Reboot. Episode 2 The Return of Benjamin

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It was the most epic meet cute since Atomic Blonde’s;
“Don’t shoot I’ve got your shoe.”
where the male spy holds up Charlize Theron’s red killer heel.
And maybe I did look like Charlize Theron’s late eighties MI6 agent with impeccable sense of style. I am blonde and I was wearing a long white coat when I arrived at the station way after midnight. But I wasn’t thinking about national security or the price of a new pair of Jimmy Choo’s. I was pretty beat. It had been months since I had been out of town this late, and my stamina for traveling had suffered from three years of non-stop cat sitting, cat mothering, and definitely-have-to-be-home-to-sleep no brainers.
Summer 2014 both my cats got ill. The big one, Willem, kept me bound to home at four hour intervals, until he passed away a year later.
And eighteen months ago the remaining little cat Max got sick. I ve been able to stabilize him, thank God, but whenever I leave the house for longer than let’s say six hours, he vomits or get’s diarrhea. Or if he doesn’t do those things, he refuses to eat for at least half a day.
And the little fellow wakes me up at night, before he has to throw up. He just pokes me and meows, and then I have no idea what’s going on until he starts gagging, and I get the towel to protect the bed covers. It’s like he woke me saying:
“Mommy I don’t feel good.”
That’s heartbreaking.
You don’t leave that alone.
So no, I haven’t had training in traveling for years. And every time I do go away it seems harder to stay grounded and calm and to find my way in foreign cities, where ever changing roadblocks seem to make it impossible to use a rental bike.
I took the bus this time.
But still, it had been a long night. And I longed for nothing more than to get home.
On the train I had made a quick note in my notebook slash diary-to-go. My mother calls it the dairy that anyone is allowed to find. Because it’s the one I take outside the house, and it only has everybody’s name there in code. If I lose it, no one gets their secrets out. Least of all me.
So in this diary I made a note. And although it was meaningful, I wasn’t even sure if I was going to use it for anything.
“Saw Benjamin. And MISSED HIM!”
How is that a story? Which one of my blogs, could possibly benefit from that crappy bit of information? First of all, most people didn’t even know who Benjamin was, despite me having published my collected works as “The Book of Benjamin”. It contains three Dutch books as well, so I chose a Dutch title. But it was the book of Benjamin for a reason; because he was the only consistent character in my entire work.
And although at a private level I had more or less made my peace with Benjamin not being a part of my life, I knew that for literary purposes, I had to go full in and name my collected works after its most desired object of affection; Benjamin.
To say that I was okay with him not being in my life, meant that I had accepted that I had to wait. Because I knew, KNEW, without any doubt, a hundred percent fucking sure as certain as fuck and my apologies for the swearing but this is an area where I can’t allow for any ambiguity;
I KNEW Benjamin would come to me.
I could feel it in my bones.
Him and me were not going to die not having seen each other since the nineties. And I knew it had to come from him taking the initiative. I couldn’t be me, because he had refused to see me in 2014 so he was the one in charge of timing. He had written me an email, supposedly to finalize things, but I had picked up a different message.
Energetically, the message didn’t say; “No.”
It said; “Not now.”
And much of the challenge, or life changing project that I m embarking on under the name of “Reboot” (from love goddess to warrior woman) has to do with this realization that one day I will see Benjamin. During my affair with Mister Big my body has grown to Goddess size, as I felt that the only thing that was required of me – and in fact the only thing I longed for – was to surrender to him completely.
I had surrendered to his terms when I knew I would be a secret mistress. And I had surrendered for pleasure whenever we had sex. No wonder that after three years I had lost all definition.
But that was not the way I was going to face Benjamin.
He had known me when I was fifteen kilos lighter, all muscle, and although my attitude had been feisty and assertive, on the inside I had been eaten away by fears. The same fears that had prohibited me from giving into him. The same fears even that 25 years later had almost kept me from getting involved with Big. Almost. Because I caught that in time, and did the inner work nessecary in order to follow my heart.
So I had not just grown on the outside, being all curvy, but I had become a more emotionally resilient woman along the way. I was bigger and sturdier in all areas. Now I wanted to keep the mental benefits, and get my old body back.
Which was proving to be quite dramatic.
The week before my meet cute with Benjamin, I had been an emotional wreck. Crying a lot. Sleeping a lot. Old insecurities had come back to haunt me, multiplied, and I had felt further than ever from being a warrior woman. Now I was not just physically soft but mentally unstable as well. I even had my first fight with Mister Big in over two years, as if my desire for a strongly defined body, immediately back lashed into a power struggle. Something that I hated, especially now that I was at my lowest.
I knew that whenever you want a change in your life, and the bigger this change the stronger this will be true, everything will change. And all relationships, from business arrangements to love affairs, will change with it. Change is an incredibly messy and unpredictable process, which is why you only get what you were set out to do, if you go all in. As soon as you go half in, you will stop at the first signs of resistance. You need to want to have that thing, more than you have anything else in your life. And with everything that comes up, and every sacrifice that you unexpectedly have to make, you have to ask yourself:
