotica needed time to condense, to boil down, until all the air and water were removed and with just a little bit of seasoning (also known as “fiction”) the right story came along.  Which brings me to the number one Frequently Asked Question:
Lauren, is it all true?”
Like all my work, and I suppose every author who works autobiographical, the exact order of things is different, the dialogue 50% fictionalized and the setting completely fictional.
In “Credit” we go on a business trip.
As in “abroad”, business trip.
Come on!
Everybody who knows me is aware that I have not been able to leave even the city (because of a sick cat) for over half a year. How on earth could I end up with Mr.Big in London?
So there you go – 100% fiction.
But the general message that is conveyed, is true. There is a man who is having unauthorized sex with me, and I am growing as a lover. Over eight years ago I became single and I can honestly say that this is everything I ever wanted. Not only when it comes to who Mr.Big is (which is a secret), or what we do (which is well documented), but in particular with regard to who I am. Sex is my most important personal development tool, only to be matched by writing.
The hours with Big are both my tool for learning, and my test if I am where I want to be. And even the rest of the “relationship” we have (which means all the awkward communication and will-he-call mind wrecking insecurities) are food for thought and adjustment. I really cannot believe Elizabeth Gilbert expected to learn anything about herself without romantic involvement.
My two biggest breakthroughs have been that contrary to what I have been thinking over the past 8 years, I really do not need a lover “to be there for me”.
Instead I take full responsibility for my problems and issues.
His obligation towards me are to keep things exciting, and to be in a good mood when we meet. Since I got clear on this, we haven’t had problems since.
So there I am. At the peak of Maslow’s sexual pyramid together with a man who I wouldn’t have dared to date 20 years ago, 8 years ago, or maybe even four seasons ago.
I’m with someone (when I feel romantic I secretly think “the only one”) who can fulfill every sexual fantasy I have, and charge it with the magic of being in love. And after 8 years of writing (yes, 8 too) I am an experienced diarist, in both English and Dutch, and a skilled erotica writer.
And that’s when I saw it:
The stories 
The Biggie and Credit amalgamate all my writing experience, all my self-reflection, but also eight years of dating and single sex. It’s everything I learned and achieved, and I can develop it in conjunction even further.
So unless things with Big end prematurely, there is a good chance this series will become the best work I will ever write*. My Magnum Opus, just like Eat, Pray, Love was Elizabeth’s Gilbert’s opus.
And then when this is finished I all have a whole new chance at becoming Oprah’s best friend again.
Although by then, I will be completely blissed out and will probably have stopped caring for things like that.

An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

* note from the author:
I did continue writing and The Biggie and Credit became the first stories of what I do consider my Opus indeed;
Big, diaries and erotica

Best. Sex. Ever. and The Opus were originally sent out as a newsletters on 28 April and 6 June, 2015 
and will be included in my upcoming book:
Big Mistress

The subscribe button to my newsletter Secrets is somewhere on the page,
probably on the right.

Follow on Facebook or Twitter,
NEW connect on Linkedin

My diaries en erotica are available at
25% discount on all prices + free shipping Netherlands *

If you check your cart, you can select your store
f.e. Nederland or United States
with the flag in the upper right corner.

*  Nederland: tijdelijk geen verzendkosten en keuze uit het volledige oeuvre (10 boeken!) Gebruik code ONESHIP bij het uitchecken –

new books

I’m in the process of publishing my new books:
1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2018
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW – confessions and columns
3. Big Mistress – life and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

Big, erotica and diaries (2015-2016)

Big cover klein

Out of all the books from The Wait Worth 8,
this one was THE ONE where I thought;
“I can’t”
“I shouldn’t”
“What if this comes out?”
“This is gonna kill me.”
“It’s the One. This is the ONE.”

Because that is something I learned from Marina Abramovic;
Always choose what scares you most.
Having an affair with Mister Big, was what scared me most. Writing erotica about it, was what scared me most.
Going public with it, was what scared me most.
These five diaries tell the story of our affair, which will most likely stay the thing that scared me most. Till the day I die.

