Archive for the ‘bedpost confessions’ Category
I am still around, I’ve just been super busy and haven’t had much time (or frankly, much inclination) to write. But I am still performing in and producing BedPost Confessions, which fulfills that piece of my creative spirit. This is a podcast of me performing at the December show, a night that I ended up filling in at the last minute for a very sick Mia Martina. When I was thinking about what I would read (just 3 hours before the start of the show) I picked up the memoir I wrote and opened it to this chapter. It’s called Marshall, and I hope you like it
Would you like to go to the BedPost Confessions show on Thursday? I asked my 13 year old daughter, not expecting her answer to be delivered with such alacrity …
“YES!” she declared. And with that the decision was made.
I wouldn’t have asked her unless I was certain she was prepared for entry into the realm of sex storytelling, of course. I had not extended the invitation heedlessly. No, it had arrived upon the heels of one of our discussions about her sex education class, the class where she had just been informed that “abstinence is the only way to prevent pregnancy and STIs, although only if practiced perfectly.”
“Perfectly?” She had challenged, with a snort that indicated more irony than inquiry, “Like perfect ever happens.”
Indeed. My kid’s too smart for a Texas-sized indoctrination of abstinence to ever take root. In fact, I’d venture to guess that most teens know that abstinence education is inherently flawed. But many fall prey to systematic shaming by adult bullies and end up buying into the assumption that not only is premarital sex dangerous, it will fuck up your reputation: chewed up pieces of gum and dirty toothbrushes and all that. Amazing really, that an adult drew these parallels. And we wonder why kids can be so mean.
I will say that my daughter’s class –which under Texas law MUST promote sexual abstinence– is (thankfully) taught by the folks from Planned Parenthood and therefore includes not only units on sexual anatomy and reproduction, but also birth control education – typically ignored by abstinence-only programs. And once a week, the students are sent home with written questions for parents that must be answered and signed. Questions like “Name 2 kinds of hormonal birth control” and “Can you get pregnant from oral sex?” These are meant to spur conversations between parents and teens that might not otherwise take place.
Planned Parenthood rocks.
One of the pamphlets that she was sent home even includes a section called: Guidelines For Sex Partners. It is on the very back of the pamphlet, but it’s in there nevertheless, and it talks about the importance of consent (and not pressuring someone to gain it.) It also highlights honesty, treating each other equally, being attentive to each others pleasure, protecting against physical and emotional harm, practicing safer sex, expressing, maintaining and respecting boundaries, and accepting responsibility for your own actions.
It was in reading this section that I understood the comprehensiveness of her sex ed program (which does declare abstinence-only as the “safest” solution, but doesn’t force-feed it) and I felt deep gratitude that it wasn’t rife with anti-sex dogma (not that she’d accept it anyway.) But it was because of this that I was encouraged to extend to her the opportunity to see a BedPost show, to offer her an adjunct to what she was learning in school (which was decidedly a supplement to what she had already learned from her father and me.) I encountered a little bit of push-back from a well-meaning family member, “Are you sure she’s ready for that?”
I was certain of it.
Because here’s the thing: sex is not a taboo. It is not banned, proscribed, forbidden or excluded (except under certain circumstances) but we hold these ridiculous cultural attitudes that say that it is, which is at great conflict with what our bodies tell us. We ignore, forget, minimize, closet and shame sex and sexuality when it is a defining and essential part of who we are, and should thus be regarded, exalted, respected … celebrated.
Keeping my daughter from BedPost –a show that I have co-produced for the last three years– would only perpetuate the stormy taboo looming ominously above her head (courtesy of abstinence-only teachings and the slut shaming that it generates,) and those of teens her age across the country.
The one that tells them that despite what their bodies say, sex is not meant for them.
I will never teach my daughter to ignore her body. Instead, together we will listen to the stories of others where we can find them. Because it is inside of these stories that wisdom lives, where pieces of others’ experience are extracted as information and carried forth for dissemination … and the actualization of new wisdom. Where conversations begin and where question marks –not definitive, resolute periods– punctuate them with the eagerness and enthusiasm of teens themselves.
And there were questions, MANY questions that my daughter had for me last night after the show was over, but the very first one was my personal favorite:
“Can I go again next month?!?”
We’ll see, baby. We’ll see.
This is the story I read at BedPost Confessions tonight. It was well received, so I thought I’d post it here~
I hadn’t planned on fucking the fisherman… at least, I don’t think I did.
