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 .

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