Part 1: An Affair

Part 2: The Virgin Diaries (incl one erotic story)

Part 3: The Way of the Trickster

Part 4 and 5: The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai and More Erotica

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

UPDATED version Monday June 12, 2017 <3 LSH 

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

Part 4;

The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai


The Origin of Hsi Lai

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Showdown at the house of LS Harteveld

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

The Lonely Pentecost of LS Harteveld

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

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

 Part 5

More Erotica


The Saint, erotic story

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

The Quickie, erotic story

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


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


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

Elle and I

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

The Choice, erotic story

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

It is a rainy November night. He greets me in the hallway.
“Hello, Red Riding Hood.”
It sounds like a love poem.
“Hello Wolf.”
He takes my red woolen coat, and I snuggle my scarf and gloves over the heater.
“If you ever break up with me, I’ll only have black men,” I announce, looking for an alternative should the highly arousing Big leave me.
“You already did that. Before me.”
“I was still pretty versatile. How do the others do that? Don’t they miss you?”
“Like they would tell me!”
We go to the kitchen and he makes us hot coco with whipped cream. And I explore my favorite topic a little further.
“I was serious though. Even if it’s just one night. I’m sure they all want more.”
“Not really. I’m always very clear.”
“Sure. The next day. You fuck them and then you’re clear.”
“No, I always say it upfront. They have a choice.”
Big ensures me it’s common sense and serves his own interest. He learned early on that if you leave that open, there’s going to be trouble.
“Sometimes they didn’t want sex. That’s okay.”
I think back to our first make-out session. He wanted sex, but I was afraid because it was going so fast. He scared me both emotionally and physically. If he had warned me it meant nothing, he would have gotten nowhere with my tensed up body and anxious mind.
“I didn’t get your disclaimer,” I confront him.
“Now what does that tell you?”
He smiles contently, as if he won an argument. And maybe he did.
The past few weeks went by fast, and were marked by an uncanny number of intimacies. Big hung out on my couch with my cat Max, who he fist bumped because Max supposedly craved male companionship. He mastered Max’s wide eyed facial expression, and used it to get my hugs and kisses on demand. He supported me, cracking jokes when I had to call the GP’s office to get my STD results. And I finally conquered my shame, and asked him to play doctor with me. I would say “bringing in the big guns”, but that would probably be too graphic.

We’re on the couch with our coco.
“I masturbated a lot, after last time,” I say.
That happened often. My libido could dry up easily, both within a relationship or with regard to masturbation. But after seeing Big, it would flare back up. And sustain sometimes for a whole week.
“You fulfilled my deepest fantasy. Even though it was just the try-out.”
“A try-out? I did stuff I had to Google!”
“Well you know! We didn’t really role play. It was just the technical side.”
Big had thrown in sufficient doctor lines to turn me on, but it had been clear I was running the show. We had been at my place, and I had brought up some concerns with regard to sex. And Big had come with a tempting invitation.
“Maybe you should determine what we’re going to do.”
“Really? Well there is something. Not sure if you’re up for it.”
While taking out my minimalist but deliciously intimidating toy collection and displaying it on the nightstand – unpacking every item like Christmas had come early – I exuberantly jumped on a laid back Mr.Big.
“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this!” I exclaimed.
No wonder the high had lasted a week.
“What’s in the bag?” Big asks, nodding to the backpack I use for everything from grocery shopping to city trips. Just never on dates.
I smile widely, reliving last week’s excitement.
“I don’t want to miss out. Should the mood strike.”
“Looks like it already has. You always smile when we play.”
“I know! I’m so happy because you’re so dominant! That’s why dominants can be hired. No one hires a sub to have a good time.”
“We could make you the first,” Big suggests.
“I could pay you to abuse you.”
I’m so excited I almost shake my whipped cream out of my mug.

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

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

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

UPDATED version Monday June 12, 2017 <3 LSH 

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


Part 3; The Way of the Trickster

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

The Call

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

Mister Big

The first time Trickster presented himself I didn’t know he was Trickster. I called him Player and later settled for Mister Big. I knew he was bad news. But just like the real Mister Big from Sex and the City, I also knew he was My Biggie. This was the one. I could escape him and I probably should, but the further I would run, the deeper he would root into my heart.
From all my unpublished manuscripts five are about a youth love I had not seen in decades, so I was aware that repressing your true feelings, could lead to writing five books fifteen years later. I had no intention of repeating that.  I wanted this to be different.
Instead running away, I acknowledged I was terribly in love with Mister Big and okayed the affair. Hoping, expecting, he would leave his wife. But he didn’t and I became unhappy. Then I started hoping she’d find out. Only to realize that I had had that before.
Years before Mister Big.
This man had quickly gotten rid of me, before the ink on his new apartment lease was dry. He had kept me on and off for eighteen months but the moment his partner found out and kicked him out, my fate had been sealed.
Which was painful in itself already.
Half a year later I found out he had done that because my best friend wanted a relationship with him. They had both dumped me. Just that she had not bothered to tell me.
The memory was five years old but had lost none its sordid details. It was a scenario I did not want on repeat.
My fear of ending up with the short end of the stick yet again,  colored our negotiations.
“You’re a Major League player. I would be toast,” I complained.
And I compared him to a wolf.
But Mister Big seemed determined to win me over, in spite of my fears.