“What do I want more? This or “the thing”?”
Because there is no way around it. You can be sure that all the hiccups are a sign that this is an area in your life, that is affected by your desire for change. You can’t keep that the same, and expect to keep making progress.
And the most ironic thing of all, is that the bigger the mess you’re in, the more certain you can be that you’re on the right track. That change is happening, and that your dream is manifesting.
It’s just that having a crappy week and feeling shit about your relationship, feels more like a dead end street than a high way to looking fabulous. But I knew there was no other way. For now all I could do was sit with it.
But I wasn’t in the best of spirits.
In fact, on my way there – I was going to a concert – I even gave myself permission to leave within half an hour. I would go in, say hi to all the people that expected to see me there, and who I would love to see and talk to don’t get me wrong! But after 25 minutes I would excuse myself, say I was feeling sick (which was true, I did got sick on the train ride) and leave.
I called it “doing an Obama” after Barack Obama visiting the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam in a ravishing twenty minutes. I would do an Obama; smile, make entertaining conversation, and give my full attention and appreciation.
And then leave.
But that was before I saw him. Because a few hours after delivering my debut novel Mango, and the Book of Benjamin, to a local retailer, I had the biggest deja vu in the history of deja vus.
I saw Benjamin.
Not the real Benjamin, a forty-ish business man in a suite, with brown skin, a short black hair cut, and dashing Western facial features that would stun even the most spoiled model scout.
I saw a character that was even more familiar because I had personally breathed life into him! I saw Benjamin the way he had looked in 1991. With a jeans jacket, a T shirt, and long strong hair, in a low bun in his neck. His bun was nothing like the contemporary hipster hairdo.
This was a messy carefree bun that I had seen in my life only once, but that I had relived a thousand words and several chapters over; It was the exact same bun Benjamin had in my book.
He was there, my real life protagonist, at the concert. Exactly the way I described in my book.
I had never met real Benjamin at a concert but this one was. I was reliving my own book! I had manifested this man, being at this concert, I was sure of it.
But this was the concert I had intended to do my “25 minutes of Obama”, and then leave. Besides I had already written a whole book (Dutch American Diary) about me meeting a Benjamin lookalike. And then another one, LS Diary, where the lookalike was called Rafael.
I was done reliving my own history and making a fool of myself.
Or so I thought.
Because after an hour, I was still there. The group of friends I was able to hook up with, was much more fun and diverse than I had expected, and I was having a wonderful time. Next to that, the concert was about twice as good as anticipated. I had lost all desire to do “an Obama”. And there was something else.. The nagging feeling that me ignoring this Benjamin, at this concert, on the first day my books hit the stores, was a painful and stupid mistake and something I was going to regret for the rest of my life. But I had not seen “Benjamin” since the start of the concert. And I wouldn’t be able to find him before the concert had ended.
So I stayed.
After the concert, I said my goodbyes to several groups of people, and as I walked around trying to locate where everyone was, I expected to automatically see Benjamin as well. But he wasn’t there. I looked harder, inspecting not just the concert hall but also the bar and the smoking area, but nothing. He wasn’t there. My hesitant reaction in the first hour of me being there, which was about the time it took before I realized I wasn’t just staying for the music and my friends, that hour was now costing me. I had lost the time window God had given me, and now the ghost had vanished.
I left for my bus.
I half expected him to appear from the dark, running for the bus, but he didn’t. And then I let it go. I continued my journey. Bus. Train.
“Saw Benjamin. And MISSED HIM!”
That line, in my dispensable diary, would be all that would remain. And I would probably not even use it, not for any of my blogs. It was a crappy story line, finishing a crappy week, and for the time being that was just the way things were. I wasn’t Mister Big’s Love Goddess anymore, but I wasn’t a warrior woman either. And I didn’t feel Benjamin worthy anyway. Maybe it was a good thing this was how it had ended.
An hour later I left my train. It wasn’t particularly cold but I felt chilly none the less. I headed for my bike, and I wouldn’t have noticed him if had not been for someone who shouted out a name, and I unintentionally looked up to see who was greeting a friend, at this eerie square and ungodly hour of the day. The friend was a rangy brown man. He was ageless. He could be twenty or forty, you would have believed either. He raised his hand, said hi, and walked on.
It was Benjamin.
This time I did not hesitate, and I called him by his real name, that I had just learned.
A few wee minutes later we were smiling at each other, and I touched his hair.
“This is almost like a spiritual experience,” I said, after I had explained why I was so intrigued by him.
He accepted my business card, and he gave me hug before he left.
And I realized that whatever pain or discomfort I would have to go through, Reboot, my path from Love Goddess to Warrior Woman, also came with some surprises.
Nice ones.