It’s all sort of a vague and hazy blur of stale Camel lights and an abundance of Belvedere Vodka. My friend Gen and I had been at a birthday party, it was one of those nightclub parties where the bottle service doesn’t ever stop and lots of the patrons are distorted caricatures – like reality television stars and Republican politicians – you know, where the bartenders and bouncers hate their jobs and everyone in there believes that just being hot transcends everything wrong with the world.
Then … at some point Gen and I were stumbling back to the hotel, drunk and wobbly. We were in Santa Barbara – beautiful, quaint Santa Barbara with its cobblestone streets and its gorgeous coastline and its research University, and its Spanish Missions and … Oprah.
And then, at some point on the walk we met a cute, 20-something fisherman who asked if he could bum a smoke. I said, drunkenly, Sure, and why don’t you walk with us down the road with us… to our hotel … you know, while you smoke with us?
The next thing I remember I was opening my eyes.
It was the following morning.
The room mimicked the haze that was the night before, and my eyes had trouble focusing through it. I’d smoked in the room even though I wasn’t supposed to, but I didn’t have an actual memory of that. It was my nose that narrated that part of the story for me – picked up a dry, pungent refrain from the thick re-circulated air while the scent of the sheets hummed a sultry, smoky back up. I rolled over onto my side and stretched a little and the covers shifted loosely over my totally bare skin. I yawned and blinked. And then … I saw it – a square, torn, gold foil wrapper staring at me like my cat does when it knows I’m awake and it wants its breakfast. I recognized the golden square because it had once been in my purse, but back when it was in my purse, it had a condom inside of it.
It appeared that the condom had found its way inside of something else.
I was perplexed. Okay, actually? I was freaked. I rolled over in the bed and squinted toward a sleeping Gen. My heart raced and my head swirled ‘round with thoughts of what she and I might have done with and to the guy who had reason to open up that condom wrapper. It seemed the guy was gone but that wrapper was still looking at me from the bedside table. I would have laughed if my head didn’t hurt so badly from the vodka and if my throat didn’t feel like I’d just blown a major league baseball team (from the cigarettes). I might have mustered a slight giggle if I could’ve just remembered one small piece of the previous night’s puzzle from the walk home onward…but I couldn’t. I was going to need Gen’s help in solving this one.
And then I noticed that she was wearing her pajamas. I was the only naked person in that bed.
I shook her awake. What the fuck happened last night? And a groggy Gen rolled over while peering at me through one eye, and after a moment she heaved a frustrated, disconcerted sigh, a sigh that was a lot like the sigh my mom sighed at me back when I was 14 and she’d found out that I’d been sneaking her car out in the middle of the night while she was asleep… and driving around the neighborhood with my little sister in the back seat, a bottle of Boone’s Farm rolling around on the floorboard and the emergency brake on.
Sadie, you don’t remember? You fucked the fisherman while I waited in the bathroom…. It was not a huge deal, although I felt a little weird.
Umm….A little weird? Gen?
Okay, a lot weird. Yeah, it was a lot weird.
And yeah, it was weird. Now… it wasn’t all that weird that I might have had sex with someone I’d just met. Unfortunately. My then-husband and I had recently opened our marriage, and so having sex with someone else fell inside the boundaries of what I could do when I was drunk and in Santa Barbara. But what was weird was that I would banish my friend to the bathroom so that I could have sex with that stranger. And that I had gotten so drunk that I didn’t even REMEMBER any of it. Not a single piece of it. Nothing. Not even when Gen elaborated for me. None of it rang a bell.
As Gen was telling me how it all shook down, I got out of the bed and shuffled through the trashcan, in search of the condom. I had to know conclusively that we’d been “safe”. As “safe” as we could have been in that scenario. I found it wrapped in toilet paper – enshrouded evidence of our mysterious debauchery. It was then my turn to sigh. This sigh was definitely one of relief but it was also tinged with a deep, internal remorse – a nebulous, shame-filled vapor of regret.
After I got home, I quit drinking for exactly 3 months.
In the 3 months that I was alcohol-free, I didn’t have a whole lot of sex. I had sex with my husband, yes, but I was feeling sort of twitchy during that time… like I had lost my edge – and I guess in a way I had. I didn’t have alcohol to prop me up, so I didn’t go out much at all. But what I did do during that short stint of sobriety was use that time to reflect on my drinking and what its role was in my sex life. I discovered that it lived pretty front and center.