“You’re giving me way too much credit.”
“That’s exactly what a wolf would say.”
It was not going to happen.
But when I cycled home something stirred, underneath the fear. And I thought; Wait. Just. A. Bloody. Minute.
Eight years prior to Mister Big, I had ended a 14 year long relationship with a fantastic guy because I had longed for new men. After my aids phobia had wrecked my life, since early puberty, I was done hiding in relationships and ready to face my fears for single sex. To find a balance between staying safe, dating new men and favoring unprotected oral sex. And I did. I had.
And although the beating I took from being betrayed by my lover and my best friend, had definitely scarred me for life, it had also made me stronger.
A dozen relationships with men ranging from twenty to fifty, had shaped me into an entirely different woman. There was no reason to still buy into my own damsel in destress story. I had grown. I had been trained for this.
And Mister Big was not someone who was eager to destroy me, or to eat me alive. But an established player, who longed for a worthy opponent.
I sent Mister Big a Whatsapp message.
I’ve thought about tonight, and changed my mind.
Let’s play ball.

The Anti-Trickster

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


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

Install Safety Net

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

Meet the Girls and the Ghosts

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

Getting more Baskets

I just emailed Pierre, and there it is: my second basket. Pierre is a perfectly datable guy. If he would only buy into my promise that his sexuality is fluid, and that there is no reason for a gold-star gay (no female partners, I think) to not start a secret affair with me.
“All men want me Pierre, you know that. Even you want me. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“I would want you if I was straight.”
“Want me still.”
Pierre owns a cafe, reads my blogs, and he secretly Googles me if I don’t come around often enough. He always knows exactly what I’m up to. If I stay away too long, usually because I’m sick of his cat and mouse game of turning me on and then turning away, I get emails inviting me to come hang out again.
He’s witnessed me wanting to publish, then dropping out. He’s seen me climbing back into the saddle every January, and falling off again. But this time I had news.
“I’ve started writing the best self-help book in the history of mankind. And I’m giving it one shot to get a regular publisher. Do you know someone?”
And true to my lighthearted nature I explained with a carefree example of death. The Way of the Trickster is about seeing death as the match of a life-time. It’s not about mindlessly choosing to elongate your life, only to then end up mindfully observing all your emotions in your chemically ruined body. Down to the last desperate detail. It’s about seeing that field, seeing the most worthy opponent life could possibly give you, and snap your head left to right, stretching your neck. Walking restlessly up and down. Eyes on the enemy. Get your gear in place, maybe chew a piece of gum, or just spit on the grounds.
This is where it will take place. This is it. The match of a lifetime.
How often will you score?
Every project you finish, every lover you embrace, every purpose you find. Those are your points. Sure you can prolong your life, but if this requires a year in which you won’t even be standing up straight, is it worth it?
I didn’t write this last bit to Pierre. Just the catchy match of a lifetime bit. And how this book is going to be everything no self-help book has been able to provide. With a strong narrative and a sexually explosive conclusion.

Sex with Mister Big

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

A New Dawn

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

LS Harteveld

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

To Go Pro

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


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

Save my story

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

Red flag

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

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

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Enter the Dragon. Why I ALMOST pulled my most controversial book from being published


Basic Instinct 2 Risk Addiction

I considered leaving the URL at the original, just to show you how close I was;
 Why I’ve pulled my most controversial book from being published
The only reason I didn’t finish that blogpost was because I had to leave. It frustrated me. I was eager to finalize the decision as soon as possible. I would throw the manuscript Big, about my affair with a married man and everything I learned along the way, back into the virtual drawer from which it came, and get on with the other seven books of the Wait Worth 8. Those were all written years ago. Even the erotica I may have been embarrassed about at the time, didn’t trigger any emotions or shame anymore. I could easily read, explain and defend the first seven books I had written since leaving my long term relationship.

I had stepped out of my relationship, age 34, to build a successful life being single and to conquer my fears. Or to start dating men that excited me, despite of those fears. The seven books were also about Benjamin, who was a novel character in book one, and a muse in all the other belated “coming-of-age” diaries. The thought of dropping the final book freed up a lot of energy. Not only would I not have to deal with the feeling of danger and anxiety, attached to that last book. I had also cleared up my messaging. From something that was still secret, controversial and ambiguous, to two story lines that had been rounded up for years; me becoming single and the story of my muse Benjamin.

The only thing that bugged me, as I cycled to my appointment, was that I had not been able to finish the blogpost to put Big into a deep comatose sleep, from which I would wake it when the time was right. Big would be kissed awake after I knew how the story had ended, the situation was under control and the content had lost its ability to unexpectedly blow up in my face.