An Unexamined Life is not worth living

My Dutch novel Mango, about the other meet cute with real Benjamin (1991), is book of the month and temporarily available online for free

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Confessions of a Yoga Teacher – The Compersionist

The Compersionist

by LS Harteveld

Since a year I know what I am.
Where “what” stands for a more or less self-invented word, although others are using it, or have used it, as well. But it’s not a word you can feed to your spell checker without getting it back underlined in red.
I like the idea of my lover Big with another woman or other women (plural). I can count on one to be there, exactly in that spot where I like those women most: Out of sight, never or rarely discussed or talked about. Yet mysteriously hovering just outside the boundaries of my life with him. That woman? Is his wife.
I have absolutely no reason to assume he doesn’t have sex with her. Least of all that he wouldn’t find her attractive. But I can’t be certain of the sex. I just know that if he uses only half the skills on her, as he does on me – to make her feel special and like she’s the only and most attractive woman on earth – and if she’s only half as fond of his husky whiskey voice, his suave manners and irresistible melancholy, it would be impossible according to every law of nature, man and the heavens above, that they wouldn’t have sex.
I used to believe I was waiting for him to divorce, and be the chosen one. I used to believe this was all temporary. But as soon as I let go of that idea – and God placed some useful pointers on my path as God always does – I saw I was actually benefiting from that ethereal presence, in the form of his lawfully wedded wife that was omnipresent, yet hardly ever spoken of.
That I could think about her without feeling anger, or disappointment, and even with mild curiosity. Mild curiosity, that rapidly grew into brazen fascination if I thought of him and her making love.
And I didn’t stop there.
I thought of all the others whose name I d heard, or whose existence had been hinted at by him. And the women I had seen with my own eyes, who had responded with laughs and openness and a whole body that screamed DEFINITELY WOULD, in response to whatever it was he had said to make them laugh.
And again, I was fascinated.
I m heavily invested in my own personal development (my tagline is “An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living”), so I dug deeper and I ve been able to trace this habit to be fascinated by a cheating lover- rather than scared or repulsed- back to when I was as young as sixteen.
And if I m really bold I can honestly say that my strongest feelings have been reserved for men who I thought, or knew, were not faithful. Or the feelings were invoked in a phase where I suspected it. Sometimes to be disappointed by his fidelity later. But the bottom line has been that a man needs to be a player to draw out my most deeply rooted devotion and my undying fascinations for All Things Him.
Which is why another name suddenly surfaced. Someone who I had been in love with online, and who broke my heart before we even met. He did something to ensure I would know he was with someone else. And even with whom. I was hurt, and furious. I felt insulted and played with. Like someone had deliberately led me on, won me over, and now felt free to destroy my castle of emotions with the same determination he had recently displayed to win my heart.
He blew it.
I took the bait and have no doubt I responded in the exact way he wanted me to. Or did I?
With my recent interest in compersionism in general, and my own feelings and sexual orientation in particular, I reviewed the incident that happened a long time ago. It was one of those memories that seemed to have foot long thorns to it, and I had always kept my distance.
But in the light of my compersionism I needed to know; had my reaction been authentic?
Or had I responded from the same, conditioned blind anger people seemed to have collectively adapted ever since Christianity invented monogamy?
Had my response been compersionist worthy?
For reasons of privacy I can’t share exactly what happened but trust me: he deliberately leaked his rendez vous when he was still with her. It was not something he did afterwards. At best she was in the bathroom but he was with her. Thinking of me, the woman he had not met yet but who would be stopped if he got the information of his whereabouts and whatupabouts, out.
Maybe he was thinking of other distant admirers like me. Or exes who still felt warmly for him. We would ALL be stunned and brought to a halt.
Maybe he was thinking about his friends who would be impressed with his conquest, consolidating his place in the male hierarchy. But whatever it was, he was not one hundred percent present, with the woman he was with. And he was not investing in any of us, to make us feel loved, like we were the only one and the most gorgeous woman on earth. He was deliberately setting us up against each other, so that we would all be aware of each other’s presence. So that we would all know that none of us was, nor would ever be, the only one.
And that?
Is something you cannot get away with, without immediately seeing it underlined in red. With absolutely zero suggestions for an alternatively.
Not even, or maybe especially not;
“Did you mean compersionist?”

<3 LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

My diaries and erotica, including the seductive “Big” with two years worth of compersionism done right, are available at Lulu .

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new online diary; Reboot. Episode 1 Atomic blonde



I always thought it would be Benjamin.
That on a chilly Saturday morning in August, that felt more like autumn than the heart of summer, he would wake up twice. First from his dream. And then from a two decade old haze of working too hard and another weekend of work ahead of him. Instead of taking time off, like he had promised himself.
He would suddenly feel every aspect in which his professional life was taking its toll.
Maybe it was because I was creative, followed my passion, and had my dream business. And he was a businessman. Maybe that’s why I thought he would be the one with the sudden change of heart that he had been all wrong and was going to do things differently. But whatever it was, I had not seen it coming.
How could I have?
For the past eight years I had been occupied with publishing my books. Or by not publishing them. Every finished manuscript seemed to be doomed to get stuck in some phase of editing or making it to paper.
I wrote. I published. I failed. For eight damn years.
Until summer 2017 it was done and I woke up with ten books published, two stone heavier, a non-existent yoga practice – other than teaching my classes – and from a night that had been disturbed by a racing heart beat, anxiety attacks or whatever they call it when you re peacefully falling asleep and then your heart starts racing.  God knows what my blood pressure is.
I ve always said getting those books out was my priority and that I would do so in this lifetime. But now that it is done, I want my old body back.
It’s not that I don’t like my figure. I do. If I watch my yoga videos and notice my pot belly and perky butt, I love the way it looks and feels. Every time I talk about my weight, I automatically start caressing my curves, fondly looking at myself. Like I’m a little sex Goddess, equipped to take a pounding.
So the main reason is not vanity.
It’s control.
Just like not finishing my books made me feel lousy, not having a say over the entire midsection of my body, is tearing down my self-esteem. So far I ve been holding up, but only because I rationalized the weight. I was putting first things first and prioritized my books. But now that those are done, I’m making my weight a priority.
Instead of looking like the Goddess of Love who lies in bed all day eating grapes and inviting her lover in every hole her luscious body has to offer, I want to look powerful, and lean.  Like an amazon warrior. Independent and strong. And move my career forward.
Too bad work only seems to come in the form of an addiction.