Since alcohol un-inhibits us, it increases the likelihood that we will do things we wouldn’t normally do. Add sex to the equation and it can get messy. And I mean literally… messy – how many stories have you heard of people puking during a sexual encounter? Right. Those people were not sober. But, hey! Booze loosens us up! Makes us feel sexay!
And yes, booze can also encourage us, give us just the nudge we need to be open to trying those things we might really want to try but are maybe a little afraid to. Like wear a crotchless rubber chicken suit and roll around in baby oil, or penetrate a consenting partner with an umbrella handle…. or something.
For me, enough drinks in my system and I was totally cool with the idea of having a threesome with my husband and my next door neighbor’s daughter (she was 24!). Booze helped me say to my good friend, Sure, I’ll swap husbands with you for the night while all of our kids are sleeping downstairs…. Why not? Booze accompanied me to swingers clubs and sex parties and made sure that I was totally comfortable and at ease in those situations. At least mostly. I knew I was using it as a tool. And it worked well as a sexual assistant. But eventually, it became more than just a tool; it became a crutch. A problem.
You know that switch in the brain that says, Okay, you’ve had enough. It’s time to stop drinking now! The one that sometimes you listen to and a whole lot of other times you don’t? Maybe you ignore, say to it, “fuck off, I’m gonna do what I want, and what I want to do… is a shot of Jagermeister with this super cute Sign Language Interpreter that’s been flirting with me.”
You know that switch?
I don’t have one.
Nope. This particular model, the Sadie Smythe18.104.22.168 did not come with a switch!
I got fucking ripped off.
But, that’s just how I was designed, and so this meant that developing a problem with booze was bound to happen. I never really knew when I was going too far and drinking too much, since there was no switch for me to ignore and therefore no frame of reference. And so I went too far …most of the time.
And blacking out became a regular occurrence for me. So if I had a sexual experience with, say, the super cute Sign Language Interpreter, I wouldn’t always know whether it was awesome or not because the chances of it becoming a big, boozey blur were very high.
Even so, after my 3 months of sobriety, I easily convinced myself that I could start drinking again. In moderation. I decided that since I didn’t have a switch, maybe I could install one myself.
I envisioned a plugin like the ones I download for increased functionality on my website, but this one was for my brain – it was a Sadie will stop drinking after 2 drinks plugin. But, of course, what would happen was, I’d finish my 2 drinks and I’d manually override my well-intentioned psychological software with – I am fine! I’ll just push it to over to 3 drinks… okay 4. I could totally do 5 and be fine… and then all of a sudden I’ve forgotten how to count and the plugin short circuits and I am totally fucked up….
This happened A LOT.
And when this didn’t happen, the perhaps 5% of the time when I actually managed to keep it to two or three drinks (which, incidentally, always coincided with evenings that I was already very tired or there was not much going on) on these nights I was sooo proud of myself. I’d be like, Yay, Sadie! Nice job tonight. You didn’t get too drunk and try to make out with your co-worker’s wife, and, lookie here…. You kept your panties on ALL night long!
And I’d hold on tightly to the success of that… like a throbbing cock.
I didn’t want to let it go.
And sometimes it was fun being the party girl, truly. But often it was rather pointless. Like the time I was in the middle of this orgiastic scene – there were 5 of us naked and splayed out on my living room floor and I realized I would probably not be in this position, my legs spread and some chick’s face that I don’t even recognize right there, looking up at me to see how I’m doing. And while she’s down there, there’s this guy who is sucking at my eyelids and pawing at my breasts and I’ve got his cock in my hand– and I realize that I would not have been there if I hadn’t begun the night with a vodka tonic … that had somehow turned into 12 vodka tonics. I looked around and I started thinking, I don’t even know if I like these people… and I’m looking at all of their faces and they, like me, are so drunk that none of us can even feel anything, we’re just pushing ourselves into each other like a pack of wasted wolves in heat.
Yes, I had started to take note of my behavior and was beginning to see that while I certainly felt more free-spirited, less self-conscious, and more courageous, that it was really only an illusion.
Because when I drank, I wasn’t in control any longer, it was. And maybe it seemed like it was confidence that put me in an interesting and perhaps notable sexual situation, it wasn’t really. Because ultimately, if it wasn’t a situation that I would have chosen to explore while I was sober, then it wasn’t courage that opened that door for me, it was exactly the opposite. It was actually cowardly because I wasn’t being true to who I was. I was trying to be someone else.