Until it started to dawn on me that something about the whole situation of me running away and saying no to anxiety, dismantling danger and planning away uncertainty, was terribly familiar.
I had been here before.
When Mister Big had shown interest in me, and I had refused in no uncertain terms that I would never get involved with him because he oozed danger. Not a violent sort of a danger. A manipulative, charming quality, that could cut through your defenses like butter, and leave your heart open and bare.
Until I realized that this was The One. The lover I could only have if I would conquer all my fears. He would be my ultimate test and prize at the same time. I would only be able to enjoy him, if I had control over the desire to be reassured, and over the urge to root out any danger.
There was no room for that.

Big did offer something else. And I think it’s important to explain what makes him, just like a lot of other “bad guys” so irresistible; he offered desire. He wanted me and he did not accept my rejection. It was clear from the start, that he would charm, wait and tease for as long as it would take for me to change my mind. He was such a powerful suitor compared to the majority of men who don’t have the confidence to carry themselves, and don’t have the talent to remain unmoved by a rejection. Even if I had not been on an eight year quest for an exciting lover, his desire for me, and his ability to stand the heat, would probably have won me over anyway. Even if I had wanted a committed guy in order to get married, something he would never offer, I would have changed my plans right then and there.
And I think a lot of women would be with me on that.
To be loved by a strong man, is one of the most empowering experiences in the world. And any woman already aware of her own power, and tired of downplaying herself, will be attracted to the alpha male like a Queen Bee to honey.

I’m not talking gold digging here. Gold diggers are women who are in it for the status and the financial gain. A Queen Bee is a strong woman who feels excited because a man can stand her strength. He is irresistible to her because he is her equal.
There is a Dutch journalist Heleen Mees, and she was pointed out to me, as someone who more than likely played at that level too. That the reason she dated a banker was not because she was interested in his money, although yes, money and power were his weapons of control. The reason the two excited each other was because she could defend herself, or attack him, with the pen and the media. It was literally the mating of dragons, that would only last for as long as they had a shared agenda. But she could destroy him, and he could destroy her. And I think it was this equality that made it such an exciting journey for both. I seriously doubt if she has stepped down her game. Maybe he did, because he was already more, let’s call it “drunk with power”, when they met. She was the newbie to play at that level. And although he won all legal battles, it has cost him and his family their privacy, and years of what could have been a peaceful family life. He overplayed his hand. My guess is he will never start something with a woman like that again. Whereas she? I can’t see her stepping down her game. She’s probably with the next banker already, who longs for a worthy opponent.

I realize that by bringing in Heleen Mees – and I could also refer you to Sharon Stone aka Catherine Tramell in Basic Instinct I and II – I’m not exactly playing the sympathy card here. And until a few days ago I would never have seen myself as a thrill seeker in any any way.  I view myself as someone with a weak nervous system, haunted by fears and insecurities. I praise myself for having harmonious relationships. I can’t remember ever fighting a battle with someone I love. I protect the marriage of my lover, and his secret that he’s seeing me, as if it was my own. And I would never involve his family into any disputes we would have.
So unlike Catherine Tramell, who kills you when she’s done with you, or Heleen Mees, who will ruin your life, my personality is absolutely different to theirs in the sense that I can’t see myself actually doing harm.
And here’s the but.
The thought that I have that power, and that he needs to behave and can’t afford to screw me over? Of course I need that. I’m not going to fall in love, and give my whole heart and emotional commitment without knowing that there is some kind of safety net here.
It’s not that I intend to have “revenge” if he dumps me. Not at all. Part of me even longs for that, because at least my life would be a whole lot easier, and I can finally have a breather. Sometimes I do feel all this secrecy is taking a toll I can’t afford for much longer.
So no fucking way I would make him “pay” when he breaks up.
But to have the weapons pen, blog, and book? That’s basic equipment when you’re dealing with dragons. Otherwise I know beforehand I’m gonna be toast.

And then there was something else. Although I can feel the burden of being a secret mistress, and I still don’t know if my nervous system really is up for the job, at the same time I don’t feel anything when I think of a man being devoted to me, and choosing monogamously for me and then expecting me to be thrilled about that. Under those circumstances I figuratively speaking, can’t get it up. I am now the mistress of a dragon, and yes I could marry a dragon, or have a one-on-one relationship with a dragon.
But the thought of the dragon being downsized to a harmless pet iguana, and then me being thrilled with my new pet? Not going to happen.