Hotel Credible
6.15 p.m.

I had a good first day but only because I severely culled my way too ambitious list of resulutions to the bear minimum and boldly created public accountability. But let me start at the beginning of why I m a work addict and why I decided my life needs a reboot. Because those extra fourteen kilos are the least of my worries. If I don’t change my ways I can see myself dying of a heart attack within a year.
When publishing and editing my diaries, I could see how my work addiction came into being. Where it was sparked, when it grew, and when it started taking over my life. Because the diaries had not just documented my own life; they gave the entire bio of my work addiction.
It was conceived by two forces; the egg of creativity and the semen of the internet.
At first the egg of creativity lay dormant since all my writing was offline. But in 2010 I created my own blog and joined Twitter and Facebook. That’s when Creativity and Internet conceived their child; a rapidly developing work addiction.
By the time I was on my fourth book, an online diary called LS Diary, the work addiction – then still in its adolescent form of merely writing – had become a demanding entity. Any untold story would cause so much anxiety, that the quickest and only way to deal with it was to sit down and get it out. Even if that meant getting behind my desk after class and work past midnight.
But when it matured, the addiction doubled itself in size and colonized on my yoga business. I didn’t have a minute’s rest if I knew my website had to be changed. Which was often. I could blast the whole weekend away redesigning my website to meet my latest marketing strategy.
Just like drinking or drugs, binge working started out as a recreational thing. It didn’t happen every weekend, or even every month. But now I can honestly say I haven’t had a quiet week in a year. A year! August 2016 till now; all work, little play, and zero of doing nothing and watching the clouds go by.
No wonder my heart races at night, the moment I start falling asleep. It has forgotten what rest even is.
So I broke down my goal to more fun, less work, more body, less mind.
Firstly I want to work less on my websites, publishing, writing or posting blogs. Last week was already crazy and then to top it off I redid an entire book for a completely new self-publisher, on Friday at six. A pre-weekend work outburst, just in case my books wouldn’t meet distribution requirements from my already-being-difficult publisher. He seemed to be torturing me with non-functioning discount codes, minimum of ten days delivery time and charging more on postage than the whole order combined. As if we were having a dysfunctional relationship, and I needed to figure out my options, before I could log off for the weekend. Needless to say I worked the entire weekend as well. I created a new group program and a membership site for my yoga.
My second goal is to have a daily yoga practice. It was sparked by a Facebook update from this cute guy, a senior consultant who has as little to do with man buns, green smoothies or even downtime as you can possibly imagine, and he confessed that he was suffering from a yoga addiction.
I got so jealous!
I wanted a yoga addiction!
And although I had some brief success following his good example, it died out. My work addiction could not be replaced by an addiction to a.m. mat work. Now I was jealous and frustrated.
I ve always believed the largest health benefit of yoga is not its solid cardio, or its vigorous sun salutations. It’s not its calming breath, the Madonna worthy shoulders, nor the increased flexibility.
The biggest health benefit of yoga is that you’re not doing something else.
You re not checking social media or email.
You re not building your sales page or publishing your books.
So when my carefully crafted path to get myself a yoga addiction failed, I had also pulled the door wide open for my work addiction to march right back in.  There was way more at stake here than just yoga.
If I failed to get a daily practice the next twelve months would be just the same crazy, work filled, anxiety prone, rollercoaster ride as the last. And I was not going to let that happen.
That’s why I am committing to;
1. daily yoga, and making it accountable by recording it and sharing it on my membership program.
2. keeping this offline diary, Reboot, and stop, stay away from, or at the very least contain my online work addiction. At the risk of having my first heart attack if I don’t.
By the time this offline diary is turned into a book, my body will be a lean, sculpted warrior woman. A lady who’s currently buried under layers of comfortable padding.