And, luckily, I know that now.
But, that’s what we do. We figure out who we are along the way, and some of us do that by fucking up and actin’ all crazy. And I did. I acted all kinds of crazy for a couple more years even. I kept on drinking and finding myself in sexual situations where I would be blacked out but still functioning, just not aware of it, and then I’d wake up, come to, in the middle of it … of having sex with someone … and not know where I was or how I got there.
Hey, dude… whatever your name is again, Henry? Oh… it’s Bert? You put a condom on, right? Show me? Okay cool. Thanks… proceed.
Yeah. Can you say hot mess? Yes. I was a hot mess. It was not pretty.
But eventually I had one of those aha moments; the kind that those of us who are lucky might have after we’ve stepped just a smidgen out the safety and warmth of our comfortable denial. And I figured out that I couldn’t be that person any longer. And I eventually I was able to access some real, confidence and courage … and I quit drinking. For more than three months this time.
In fact, as of TODAY…. it’s been three years.
Now when I have sex, I do so on my terms! And it is lovely. Gone are the days where I am driven by my blood alcohol levels to create manufactured, booze-driven, unconscious interludes. These days I am completely aware of what I am doing and who I am doing it with, and I can always recall the details the next day. And I enjoy it! And that’s because I can feel it. And you know what I discovered? Because I can feel it, and because it feels so fucking good that I want more and more and more and more…. I become totally uninhibited. Naturally.
Sober sex has, for me, been the most authentic, erotic, exhilarating and most importantly, liberating, experience of my life.
And my orgasms are INSANE.
And while I didn’t plan on fucking the fisherman, the fact is that I did fuck the fisherman. I still have absolutely no memory of it, but that doesn’t concern me much any longer. I now view that particular event as a gift – a symbolic souvenir that will forever serve as a purposeful reminder. Because if I ever think to myself – God, I wish I’d been made with one of those switches in my brain so that I could have a couple of drinks. Just a couple.
All I have to do is remember Santa Barbara.
I enjoy reading books that my friends have written because it offers me a glimpse into who they are. Even a fiction book can allow the author’s perspective to peek through. But a friend’s memoir is the most fun for me to read because it is an accurate account of an interesting period of time in their life, and likely one I was not a part of. Like I said a couple of weeks ago, disclosure is a way in which we form bonds with others. For those of us who speak or write openly about our experiences, we do so somewhat blindly, unsure of exactly who is receiving the information we are putting out there. It creates a sort of one-way connection, which means that the lucky reader gets to feel as if they actually know the person who has written the memoir.
Such was the case with the memoir written by my friend and BedPost Confessions collaborator, Mia Martina. I mean, I already know Mia, she has a popular sex podcast that I listen to… but now I really know Mia.
Mia has written A Year of Sex: tales from New York city’s erotic underground and it is a fascinating glimpse into one woman’s journey of sexual discovery after the heartbreak of a relationship whose end had come. In fact, it occurs to me that perhaps I should try going on a sex-splurge like she did and see if I can find my way back to myself, just as Mia proves is a possible outcome of such debauchery. But I suppose I’ve done that already (and wrote my own book about it), so I guess I’ll have to be contented with reading about Mia’s sexual journey and discoveries. Content I am. Among other things. It’s a scorching hot, erotic tale that is perfectly tempered with sweetness and humor. Here is a passage that I love, and be assured there is more from where it came ~
Reclining in the chaise, I soak up the last titillating moments of this party. I revel in my vodka buzz, the low ambient music, the heavy breathing of the couple, and the faux-fur throw tickling my back. I let a hand tousle my hair, trace my curves, squeeze my breasts—which are exceptionally soft from all the lotion—and travel the length of my body into my panties. My fingers slide down my wet pussy and trace a circle around my opening. Keeping the couple in my gaze, I begin to finger-fuck myself. My finger moves in and out of my smooth, slick snatch. Unconsciously or not, I match the rhythm of the couple. Our breathing is heavy, and we’re all moaning quietly. She tells him she is going to come soon. Their bodies move quickly against each other, the springs of the bed squeak, and their bodies slap together rhythmically. My body tenses, and I rub my clit hard and fast. I hear her climax, then his, and I keep rubbing until I reach mine. Watching them kiss and stroke each other, I press hard on my clit, and when I come, I imagine the two of them kissing and stroking me. Yes, I am single and I am hard up.
Yeah, sister. I feel ya.