So over the years I’ve learned that although I’m not as aggressive as Catherine Tramell, or Heleen Mees, I do need that thrill of a real dragon. I simply don’t feel any excitement unless there is danger and secrecy attached to it.
I remember when I told Big that I liked the idea of him seeing other women, he said with disgust; “You mean, like we would have an open relationship or something?”
And I assured him I would never propose such an unsavory agreement. Because an open relationship lacks the secrecy, the excitement of the forbidden. The risk that neither one of us can ever be certain that I will be okay with Big cheating. That I will really love it as much as I think I do. I saw a photo on Twitter the other day with a woman smelling a man’s naked crotch, and the text;
“The thought of you coming home smelling of another woman is so fucking hot.”
And my knees got weak just thinking about how good that would feel. Not because we would have an open relationship, and Big would tell me all about his affairs. But because Big would tell me just what I wanted to hear to get me excited. He would know exactly how to work that cheating character trait of his, which I think is intrinsically him. Not the result of his wife not being the right one or anything like that. It would spice up our sex life and keep me interested for a lifetime.
So as much as I can feel the strain of danger, secrecy and uncertainty, I know I need it. The danger of the dragon excites me and there is just no way a pet iguana is ever going to do it for me.

The whole process  took me two years. From me running away from Big, to expecting and hoping he would leave his wife, to me fully embracing my role as a mistress and protecting the current status quo like a hawk.
And it’s all on paper in a book called Big. I’ve already published
part 1 The Affair, erotica 
part 2 The Virgin Diaries

part 3 Trickster is currently under review. It’s the only part I wrote offline, and has never been edited as seriously as I do when I post a blogpost. So it needs a terrible amount of work. Good news is the whole painstaking experience will ensure I won’t be writing offline ever again, because it is driving me bonkers to go over such a large piece over and over again.
part 4 and 5 are The 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai and the final part of my erotica.
And then the book is finished.

As part of my daily journaling routine I made a list of goals I wanted to accomplish, and reasons why I would not achieve those goals. Which negative beliefs did I have about achieving them, that could lead to me to sabotage myself?

The goal “Publish my eight books” came up with a daunting list of bad things that would happen, including getting stalked, losing Big and getting killed. This shocked me and I made an attempt to pinpoint where these existential fears came from. I analyzed they were all linked to the eighth book. They were all related to Big. All the other books were such a long time ago. I couldn’t even be bothered if people responded overly critical or took it out on me personally.
But book eight was a different story. Book eight was alive. Book eight was an untamed dragon whose character I didn’t know yet, but who would set fire to my life the moment someone stepped on its tail, or rubbed his scales the wrong way. Bringing this dragon into the public eye, meant both spectators as well as the dragon could get hurt, or could be killed. In every and all ways, it would be a stressful experience for me. Something I wouldn’t be able to cope with.

So that’s when I made the decision to pull book eight back from publishing. In a few years it would be just as harmless as book 1-7. It would be declawed, and would listen to my command. People would be able to admire its beauty without coming in armed and eager to fight me. Or us. I was absolutely certain I had made the right choice to pull Big from being published. Pity I didn’t have time to finish the blogpost announcing its retreat.

Until two things suddenly dawned on me. First thing was I was making a decision based on fear. Fear is a questionable adviser under all circumstances but especially in this particular case. I had ran away from being single until I was 34, because it scared me. I had ran away from Big because he scared me. And those two fears had been the primary indicator I was onto something huge. Something fundamental for my personal growth. That even if I would become successful in every other way, I would always know I had missed my true calling by running away from those two things that scared me. I could feel the first signs of an anxiety attack just thinking about having sex as a single. Or just thinking about having sex with someone as Big. I never thought I would have the nerve to do it.
And yet I knew it was especially because of that, that I had to do it! These fears were like dragons; mighty and potentially lethal beasts. But also rare and the strongest allies you could wish for. I wanted to make my peace with them. If I would learn to trust and befriend my fears, I would be able to fly. I was certain of it. Nothing would compare to that feeling of invincibility.  Especially not staying safely on the ground.

And that’s when I recognized him. That’s when I saw book eight Big, was my third dragon. And his lethal power wasn’t hiv, the thing that had scared me most about being single. It wasn’t a broken heart and an emotional melt down, which was the risk I ran with Big every day. The third dragon itself was not even the real danger, since I was now an experienced dragon rider. I knew how to handle him, even though I was still excited by the novelty of it.
The risk of the third dragon was the response others would have to him. And to me, keeping me responsible for creating him or for bringing him in.
I could be slayed by public opinion for choosing the side of the dragon and I could be expelled by Mister Big because he didn’t want such dangerous animal near himself and his family. I didn’t fear the book itself. My fears were based on what other people would think of me. For having the heart to publish a book about an affair that is still a breathing living thing, with people, and emotions, and whole families involved.

World famous performance artist Marina Abramovic once said;
“Always choose the project that scares you most.”
And boy, was she right!
From an artistic point of view, book 8 is THE ONE! And if I had to choose, I would have to drop book 1-7 because I have no emotional attachment to them anymore. They’re more relics of a lost era, than art. They were art then. When I wasn’t ready to bring them to the public eye because they still hurt, and they still had risks and embarrassing emotions tied to them.