The Dream

Suffice to say; It didn’t work.
I’m over three weeks in, but I didn’t manage to get a yoga practice, had a variety of work addiction relapses, and I neglected this diary. And last weekend I was so frustrated from not writing online, that I totally binge wrote three posts in two days. I seem to be thinner than three weeks ago – probably due to an unexpected stroke of luck called visualization, more about that later – but my life’s nowhere near where I want it to be.
I really thought the accountability from my memberships program (by recording my practice) was the key to doing yoga. And that this offline diary was the key to stop being such a blog-and-post-it junky. I was certain of it! I could have, would have, was supposed to have, my old offline pre-2010 life, with complementary thin strong offline body.
There was no way this formula could fail.
Yet the yoga practice was erratic at best, this offline diary died within 48 hours and online writing worked its way back up effortlessly. As if it had never left.
But something else happened. I started to visualize. First just the body; the muscular size 8 body I had before Creativity and Internet bred their monstrous offspring. The vision disappeared, as I got invested in my work again, but it returned even stronger. My desire to change had moved even further back in time, all the way back to 1991, when I was not a size 8, but a petite size 6 who went to the gym four times a week. The vision drifted again, life took over, until suddenly- three and a half weeks from the day I started this Reboot challenge- it returned. The vision had grown to a magnitude that had nothing to do with its humble beginnings of me wanting my 2009 body back. I was still in 1991. I was a muscular size 6. But this time, not only could I see my imaginary size 6 thighs, I could also caress a porcelain blemish free skin, stroke my platinum blonde hair, and watch the world with large baby blue eyes. A brighter colour than I ever had. I could see every embellished body part, from teeth that had whitened and grew stronger, to scars and marks that had miraculously disappeared. Everything I had lost to aging or to trauma, was restored to its teenage state or even younger.
I could see myself do yoga every day, but also write every day.
Because together with the powerful new vision, came the realization that after three and a half week of struggle, writing just had to be a part of it. That I could not cut my online writing addiction from my life, any more than I could cut off my left arm. Daily yoga and daily writing; the two opposing energies were just going to have to coexist. Like yin and yang.
And I had a second dream. But this was not a vision, this was a real dream. About me and a writer about whom I have written in several books. Due to an unlikely turn of events the writer and me were located at the same building. Kind of a creative-urban-retreat thing that would last only for a few days. This was my chance to spend time with him, girlfriend free.
And I wasn’t the only one looking forward to that.
Soon enough we were more engaged in each other, than with our next novel. Our make out sessions were absolutely wonderful, and I couldn’t wait to take things further. But there was a problem. I hadn’t waxed my legs. I had a few super thin hairs, scattered sparsely over my legs. So it wasn’t like I was growing legwarmers or anything, but it was a deal breaker nonetheless. I wasn’t going to get intimate with someone dramatically close to my dream man, with anything less than a perfectly groomed body.
I woke up with a strong desire to wax my legs and to check his calendar. To my delight I saw that he will be here in a few months, visiting a local venue. I started counting the days, and there are eighty. It’s not too late!
After fucking up the first part of this project, relapsing, slacking, and forgetting every intention I had for myself, I now have eighty days to kick my ass into gear and to manifest that youthful atomic blonde vision I have for myself.
With a sweet reward awaiting me at the end.
And like hell I ll wax my legs.

An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

After trying to be a good girl and contain my writing, I m now committing to daily blogposts instead.
you re welcome to follow my English updates; LS Harteveld Twitter and LS Harteveld Facebook
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Confessions of a Yoga Teacher – Why my naked ass is not in a magazine today

