Fun Sexy Thoughts

Hi guys! So sorry for the gap in posts. I’ve been focusing a lot on my other writing projects, and I’m really having a great time working on them.

I am sharing a poem from my erotic poetry book that I’m currently working on. Let’s think fun sexy thoughts instead of last night’s debate.


White knuckles
grasp the window sill above our bed.
Let the neighbors see
the love that we share.

The cool air caresses our naked bodies
individual but connected.
My knees hug your sides
as we rise and fall together.

My fingernails graze
your back and shoulders
as your powerful release
melts inside me.

Stardust in your eyes
and radiating from the sheets.
A release of frustrations
replaced by this satisfying moment.

World peace is impossible
but in our universe
of endless demands,
this is pretty damn close.


Initial Attraction – Person vs. Gender

I am having trouble putting my thoughts into words with the question I have.

When you are first attracted or become romantically interested in someone, which is more important — something that makes them interesting as an individual or their gender?

I consider myself mostly straight and I am married to a man. I fantasize about men a lot, but I fantasize about women a fair amount as well. Unfortunately, I do not have enough experience with other genders.

I guess I sort of have a type — I like men that are nerdy, smart, and older than me, but really I have been attracted to all sorts of people. I feel a unique feature or interesting personality pulls me in more than anything else.

I’ve just always felt that when you fall in love with someone that it’s with the person and maybe at that point, their gender doesn’t matter as much.

But what about when you first meet someone? What matters the most? For me, if it was person vs gender, I think person would win every time. 

Am I making any sense? Does anyone else feel this way?

Day Drinking and Writing – Erotic Poetry

With Covid-19 and a lack of work, I’ve been spending a lot of time day drinking and writing. I’m not going to lie — it’s kind of nice. However, I’m scared that when this is all said and done, I might be out of a job. The mental health board gives us the grant that funds my job, and I know they’re going to be making cuts. With everything going on, how could they not? My job is running an arts program and we all know the arts go first. I’m worried but trying to focus on the here and now. Right now I can write as much as I want, so I have several projects I’m working on. 

I’ve shared a couple of the projects I’m working on, and I’m making a lot of progress, but I don’t think I’ve told you that I’m writing a chapbook of erotic poetry. It is so much fun. 

I want to share a couple of poems I’m working on. (Don’t worry — nothing too raunchy, and yes, I like bald men.) 


Softness and Torture

Smooth head,
strong hard-working hands,
and a shy smile —
I love being naked
and watching him touch me
for the first time.
My body is full-fledged
but I’m a shiny new thing to him.
He teases
examining every inch of me
with his careful touch
from my neck
to my anxious hips.
The world dissolves around me
as my body spreads wide
in the nothingness.
We’re alone in the abyss.
He takes command
of my vulnerable state
as my fingers cling to the sheets —
my only anchor to reality.
My fantasies are outrageous
but the way he makes me smile
is genuine.
This stranger takes me
to another world
and I surrender to the
softness and torture.



I wonder what your blonde curls smell like
when I twirl them between my fingers —
beckoning vines pulling me in with every breath.

I wonder what your crimson pout tastes like
or what I will look like with your lipstick smeared on my face.
Give my sheltered life a little more color.

I wonder what it’s like to touch your powder-soft skin
or to kiss the secrets you hide from the world.
I wonder what it’s like to feel your warmth from the inside out.

I want to satisfy my teasing curiosity —
slowly, with all my senses.
I want to celebrate your curves and make you smile.

My husband doesn’t mind.
He’ll leave us alone
because he wants me to love without restraints.

I want my fantasies to be memories and not “what if’s”. 

Recovery Anniversary — Bulimic But Almost An Atheist

Monday was the 16th anniversary of my admission to an eating disorder clinic. I was only 21 and completely exhausted when admitted. With blood, sweat, and tears (lots of tears), the clinic kick-started my recovery, and after my five-week stay, I emerged as a grounded atheist with newfound curves and the potential for a future.

The clinic functioned on strict rules and schedules. Patients were monitored at all times — even in the bathroom. After a few weeks of healthy meals, my body began to change, but there were even more changes to come.

I met with a psychiatrist at the clinic and was diagnosed with bulimia nervosa. Soon after, psychotic and mood symptoms unrelated to the eating disorder prompted a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder.

With bulimia, I knew I was sick. I knew the behaviors were harmful and did them anyway. It had been going on for years. But with schizoaffective disorder, I didn’t know what I was experiencing was a mental illness.

I had always questioned the existence of god, but at the same time, I was experiencing auditory and visual hallucinations that I assumed were spiritual in nature. I thought I could communicate with dead people. I was always looking for an explanation and that’s the best I had — the only thing that made any bit of sense to me. I never considered it an illness. In fact, sometimes I considered it a gift. 

I came to the clinic *almost* an atheist — I didn’t believe in god and the hallucinations were the only thing tying me to any sort of spirituality. Enter Risperdal — the first antipsychotic I was ever prescribed. It kicked in after a few days and everything became quiet and still. It felt unreal, but to my amazement, it really was real.

That was the final nail in the coffin to any spirituality I had and I declared myself an atheist. What a freeing moment.

Today I live a really normal life despite occasionally struggling with my eating disorder and schizoaffective disorder. My symptoms certainly don’t pack the punch they used to, and I can move on pretty quickly after experiencing them. I have lots of help — my family is always around and I have an amazing doctor that I have seen for over a decade.

Every year on September 7th, I find a small way to celebrate my clinic admission day. I’ve come a long way.


Road Trip: Field Museum in Chicago

I just wanted to share some cute pictures.

My daughter is really into dinosaurs right now, so we decided to go to the Field Museum in Chicago this past weekend. I was a little nervous to go with the pandemic, but the museum wasn’t crowded at all. They limited ticket sales and it was actually really nice.

I love having a four-year-old. She’s so curious about everything and always asks a million questions. I hope that never fades.

I’m proud of my home and country accent.

I am currently writing a collection of letters to my daughter that I can hopefully put in a book about secular parenting at some point. I want to share a letter I recently wrote. It doesn’t really have anything to do with a secular childhood, but it’s still kind of fun, nonetheless. 


Dear daughter,


When I first went to college, I was occasionally called “fresh off the farm” due to my country accent. I was embarrassed. I actually worked pretty hard at trying to sound like I was from the city or suburbs. One word where my accent was particularly noticeable was “again”. I would pronounce it “ah-gee-an”. I didn’t even realize I was putting a whole extra syllable in it until it was pointed out to me. I practiced saying “again” over and over and my accent became less noticeable. I now think it’s pretty sad that I was self-conscious of how I spoke and I regret ever trying to change it.

Meanwhile, I had a professor from Mississippi who had lived here in Ohio for decades and still had a thick Southern accent. He didn’t care. It was a part of him and even kind of charming. I should have followed his example. 

Today, I am proud of where I’m from and I know I can’t help how I speak. Now I consider it an endearing part of who I am — just like my professor from Mississippi. 

I know as a teen and young adult you will probably want to get the hell out of Ohio — I know I did. And that’s okay. You are free to explore and I encourage you to go.

Our ancestors were some of the first settlers to the Great Black Swamp of Northwest Ohio and our family has lived here for generations. This is my home and I hope you feel that way, too — whether you settle down here or not. I hope you will have many good memories to carry with you as you find your place in this world.

Wherever you end up, please always be proud of who you are and where you’re from. You will always be welcome here.




Who else here has a fun accent? Are you proud of where you’re from?