With me pulling book eight back, almost forcefully as if I literally couldn’t wait to get rid of it, it became clear that this book was the artist’s choice. This was the one Marina would favor immediately. Marina, as a performance artist, understood much more than the average writer that something was not art unless it scared the fuck out of you.

Big, erotica and diaries, book eight of the Wait Worth eight, still scares the fuck out of me. It could bite me in the ass so hard, it would really hurt or damage me for life. But I m choosing it with all my heart. And in doing so it will be published, with the rest of them.
No more hiding. No more apologies. No more self-sabotage.
And enter the dragon.


Read what’s ready over here;
Big part 1 The Affair, erotica 
Big part 2 The Virgin Diaries 

I ll publish part 3,4, and 5 soon. Subscribe to my private list, if you re interested in buying my books at a discount as soon as they’re done. I m also starting a Wait Worth 8 reading course, where we all read the books together – for free if you like – and I provide extra background stories, make videos and just generally spice the whole experience up for you.
The Wait Worth 8 reading marathon (better title definitely required) will also be hosted through the private list.


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

UPDATED version Monday June 12, 2017 <3 LSH 

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.


Part 2

The Virgin Diaries

100 Days of dating myself.


day 1 Lawyer

The dating profile of a forty-seven 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. The deceivingly casual tone of his online profile revealed an intimate insight into his psyche that I only knew from one other person. Me.
This was a heavyweight psychological dating site. Everyone had gone through extensive testing, and all profiles were manually checked. Every line you altered ditto. And profiles were only visible to those who matched your internal make-up.
The 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, but suave.
He was playing nice so you would understand he did not reply, or wasn’t able to make it. That he did not call after sex. That you wouldn’t take it personal that he wasn’t able to cope with anything that bore the characteristics of a relationship. It wasn’t you, it was him.
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:
“I still haven’t nailed this one!”
They didn’t say they would never want to suffer “unless it would make them understand themselves better”. They did not wish that they could stop projecting themselves onto others. They had professions like: Controller. Entrepreneur. Empty. Disabled. They 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. I was not going to pay three hundred fifty euro to be repulsed.
Because that turned out to be the amount I would have to pay. Give or take. It depended if you paid per month or for the whole year.
Three hundred fifty euro was an awful lot of money to connect with my 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 be my own Plan B. Grow my own backbone, and be my own best friend, and lover.
And dating myself was completely free.

day 2 The Sex Guru

It all started with a new and free ebook from sex guru Layla Martin, Epic Sex, on how to deepen your sexual connection in six arousing ways. I was struck by the four pages written especially for the male partner. They explained that a woman will get emotional during good sex and how to embrace that.
I realized that if it required four pages to talk him into this, then no man was going to give me that unless he was The One. I would never experience those six ways of groundbreaking sex and intimacy unless I would find Him. And that’s when I remembered I still had this other course from Layla Martin to help me achieve that. A free video training on how to attract your dream partner.
I had started this training 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 go. I needed a dream partner after all.
I had always known exactly what I wanted. Yet every date, boyfriend or 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. Where “be with each other” would roughly translate as to screw the living daylights out of each other. After a few months you would know what to do. 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 if we didn’t have a re-la-tion-ship.
Two were holding out because they still had a partner. Three were hand-picked for sexual strength yet we had no match in other areas. The rest of them were bedded for other reasons, such as companionship or curiosity.
Eight years later I’m back full circle. I still want 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. He isn’t going 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.
Even if you make that promise, take the vow to be there for him till the end of time, it will still take four pages and a super hot sex therapist before he will even consider real intimacy.
No wonder my lovers pretended they didn’t understand what I was asking for.

day 3 Mister Right

I made a list of Mr.Right’s must-have qualities 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. 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 wouldn’t even attend my own. Commitment and honesty are a part of me like 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 mattered to me personally, and not what mattered to someone else, I got to work.

