Because laughter…and music…and cheesecake…and sex is good medicine. 😉
Because laughter…and music…and cheesecake…and sex is good medicine. 😉
Bombarded, tormented, overwhelmed, I went to bed last night. Meditation helped to calm the rush of my thoughts, but the cacophony never stays silent for long. I slept. I woke up. My first thought when I wake up is always, “NO! Please. No, not again.”
A rough morning. In bed with my thoughts while my husband attempts to get the kids to do their homework. Feeling hopeless.
I cry, but I know tears won’t fix anything. My husband brings me coffee and something to break my fast. I eat and drink and listen to an audio book. I play Bejeweled. I work on losing my accent; it disgusts me.
I have determined to rid myself of the vexing accent. But, like everything else detestable about myself, it continues to force itself upon me unwanted.
The American accent is hard, ugly. It sticks out like an extremely sore thumb. It’s distressingly unmusical sounding. Rough…and comical. It sounds uneducated, even if one has been an academic and applied themselves to learning.
It’s another of my exercises in futility; another losing battle. But…I keep trying.
I don’t know why it should be so difficult for me to affect the superior, musical lilt. I’m a musician. A singer. This would suggest that I have a good ear, that I am able to match pitch and mimic sound. I DO IT ALL THE BLOODY TIME. I should be able to “sing” the “song” of received English just the same.
But, I should be able to make phone calls, too.
Yeah… sigh and #!*%¡*¢!
Needing a lyre harp and being unable to get one (everyone who sells the ones I can afford insist on using paypal…why can’t they just take plastic??? And, no, don’t tell me how brilliant paypal is; it really isn’t…and anyway, the bottom line is, I can’t get my harp).
Obsessed and tormented. A morning of frustrated tears.
Then. I asked Jamie to bring me a big shirt to put on…me being sans clothing and thinking about getting out of bed. I referred to my nakedness. He smiled and cupped my breast in his hand. Suddenly, my face, there it was: the first smile of the day.
My husband locked the door and the therapy continued.
Music is therapeutic. Meditation is therapeutic. I regularly post about my therapies of choice. Sex is a particularly excellent one.
Why? Like music, there is surrender and abandon; it overcomes the mind and can drown out the cacophony. Also, there’s the giving aspect: I’m not only receiving pleasure (and therapy), I’m giving therapy. It’s good medicine.
Sexual healing. It’s not just a song. It’s a science. My smile is proof.
Desperation and obsession still assault me, desire, frustration, exhaustion… but, any moment of relief, delight is something so precious, something to be grateful for. As I write, the smile makes another appearance. And, I’ll finish this post with the meme I made for my FB page yesterday:
When I was little, my grandmother owned a booked the title of which intrigued me greatly. The name of the book was The Owl Called My Name. Curious about the story within the pages, there was a day when I asked her about the book. She told me that there was an ancient Native American belief that held if a person ever heard an owl call their name it meant they were going to die. The book was based upon this mythology.
I never read the book. I cannot tell you why. The title, however, has always stayed with me, never ceasing to speak to me.
I’m very honest about my longing for death. If you’ve read very many of my posts, you’re used to me sharing this about myself. I’ve always been waiting to hear the owl call my name. I’m still waiting.
What do I do while I wait? Well, you know, one of the things I do is write songs; I sing, I make music.
It was inevitable that I would eventually write this song. Today’s the day I’ve chosen to share it with the world… something to do while I wait.
Some, I know, won’t like it or “get” it at all. For the rest of you – you who are with me in the waiting room of life – this is an anthem of the waiting, aching soul; it is my story…my story then, my story now…my story until I hear…well, you know.
Not wanting to leave it too long afer posting this post, and being accused of being a tease, I composed most of this subsequent post a day after my introductory post. However, since then, I’ve revised it again and again in my mind. Sex isn’t all there is to life, but it’s a big subject, and there’s so much I could say, so much I have already said, so much to consider.
First off, because sex and sexuality can be a means of miring one in complete body consciousness, this needs to be said: I am NOT a BODY. You are NOT a BODY. The body is the vehicle of the soul, (or consciousness; whatever you are comfortable with calling the REAL you residing within the mortal “house”). Having only body consciousness brings nothing but sorrow and, because of that, some believe that sexuality and spirituality don’t mix. I’m not convinced on this point (if I was, I wouldn’t be writing this post); I think you CAN both be spiritual (soul-conscious) AND explore (the fullness of your) sexuality. It’s a delicate (and worthwhile) balance. No, I am NOT a body, but I HAVE a body, and it was designed for pleasure.