edb5a3ce54452f71e7a8b2efa4c79b7d--carrie-bradshaw-hair-carrie-bradshaw-fashionI just attended my first birthday party in years. Because for what seemed like a decade – or wait! it was a decade! – my writing came first. Writing was my work addiction, my leisure activity, my personal development tool, and my preferred company to spend my nights alone with. If someone wanted a shot at me getting away from my computer I only did so for two reasons.
1. I really liked their company
2. I really liked their company and we were going to have sex
I never invested time in meeting new people, and I didn’t engage in group activities with unsorted social interaction. Spending time away from my writing only served as a way to get a fresh pair of eyes on the matter at hand (or “pen”) through conversation with others, or to do activities that I knew would inspire a new diary entry or erotic story.
Inspiration or analysis. Those were the only two needs I had aside from writing. Randomly getting to know new people or spending nights away without a clear purpose, was not on the menu.
The party however, was everything I hoped for. I must admit I was invited by someone who knew “presence” and “leveling” were not in my repertoire, and that the only way to have me, was to have ALL of me.
I was going to be my bold, entertaining, provocative self.
Halfway through the evening I had gathered a small crowd of people who had gotten me talking about my single years. Which included bedding multiple men half my age, a Mossad spy, a broad selection of men of exotic descent, and a married man, Mister Big.
I knew Mister Big was a keeper when he gave me my first time anal sex. A flawless performance. After eight years of diverse material, and various disappointments, I immediately recognized a star player. With the others I had turned a blind eye on almost everything, before we finally got down and dirty (and I knew I could take it from there!) Whereas with Mister Big I only had to condone that he was married and that the matter was never ever to be discussed other than a vague “It’s complicated”.
A fair price to pay, for the performance he was able to give. So I paid. I never asked for more. And we’re heading for our three year unsolicited sex anniversary, so worth the investment.
I was explaining to my crowd exactly how brittle female sexuality is. A guy can screw it up by not being attentive enough, or by being too pushy. He can throw away his chances by the heating not being on, when you enter his house at night. Or by sleeping with the windows open.
I have a theory!
And this is such a good story that it is worth a separate blogpost but I m just going to throw it in now. The theory is – and I m almost a hundred percent sure I m right! – the theory is that the special breed of men who know exactly what a woman wants, and who are even more in tune with her desires, quirks and pains than she is herself, that the few men who are the womanizers that are able to read women, just like a horse whisperer can read horses, that those men have one thing in common; They had a dominant mother, and they pleased her. They fought her too, don’t get me wrong. But it was never with the intention of changing their relationship to one that was based on being equal. He fought her as a way to stay into contact, and he was never mean to her. Even though she? Yes…she could be mean, although he would never call it that.
She was jealous of his girlfriends, and fought it with arguments like him needing to do his homework. Or with the girl not being good enough. She was often disappointed by the countless ways in which he didn’t live up to her expectations. And he internalized it. He too became disappointed with himself, and he was especially sorry for not being able to please her.
But he stayed. And he could read his mother.
Just a twitch in her voice, or an answer that took a bit too long, and he would know he had displeased her. And sometimes he growled, but he knew what to do. Maybe he went away giving her time to cool off. Until, like all women obsessed with a man, she had driven herself crazy with her thoughts and she became hysterical for his attention.
Or maybe he did have some sort of friendly method to calm her down.
But whatever it was? It molded him. Where other men learned to adjust a carburetor just from listening closely, this particular type of man with a dominant mother coped by paying meticulous attention to what his mother needed.
And his first girlfriends, who he immediately knew better than they knew themselves especially at that young age, got hooked on him. It was inevitable. They felt safe, and loved. And the boy noticed his friends were being way better with cars than with girls, and he tried to inform them that really- women weren’t that difficult. You just had to listen carefully. But even with prospect of having any girl fall for them, and being able to fulfill any of their most pornographic fantasies with the girl willingly agreeing, – even that prospect couldn’t motivate them to listen to the advice from the boy with the dominant mother.
And the boy became a man whose bedroom and house were always comfortably warm, he became a partner who knew exactly what you wanted to hear and a lover who knew precisely what to do to turn you on and take you next level.
I told this theorie to my audience, and asked them if they believed my theory was right, and the first thing someone said was:
“Those men don’t exist!”
Oh, but they do…
Because crucial in my storytelling was the first night I went home with Mister Big. I didn’t want sex. We had kissed a while back, and that was nice but not earth shattering. I had decided I would make out with him every once in a while, but had no intention of becoming a secret mistress. I had judged being a mistress somewhere between being seedy and being emotionally dangerous. I wasn’t in love with him (or so I thought) and the kissing at a bar had been okay, but it had not set me on fire head to toe, so it all seemed okay. I was sure I could contain it. Mister Big was exciting and he oozed danger, but I knew he would never want to do anything against my will.
If anything, he would manipulate me until I was begging for it.
But with the kissing being down-to-earth and nice, I was sure I could safely go to his house for some TLC without being either raped or swept away by desire.
Or so I thought. Suffice to say I only just managed to get away unfucked. But it all started almost coolly, and in a way any normal man would have almost certainly fucked up.
We entered his apartment.
The hallway was nice and warm.
And suddenly, I felt super conscious of the situation. I was alone, with someone I had known for only a few weeks, and no one knew where I was. I got slightly nervous. Mister Big didn’t seem to notice. He rooted a bit around the house in a casual fashion. As if it was the most common thing in the world to bring blonde erotica writers into your house in the middle of the night.
“And you know what he did?” I asked my audience.
Which now included a ten month old baby who had the talent to laugh or drop his jaw at exactly the right moment. The baby shook his head.
“He took his shoes off and asked if I wanted a cup of tea.”
The female audience was now screaming and yelling:
“He’s good!”
But one man couldn’t see how offering tea was a good idea when you’ve just managed to get an attractive woman passing through your door. So for him I needed to explain what just happened. And what made Mister Big so good.
Where normal men are way too preoccupied with their own insecurities, and desires, on moments such as these, Mister Big – and other highly talented womanizers – stay in touch with the woman. They are so sensitive to a woman’s need, that they know exactly what is required. In this case, Mister Big had sensed I was intimidated and he totally downplayed himself. Exactly the way a horse whisperer has to pretend he’s not interested in the horse, and will keep his distance where the horse can come closer on its own accord. In the same way, Mister Big pretended he had no particular interest in me being there. Least of all getting into my panties.
I elaborated on my affair with Mister Big, and how the years together had given me powerful insights into my own sexuality and personality. And that I now fully identify with being a secret mistress. If this relationship would end, I would choose to be someone else’s secret mistress.
It was late. I had talked for an hour or maybe even more. And yet both me, and the other people there, seemed to have a desire for more. Like a little dessert.
“Can I show them what’s in the bag?” I asked my friend who was having her birthday. “You already know, and I ve been dying to show it. But I want to know if it’s okay.”
The friend said it was okay, and reminded me I had been invited with the promise that I could totally be myself.
I took a glossy magazine from my bag, and showed it to them.
“Today is an incredible festive today. Because in this magazine, you will not find my naked ass. Even though I was invited to be in it.”
The magazine changed hands quickly, and we paid special attention to the ten pages that had all the women who had said “yes” to the invitation. I wondered if they had always thought getting butt naked in a magazine was a good idea, or if it was something they had done because they had a sort of “try everything once” philosophy to life.
All I knew for certain was that I was happy that Mister Big had never tried to get me out of my panties to pose butt naked in a magazine. Because he would have played his cards so well, that I would have ended up fucking begging for it.

<3 LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

My diaries and erotica, including the seductive “Big” with two years worth of sexual encounters are available at Lulu .

Want in my inner circle? I share all my real secrets with my private mailing list.

Confessions of a Yoga Teacher – I am not Carrie Bradshaw (why not writing is killing me)