I remember towards the end of 2010 feeling like I just wanted it to be over already. I even posted a pic of me with a remote control, a representation of what felt like a desperate need to fast forward and get the hell on with it. 2011 promised to be a great year for me. BedPost Confessions was underway and beginning to pick up local steam, the book I had been writing for four years was close to being finished, and my marriage had made it successfully through some extremely prickly patches.
I was gonna rock the fuck outta 2011.
And I guess in many ways I did. There have been many wonderful happenings in my life this year, and while the separation from my husband was extraordinarily painful for a while (probably more hurtful and difficult than anything I’ve experienced before) I am learning that there is, too, wonderment in the process of un-linking myself from someone – in breaking the chain that tied me to the experiences and choices and processes of someone else. Someone whose path wasn’t the same as mine any longer.
I realized this after I got back from Burning Man in early September, where I’d escaped to, open-hearted and venturesome, and had vowed privately to have my very own experiences, ones of my choosing, independent of (if together with) others. For instance, one day I went for a bike ride outing with a group of my fellow (awesomely awesome) camp mates. We had difficulty getting everyone corralled just to leave the camp (as is often the case with large groups of people) but we eventually did, and so we all struck out for a sunset ride. We didn’t get too far before we realized we’d lost track of a few, so we stopped and waited for them to catch up. Once they did we moved onward along the dusty terrain spiked with majestic, artistic offerings, and towards a theme camp someone in the group had decided would be fun to peruse. It was when we arrived at our destination – the one I had made a decision to blithely follow along to – that I realized that I wasn’t having my own experience. I had tied myself to the helm of our group’s proverbial boat and allowed them to lead me to their destination, not my own. Not the one of my choosing. That’s not to say that I couldn’t have had a total blast just tagging along. I could have, I am certain of it. They are fun people and I had been having fun with them for days. There was just something nudging me in another direction.
And so I left. Struck out on my own, Sadie Solo Style, to have my very own experience on my very own terms. And in fact, in my adventure that evening I met someone with whom I spent the entire rest of the night. So it was a very good choice if I do say so myself.
Of course, we can’t always do this. We can’t always unattach ourselves from others just so that we can be the ones in control. We won’t always be the administrators of our experiences, the decision-makers of the process. But sometimes we can, and sometimes we have to. I had to that evening on the playa. I just had to, I don’t know why. And like I needed to break away from that group, I had to, upon returning from the Black Rock Desert, break away from my partner of many, many years. I didn’t know exactly why I had to then (although I had some ideas) and I am still not completely certain why I have to even now… I just know I have to.
So, in a sense, I guess did rock the fuck outta 2011, just not in the traditional model of success – I didn’t get married, I got separated and will be getting divorced this year. This, I think I am learning, can actually be counted as a success. For me anyway. And for now anyway.
Honestly, I felt like fast forwarding a few times this year, too. But then I remembered that it will all come to me no matter what, but in its own time. And then tonight I sat down with the ladies of BedPost Confessions, my fellow producers and curators and feminists, all of whom I love so dearly it almost hurts. As I peered at them across the table in my dining room I understood how much I care about them and what we do together. And then I considered the other beautiful people in my life that I love dearly … and I understood that this is what really matters.
People. Connections. Love. Friendship. Doing what we love. Together. This is what matters.
And then? Together the four of us looked at the calendar and realized that we’ve got shows – lots and lots of fantastic, funtastic, sexy, sexy shows – coming up in other cities. And just one of the cool things about that (for me) is that this is going to allow me to fulfill the number one position on my New Year’s resolution list – Gettin’ The Hell Outta Dodge Whenever Possible (aka TRAVEL). And with shows coming up in Baltimore, New Orleans, Boston, Athens and Washington DC all being scheduled before June, we are gonna rock the hell out of this year indeed. And I’m gonna get to see some other places as we do it.
I’d call that a success already and the year’s just started.
Yep, this year it seems that, like my mission had been on the playa, I will have more say in how my life goes than in any other year previous.
And that? Well, that is something to look forward to.
I don’t have anything to confess!
I hear this sentiment regularly -often delivered with a whimper, a shrug or a shy smile- on the nights I ask people to share their anonymous secrets at the show I co-produce, BedPost Confessions, where we read the audience confessions onstage. I always reply, Oh, I bet you do! We all have something to confess, even if we think we don’t.