My non-negotiable list for Mister Right
1. The sexual attraction 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 workout 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. But 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.
My imaginary 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, 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 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

Online dating is a powerful tool. 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, and for being in a game. 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 eighty percent of your connection with your real social life. Which meant it would reduce my Mr.Big addiction to twenty percent of its original strength.
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. But the lawyer made me see I didn’t truly desire him, nor any man from that site. My deepest desire wasn’t even to have Mr. Big. It was a lot more bold. I wanted to be him.
I reread my list of non-negotiable qualities of a Mister Right. They were all traits I desired for myself. 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. It was an opportunity to tackle every problem that had been bothering me for the last decade.
I only had one problem.
The minute I had refrained from signing up for that dating site, I had freed up the hours of time. Up to five hours a day. So I knew I had the time.
But contrary to browsing profiles and dating, personal transformation was a pretty meaty task. You never heard of anyone being addicted to being alone improving themselves.
Which meant that in order to become my own Mister Big, I had to make it addictive.

day 5 Trickster

An addictive brain is one of the most powerful human assets, if not the most powerful. It is dangerous, toxic, and it will backfire on your mental health, physical health and 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 rewrite, refine, post, refine again, throughout the rest of the day. The next morning, I 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 four to five hours, there is no time left to become more successful at 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 kept me from signing up with Parship, saving me three hundred fifty euro 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, 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. The complete list of consistent habits to be implemented, new skills to be learned, failed plans to be fixed, and life-long frustrations to be dealt with, was  extensive and intimidating. 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 hundred day challenge I failed within a day, all seems to be stocked in the front, tumbling out immediately. When it comes to reminding me of failure 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 workout routine
3. to keep house and body in check
The 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 non-existent.
The first one was the hardest: financial success. In a few years the number of active yoga teachers had more than doubled, prices had marginalized and the new colleagues (and some of the older ones) had finally found their way to online advertising. 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 user-friendly 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 track. Opened an open study group for colleagues and other yoga devotees, ordered a door sign, rewrote the 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 creating something authentic and then not properly putting it out there in the world.
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 twenty-five hours of study.
On workdays my writing addiction would be pacified with a yoga blog. The weekends were to completely indulge in this blog The Virgin Diaries. At least that was the plan. The non-functioning, failing part of my plan. Because the urge to write recreationally 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 workout. 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.
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 hundred 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.
The weekends would have to be cleared of writing after all. And of work. It would be this mini-detox where I would 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 blood-free week in her entire cycle.
“Baby Bee” as Big always lovingly called me, was not doing well.
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. 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 giving me as little as possible.
I envied it.
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 had a secret mistress.
“Of course not,” he said.
“Although your writing makes me wish I could tell someone. It’s like I won a gold medal for sex.”
“I read you got a new job.” I texted.
“You’re into finance now?” he replied with a smiley.
“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 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. I’ve always considered myself a fearful patient. Or fearful anything, basically. From yoga teacher, to cat mother, to mistress. But it is only at 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 good reason to be scared about.
Ten years ago, I selected my dentist 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. It says she is good with fearful patients. 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 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 stick pushed to my teeth to inspect if my nerves are either dying or still in order.
One tooth at a time.
It was a diagnostic tool which, as I suddenly remembered after today’s incidents with the substitute dentist, my dentist had offered 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 dentist 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 fucking up this injection.
“You’ll probably become one of those patients who exist only on paper,” she said.
And then sent me out to do some shopping. She knew I liked to give it thirty minutes to settle in, so it would be at maximum strength.
The substitute dentist put me in a chair that 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 affirmed 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.
“I had a double apex there and a root canal. It hurts if you tap it. Don’t tap it.”
He pretended to laugh and went to work on the other side of my mouth. Other as in one hundred eighty degrees opposite to 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 on. 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 hearing him out, I heard the remarks:
“I think we should proceed.”
“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. He hammered on about the poor condition of the bottom tooth. 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.
“You’re not filling anything,” I said.
“And where is the photo of the root?”
“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 tried to torture me over fourteen 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, 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, 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 single memory connected to it.
The expert then predicted that this moment we had in mind, would be shared with others, that we would have accomplished something and a third thing that I forgot. But that didn’t seem to do ring a bell either.
My moments of happiness are when I’m alone, when my floor is vacuumed, my bathroom clean, when I have the entire weekend 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 also 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, had 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. 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 go off track. And those adjectives were of course subjective. Maybe they were lousy cooks and discharged therapists. That was probably what I feared most. 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 as physical exercises.
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 time to self-practice.
Self-study and self-pleasure were 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, you could not claim having a backbone and dating a married man at the same time.
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 or unworthy in general, just when 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. Those were the times I wanted a single man. But only a single Big.
I had always 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 estimated how much was in it for him. If it was worth the 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 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 in the first place.
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 twenty 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 p.m. A blueish mist crept over the golf course.
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.
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 take 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 at the country estate with the mansion like hotel. Although he had heard it was heaven for the rich and famous. And unaffordable for the rest.
It had not been easy 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 it didn’t matter.
“So you’re on a break?” the professor asked.
“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.
The professor 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 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. That you’re both good to go. 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 fifty-something, who decisively managed the chaotic bunch of us. We went for drinks a year later, I can’t really remember the occasion. And he became the only friend with whom I had politically, and historically, charged conversations. I always thought I could keep our dates contained to three hours. But we needed five. 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.
“After all when they asked the people who should be crucified, they chose Jesus, ” I said.
And the Archaeologist answered:
“But the people were deceived.”
“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. At ten-children-per-household the population had grown 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.
I suggested immigrants should 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.
“Maybe they can rebuild the antiquities that IS destroyed. Like an archaeological Disney Land that everybody can come visit.”
And who knew. Maybe in five hundred years, on a chilly Saturday morning, a rangy archaeologist would put a messy bunch of volunteers to work to dig it all up again. 