click photo to buy Kat's book

click photo to buy Kat’s book

I m having one of THOSE mornings again.
Or maybe it’s not a morning, but an accumulation of frustration after weeks of not writing. Writing is 98% of what I label as my beloved Work Addiction. And the reason I don’t allow myself to indulge in what Kat Loterzo would call my “drug of choice” is that I m pretty certain that ten years of “writing”, which includes my yoga business where I have increased my online presence over the past years, that my writing slash work addiction is the drug that has kept me from having the thin strong lean body I used to have when life was simple.
When I lived offline.
Had a diary.
An occasional boyfriend.
Good sex.
And that was it.
I did not have the urge to write about everything with the urge, and to the extend, as I later had. My writing was CONTAINED.
And now it is UNLEASHED.
Something that comes with working for hours without eating (and then your body immediately storing everything as fat, not knowing when its next meal will come); it comes with missing practice, because you wake up with that ITCH you need to soothe, that itch to work work work. To write write write. And then MAYBE if you’re having a good day? At three or four pm, then MAYBE you will turn off the computer and do some yoga before you start your evening of teaching yoga.
Make that once a month or so.
So when a couple of weeks ago, I decided I was done being two stone heavier than before I started writing, and that from now on, I would beat the craving to work, and calm down and do yoga instead. And not just any yoga but a powerful, challenging practice, that has the potential to restore my youthfulness and size 6 figure alike.
Except it did’t work. It doesn’t work. I m hardly practicing yoga and now I m so dying to write that after every social event, and every time I see my lover, after every deep personal insight, I feel I ve eaten a 7 course meal without being able to digest it.
I feel bloated from all the things that happened and that I m apparently just supposed to carry with me.
I ve never felt like a normal writer. When I hear about normal writers they can have writer blocks, or try a new genre, or somehow seem to be CONSCIOUSLY INVOLVED in what they write!!
Even Carry Bradshaw, the columnist from Sex and the City, whose photo I use with my columns, even she only writes because she’s paid to do so. You never see her diving into her secret “Red Shoe” diaries to really spill the beans on boundary breaching sex with Mister Big.
Other writers seem to have a CHOICE whether they can write.
And I don’t know why I keep thinking that being one of them is an option for me.
Probably my desire for a petite 19 year old body, that got the better of me.
The only person who I KNOW, and I say this in capital because that’s how she writes, the only person I KNOW who knows exactly how I feel is Kat Loterzo.
She describes it as;
You simply can’t NOT (write, do the work, UNLEASH).
“Let the message be the message. However it wants to come out. Get out of your own way!”
Because that’s the BEST thing about being held hostage by your writer addiction, by being pinned down by all the stories that want to be told through you and then they let you go for 12 hours before they tie you down to your computer again;
The stories are already there.
You don’t have to DO anything.
You only have to sit there, and write and write, until those little devils, demons, angels, lovers, children, muses, and the spirits of your ancestors are satisfied and let you go.
It was so naieve of me to think I could bypass them. And that not being a writer addict was even an option. Because the difference between a normal sane writer, and me, Kat Loterzo and every other haunted writer is pretty simple;
Either we write.
Or we die.

<3 LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Want in my inner circle? I share all my secrets with my private mailing list.
My ten diaries and erotica (vijf Nederlands, and five English) are available at a bargain price at Lulu 

Confessions of a Yoga Teacher – The Return of Innocence

download (6)by LS Harteveld

My first monthly book sale is coming to a close and if one thing stands out it’s this;
Everybody chooses my biggest, most expensive book, as soon as they realize what I am offering them.
And that makes me so incredibly happy because I really went the extra mile to publish my collected works- 8 Dutch and English books- at the same time as the single volumes.
Despite the time pressure.
Despite having to redo the entire lay out to 400 pages at US letter size.
Despite multiple people urging me to FIRST publish one book, or a few, or even eight. But to never offer the collected works in the same go. Because if I published it later I could sell you the same book TWICE!
Did you read that?
I was warned not to do this because it was going to cost me money. YOUR money that would not be ending up in my pocket, if I offered you the bargain deal of my collected works (worth €105) in one €45 book.
As if that was not the perfect reason to make me work harder, and to really push myself!
How could I ever sell you my books one by one, when I knew that within a few months I would have a book for you that you would probably want even more? And that would be a better choice for you?
Because you have to make smart choices of where to spend your money on.
Or because you prefer those soft cover big floppy books because they remind you of college.
Or because you wanted to have a bulky book to keep on your night stand, something about the meaning of life. Like the bible but different ;)
Then I would know beforehand, that you would be buying the wrong book with a single volume… and that the collected works was on its way! What was I supposed to do then? Keep my mouth shut, and accept your hard earned cash?
No way.
I was having a conversation about me being honest to the point of being a significantly worse business woman, and the guy – who had taken me out to celebrate the release of my books (thank you!) – said:
“It’s part of what you ARE. Just like lying is part of what other people are. You can’t change that.
Just like you can’t make a liar tell the truth. A personality is like a bomb; If you pull the wrong threat the whole thing blows.”
So that’s why within twelve hours after I ve decided the following, I m here to inform you about this: Dear English reader, native speaker, non-Dutch folks who have to keep up with my Dutch tweets, Dutch sales, and three Dutch books that you can’t read:
I hear you… and I m here to help.
The upcoming months I will be working like an absolute mad woman:
- to translate my White Tigress guide from Dutch to English
- to translate my three Dutch books to English
- to publish the English collected works The Book of Benjamin
I just have one question…. I think I can do with just the collected works. That that will be okay. I see it on the Dutch market; as soon as they know of the big book, they only want that one.
But if you’re English and you think I should publish English versions of Mango, 22 erotic stories and The Candy Stop as separate volumes, for no other reason than that it would HUGELY benefit my English readers?
Please let me now.

An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Nederlands; Al mijn boeken inclusief het Het Boek Benjamin zijn t/m donderdag 31 augustus 16.00 (één dag verlengd!) via mijn direct sale.