It is a hard thing to ask people to do, confess. And I imagine it’s even more difficult for people who are generally private folks to agree to doing so. But we ask regardless because it spurs people to consider their past experiences and ultimately allows them a space to let their secrets go, gives them a momentary release of memory, after we’ve brought it alive once again in front of an audience and the confessor himself. The confessions we tell might procure the nodding of collective heads in mutual understanding, or a burst of laughter for it’s seemingly outlandish detail meaning that it must be true! And what is more important than the truth… anyone’s truth?
A confession, too, may spark a discussion from those of us onstage. The other night we did a mini-show for a fundraising event for ABC Vagina Supply (which launches next summer) and one of the confessions intimated that the confessor had their first sexual experience with a group, and now, years later, they can only get off to images involving gang bangs and other group-sex practices. This person also confessed that they sometimes wonder if this predilection means they are asexual. After reading this confession I looked keenly at the audience and addressed the person who wrote it, whoever he or she was – You are most certainly sexual. You are simply… kinky.
Our kinks live -sometimes deeply- inside of us where we may not even know they exist. They are wired within; programmed by experience some may say but truly we don’t know. It’s helpful to give them credence, allow them a comfortable place within our psyches and our lives where they may flourish – without shame or guilt. The problem with shame and guilt? They make us believe shit about ourselves that are just not true. There are loads of people who get off to images of gang-bangs and group sex.
I confess that I am one of them. I also confess to belonging to the school of thought that says, If it’s in your mind and it gets you off, it ain’t hurtin’ nobody and since it helps you get off, might as well roll with it.
There is so much more I could say on the subject of kink, but I’ve got a brand new, not even out of the box dildo and strap-on harness that I’ve been dying to make sure fits, so back for now to the subject of confessing so that I can get to trying it on ….
I do a lot of confessing. It’s what I do. I am certain it puts some people off, unnerves them perhaps, or causes discomfort for them in some way, especially if the confessing is of a sexual nature. But confessing is self-disclosure, and isn’t that how connections are formed, how bonds are built? There are numerous theories on disclosure (and I won’t get too academic here, because well, I don’t have the capacity to – I am blonde after all,) but one of my favorites is the Johari Window~
The open pane (Arena) is what we know about ourselves and what others know, too (for instance y’all know I like gay black gangster porn, I know I like gay black gangster porn). The Facade pane is what we know about ourselves but hide from others (okay, I am a pretty full disclosure girl but I am sure I have something I keep to myself. Let me think about that for a moment). The Blind Spot pane is what others know about us that we don’t know about ourselves (Hehe, we don’t like thinking about that one much, do we?) The Unknown pane is what no one knows about us, not even ourselves. And it is inside that window where the opportunity for growth lies – in finding out what we didn’t know we knew.
Like the confessions we don’t know we have. They are there, we just don’t know they are. The more information we disclose about ourselves rather than hiding them from the world or even ourselves, the bigger our Arena window gets and the smaller our Facade window becomes. Likewise, the more we come to understand how others perceive us, the bigger the Arena pane becomes and our Blind Spot window shrinks. It is through our openness that encourages mutual self-disclosure.
For example, I might tell you this – I had so many mind-blowing orgasms the other night that I thought I might need resuscitating afterward!
And you tell me something - I pegged my boyfriend for the first time and now he’s an official ass-play convert!
Bonding ensues. Connections are formed.
And I become jealous as hell that you have a boyfriend to peg, because, see? I have this strap-on that I just got…
Oh right… confessions.
Of course, there is the possibility of causing discomfort to the recipient of the confession, or of betrayal of the secret and even ostracism as a result. So confessing is more than a feel-good remedy, untethered to consequence; it requires trust and a relinquishment of any fear attached to its disclosure. But releasing that fear and bequeathing trust can be wonderfully cathartic in its own way.
Trust me. I know.
I don’t press anyone to confess with us unless I can tell that they really want to but they are simply feeling shy. I judge this by reading their facial expressions, noting the tone of their voice and analyzing their body language. I have walked away from many a person who said, I got nothin’ with a warm smile and friendly appeal to enjoy the show. And more than a few have come up to me afterward and said, Oh, I remembered something! and proceeded to tell me to my happy little face exactly what their confession, the one that they previously didn’t know they knew, was.
And isn’t it always good to remember, re-learn, or discover for the first time what we didn’t know we knew?
And with that, it is my turn. Time to go discover if that strap-on fits.
And no, there will be no pics!
Looks like there’s something behind that Facade window after all.