Tag archieven: Joyce

Pussover


I’m not eating. I’m not eating because the restaurant has put garlic in all warm dishes and the last thing I want is to create more problems in my love life.

“Look.”
I unfold an A4, carefully avoiding the wine stains and Joyce’s pumpkin soup.
The virgin. Salvatore. Valentino. A few recent dates and a young journalist I email with. There are rates for love and for past hurt. There are estimates for risk of future drama.
“The more I love someone, the more I get hurt, “ I fold the paper and put it  away. “But I think I nailed it. I should go for someone I don’t give a shit about.”

“Nailing?” Tantric mistress Joyce frowns as she folds her hand into a long phallus like shape and thrusts.  “You shouldn’t be nailing, Lauren. You should be nice and soft.”
“Yea-hea, and look where that brought me.”

I don’t date. I don’t have sex. And a lover who fell into my lap this Spring, has left me for a girl with a hamster. At the time, I was already too weak to fight it.
“It’s been a year since Valentino,” I admit. “I think this all goes back to him. And he didn’t even bother to close things off.”

“Do you know what Valentino wanted?” Joyce asks. “In retrospect? “
I shake my head. “I think me being in love was just a bit too much to handle,” I dab my eyes with a napkin. “Even girls his age are more aggressive than me.”

Girls his age. The bright happy 20 year olds, who juggle boyfriends on my Twitter Timeline. Who chat and tweet, and remind me every day that boys are like ripe fruit waiting to be picked. Like dogs waiting to be trained. Like toys ready to be tossed away when you’re done playing.

Joyce puts down her spoon.
“Lauren, I know you. And you really only have two choices: One is to have sex with a man you love, and yes, you will get hurt if he doesn’t love you back. Or two: to have sex with someone you don’t care for,” she drops a silence. Her eyes turn watery. “But you’ll end up loving him. That’s just who you are.”

I snivel. “I’m a pathetic excuse for a cougar.”

“I don’t know what kind of cougar you are,” Joyce says as she too wipes her eyes dry. “But as far as nice and soft goes, I think you nailed it.”

The Joy of men and cats

two brothers both called MoonJoyce has two cats. Brothers, both called Moon, in different languages. Moon 1 and 2 have a different colour, but identical large physiques, friendly faces and those guilt trip almond shaped eyes. Joyce is a professional Tantra teacher and I am her professional yoga teacher. But we’re also friends.

The first time she invited me to her home, we were still discussing the feng-sui effects of her front door sticker “NO unaddressed mailings” (my advice was to replace it with a Yes! sign, a Thank you! sticker, or a pottery plate with Gratitude lives here) when I spotted Moon 1 lying belly up on the couch.
“Oh my God! Look who’s there!” I sneaked to the living room, tripped to the big feline, and kneeled down to introduce myself. The almond shaped eyes of Moon 1 were studying me upside-down.
“Are you relaxing here on the couch?” I made conversation, and mouth watered at the sight of it’s folded front paws, resting in the air close to it’s body.
I wasn’t going to hold this for a lot longer.
“You are so sweet, are you not?” I started caressing it’s belly. The cat did not object so I took the liberty of using both hands. Purring, and cooing I cuddled the furry belly with my fingertips and gently rocked the big cat a little from left to right.
“This is interesting,” Joyce analyzed. “Cat’s really move you, don’t they?”
“Yes, you move me, don’t you,” I cooed. And Moon 1 started to purr. Apparently it was mutual.
“I can imagine this is about the same way you respond to 20 year old guys,” she said.
I smiled.
“You bet!”
And then I went to look for Moon 2, who I found sleeping in the master bed. By the time Moon 2 and I were finished with our love-session, my friend had made tea, cleared the dish washer, and checked her email.

Joyce was right. It is not uncommon for me to think within 5 minutes of meeting a man: “Wouldn’t it be cool, to just take our clothes off and go to bed, and see what happens?” Only to then find out that the object of my affection is unavailable (always), irresponsible (in for a little side dish), or downright evil.

But I loved the men who were like cats.

I can still fantasize about guilt trip eyes, enchanting me.
His nails gently scratching over my skin. His cute belly turning up for me to kiss it.

And a yellow stick up note, next to his front door bell:
“Please use key! Waiting in bed – naked ;-) “