English; My five English books are all available at a bargain price at my publisher Lulu (Worldwide). So even though the collected works in English are on their way, here are five reasons to buy Dutch American Diary, LS Diary, Bedtime Stories, Mirage and Big as separate volumes NOW;
1. reading comfort (sentence length and holding the book) is optimal reading the separate, smaller A5 volumes. Not the US letter sized book.
2. they are thin and a portable, and will fit into any purse or luggage.
3. the covers are a beautiful art work by Nicolet Pennekamp
4. they’re brand new first editions, and recognizable as such in the book itself, and they’ve been released only two weeks ago. This makes them unique, and as far as I know, only one set of books has been sold outside The Netherlands at this moment.
if you choose to buy the English collected works you can choose to use the five books as gifts with a great story attached to it about a little Dutch girl who one day woke up bilingual and started writing. Because that is what happened basically… but it’s a story for another day.

photo; thanks to Irene for inspiring me with the idea!

photo; thanks to Irene for inspiring me with the idea!




Confessions of a Yoga Teacher – The Diary

20170827_101601by LS Harteveld

I never expected to do this again.
Not to write a diary in a notebook with the single purpose to one day publish it as a book.
The last time I did this was in 2013 for my Dutch diary de Candystop. The reason I used a notebook was the same I am using one now; I wanted something I could take with me. I don’t own a laptop, nor do I want one, and my regular diary is way too personal.
For example, it contains all sex scenes with my lover that I don’t want to be made public. I share a lot but not all. And it contains a whole lot of other information that I won’t even hint at describing. Suffice to say my diary is not something that leaves the premises. Ever.
I can’t remember if I also used the 2013 notebook because I preferred paper over typing. I do know that’s a factor now.. I’ve only just gained control over a raging internet addiction and for the first time in eight years I m close to publishing slash printing my books. All eight of them. Which is what happens if you leave your young ones alone for too long; they start to procreate.
First one was “done” in 2009. Done is a depressingly relative term as any writer going through the numerous cycles of editing – including the first highly embarrassing ones – will tell you.
Done means you have another six months to go.
But in all fairness, six months does not equal eight years. Unfortunately, manuscripts actually highly benefit from being neglected and then edited again after an eternity. My late uncle called it maturing. Or riping, as we say in Dutch. A manuscript ripens like wine, if you leave it a year in your drawer or, more likely, your harddrive.
Which means I actually did my Wait Worth 8 a favor, treating it so poorly.
Anyway, coming down with my social media addiction, I choose to stay away from my blog.
Because a blog means posting.
And posting is only a tiny micro bit removed from sharing it on social media.
And even without that… there’s something about typing that makes it more stressful compared to handwriting. So I have multiple reasons to write analogue.
One, portable without carrying your personal sex files to bars. Two, not connected to the internet (ad-dic-tion!) Three less stress than typing. And four it doesn’t interfere that much with my precious must-be-defended-at-all-cost publishing work. Which has finally after eight years of ripening, taken off.
The last time I started a book offline to avoid disturbing a then just established, or almost established, but in retrospect never established publishing routine, was 2016. Not wanting to fall into the trap of keeping a time-attention-LIFE consuming blog slash diary online I used my 1998 laptop. Which, face it, is almost as ancient as using a notebook and pen. I called the book  ”Trickster” and was already feeling like THE person to write about gaming life and coming up with smart solutions, when trickster died on me. I think it was after two, three weeks. It was a quiet painless passing. If we had been dating I would have said we just stopped contacting each other. Even though I had been very much in love with Trickster! I thought Trickster was THE ONE!
It wasn’t until Danielle Laporte announced she was going to write a contemporary self-help book (where contemporary stands for: contains sexual references) that I yelled:
“WTF! That’s my guy!”
Even though I had neglected him, thought I d moved on, and that we weren’t meant to be together, I immediately took action the moment this quote “run of the mill” self-help author had been on a first date with him and posted a video how her new book was turning out different than she expected.
“I want to write about things like getting laid.”
And all I thought was:
Trickster could have passed on to anyone, without me knowing. Or had that been his whole point? Did he want me to see him with someone else?
And when I said “run of the mill” I was actually quoting myself. Because I did “save” Trickster from the hands of the most highly acclaimed self-help author of my generation, who has since then only produced three kilo agendas and brick thick self-help books. But nothing about getting laid as far as I can see.
In my rescue operation I opened my laptop, extracted Trickster, and moved him to my desktop. Although secrecy has proven to be an indispensable ingredient for my real affair, I m convinced that keeping Trickster hidden and ultimately forgetting about him, was what made him leave.
I wrote the whole Danielle Laporte episode right into Trickster. That’s where I referred to her as run of the mill.
As far as I know I m standing alone on this, as I know multiple gurus (female successful entrepreneurs) who worship the ground Danielle Laporte walks on. So don’t let my down talking hold you back. Especially not when you need a three kilo agenda.
It is questionable if Trickster was better off with me. He probably would have been world famous if I had left him with his new forever home.
Soon after I pulled Trickster back to my turf, and finished the chapter of how he almost left me, more pressing matters arose. My period was a mess and I decided to leave the tricks and start a White Tigress training and write about that instead.
They both ended up in book 8, Big; both Trickster and the White Tigress diary.
A third diary in Big is called the Virgin Diaries, which I wrote in the months before Trickster. The three diaries form the heart of the book, sandwiched by two volumes of autobiographical pornography.
Trickster now has to share his spot with two other diaries. And I did not name a whole book after him, like I originally intended.
But when it comes to getting laid?
I m absolutely fucking positive, Trickster could not have landed better.

An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Book 8, Big diaries and erotica, that includes the contemporary self-help book Trickster – can be bought from my publisher Lulu (Worldwide) or directly from me (Netherlands only).