A Virgin Start, erotic story

I was two weeks into my blogging and life challenge, The Virgin Diaries, 100 days of dating myself. Aside from a consistent feed of one post a day, I had accomplished astonishingly little of what I had planned. Daily yoga, minimize social media and email, writing daily yet without binging. It was non-existent, still abundant and 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.
This would be our first date with the new me. In full appreciation of what we had. I would never mention the W word and the D word again. Maybe my new attitude, you may even call it a virgin attitude, explained why our love making was exceptionally passionate.
First we went on a proper date.
He was looking sharp as ever. His full head of hair, black and slightly longer than usual.
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. 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 is that I am curious 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.
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.”
“Oh my God, that’s solid gold you’re sitting on.”

So maybe it was because we had shared that mental intimacy. Or 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 dvd.
I always shiver at the thought of 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. 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 on the bed, still clothed just the shoes off, and he placed the dvd in 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 nodded in the direction a small light room. It had been 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 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 the sex 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 on screen and a real life Big next to me. 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 have always loved that. It reminds me of teenage sex. One of the things I 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. Maybe that was why I had been uncertain he had meant it. Similarly, he had been unsure about me complimenting him. He thought his penis was okay, but he had never attributed any 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 your blow jobs are magic.”
We decided this was ridiculous and that it was safe to assume a compliment was genuine.
Big was always clumsy undressing me. He couldn’t find how to unbuckle my belt, my watch would get stuck in the sleeve, 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 clumsily 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 long ago. His body and mine responded, the skin-to-skin magic that had often surprised me. There had been few men with whom I had this chemistry. He rubbed my clitoris, finding exactly that ridge that I use when I masturbate. Since I was five. I have never bothered with clitoral orgasms when I was with a man. No one could beat me at my own game. 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. Lifting my pussy up, from the 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. 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 six weeks without him. Or who knew how long. And I could feel the tears coming.
“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. I had asked him about it, and it turned out Big knew when he was giving pleasure, 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, with my knees in the mattrass on either side of his body. 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 a second finger in.
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 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 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, lifted off of him, and snuggled up on his chest, receiving his embrace. I still couldn’t believe he had actually climaxed the exact moment I had.
“Now I am even more impressed how well you control your orgasm.”
There was a hesitant silence and then he spoke in a clear voice.
“Thank you.”

day 30 Catch 22

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.
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. The blog is 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.”
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 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 as well as anything else he had going on the side. It was vague enough to include a whole harem.
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.
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.
The first part of the paradox had been that if I wanted a normal relationship, I needed to stop writing about it. The second part was that the type of men I fancied, were far from normal and I would need my writing. To keep myself sane, and cope with all my emotions.
Besides, 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.
Between sure signs Big would choose for me, and then tending to my wounded ego when Big retreated, Ivy warned me that my cuts were getting deeper every time. She was heavily in favor of Mister X.  Although she probably favored the whole alphabet over Mister Big.

I joined Ivy to some hotshot gathering. A festive thing. By the time I got there the official program was over, everybody was in some state of being drunk, and food was scarce. Ivy said it was always like this.
“The other meetings are fine. But this is an annual fuck up.”
She couldn’t understand which caterer was put in charge.
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.
“I guess he was never here for his clients in the first place,” she 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 she pointed 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.
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 enthusiastic about dating multiple men. But I agreed with Ivy to first collect, then select.
Mister Big was stalling his divorce hoping that he could block it till the youngest was eighteen. At least, that’s what I suspected the plan was. And Mister X was a player too. I expected them both to be strong enough to handle competition. By dating two men there was something in it for both. I was meeting Mr. X’s 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. It smelled like old men’s sweat and deep fried food. 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. He had a disarming straightforwardness that I had never seen before. I realized how reserved he had been.
We went to his penthouse. We had to walk for half an hour because he was no longer able to cycle responsibly. I enjoyed the one on one time, especially in his new compliant mental state. As if he had been shooting up on truth serum.
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 we snuggled 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 halfway.”
With our gaze connected – in my recollection 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.
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. Despite 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.”
“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 apparently had 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 or what he had felt. 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 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, The Way of the Trickster 

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