Now that I have included this little (but important) preface, I think I’m ready to bring you the post I’ve been sitting on for these past few days:
The human body is complex, but one thing is certain, it was designed for pleasure. We are taught from an early age to feel shame and guilt about this, to feel wrong and dirty.
**WARNING!! THERE WILL BE EXPLICIT LANGUAGE IN THIS POST. IF THAT’S NOT FOR YOU (OR, YOU ARE UNDER 18 YEARS OF AGE), MOVE ON.**
My fascination with sexual pleasure began at an embarrassingly early age, but just that embarrassment is a symptom of that shame we are taught to feel.
I don’t know about you, but I didn’t design my body. Had I done so, I would’ve definitely made some adjustments. However, my sexual organs…they’re pretty awesome. And, their design shows a purpose that goes beyond, and is separate from, mere procreation.
For someone who loves sex as much as I do, it’s easy to get passionate not only about the act, but the subject. As I have gotten older, I appreciate balance more and more, and having a firm grip on soul-consciousness (I’m not just a body, but I have a spiritual identity). There have been times in my life when sex was my life; everything revolved around sex (there’s a fine line between passion and obsession), and not only was the act something I constantly craved, but when I wasn’t engrossed in doing it, I was often found on my soapbox about it.
I don’t want to do that now, the soapbox thing where I bash women who constantly withhold sex from their husbands (leaving their partner’s needs woefully unfulfilled). Neither am I here to bemoan society’s unreal and unreasonable expectations in the appearance department. If you buy into media, and are a shallow person, so be it. If you are a woman who doesn’t (for whatever reason) want to explore deep sexual satisfaction with your husband (or, for that matter, you are a man withholding sex from his wife), have fun doing whatever you do and I hope your relationship won’t suffer too greatly. I’m not going to judge; I have my opinion, and years of experience, which would lead me to believe it’s a dangerous game you play, but I play my own dangerous games and you have no right to judge me either.
What I do want to talk about is freedom. Freedom to explore, if you want to. I’m talking about coming out if you’re bi or bi-curious. I’m talking about allowing yourself (without shame) to pleasure yourself. I want to encourage you to do some research on whatever you’re curious about. I’m talking about being free with yourself and your partner, trying new things, and having honesty with yourself and each other, allowing yourself – if you’ve always wanted to – a bit of kink, or spice, or whatever you want to call it. If you aren’t vanilla, stop putting yourself on the vanilla shelf and mislabelling yourself. And, ditch the shame.
On the same score, I feel I should add this important note: if you are asexual, please be upfront about this. This, too, is nothing to be ashamed of. The problem with this sexual (or non-sexual, as the case may be) preference is when asexual people insist on embarking on a committed romantic relationship with someone who has a sex drive and falsely believes the partner with the sex drive will just be ok without sex. It’s NOT going to happen! I believe there are relationships for everyone… but, for them to work, they need to be well-matched and there must be honesty (with yourself first, and then with anyone you consider a potential life partner).
I think it’s time for some non-vanilla pride! Break out the toys. Admit it if you find the same sex arousing. You don’t have to do anything about it (unless you want to), but at least have the courage to say it.
Our bodies were made for pleasure. Pleasure them.
Now, here is where I MUST reiterate what I said in my introduction post about consenting adults. Adults. Consenting. No kids and full, clear consent. I don’t see how I can make it any clearer than that. Moving on now…
I know I run the risk of TMI here (losing both friends and readers alike), so I’m not going to get overly detailed about my own personal life. After all, I’m a somewhat public (public-ish?) figure, but if Madonna (a uber-public figure) can publish a book “celebrating” her sex life, I think I’m safe in just extolling the virtues of freedom from shame in the bedroom (or on the kitchen table, or by the train tracks…don’t ask) and I will freely admit that I am bi – something that, in this day and age, sometimes seems more taboo than coming out about being gay. I’ll also admit that, because of years of that shame thing, it took me decades to figure this out about myself. And, when you deny anything about yourself for so long, it causes nothing but confusion and frustration and general beating-yourself-up-ness.
Freedom. Honesty. Not shame, confusion and guilt.
I love orgasm! Orgasms are awesome. I love cumming hard and wet and strong. It’s therapeutic (to body as well and calming to the mind)! Marvin Gaye sung about “Sexual Healing” – well, there’s a lot (scientifically and medically) to that. Yeah, maybe when it was written, it was just a sexy song to get into a girl’s pants – but still. I don’t know any form of physical exercise more pleasurable or with such an immediate reward for one’s effort! (I just thought I’d add this bit, too…since I hadn’t delivered very much on the “explicit language” warning…)
I surely have more to share on this topic…but it’s all about knowing how to frame it; I think this may be more of a series of posts. When I wrote the introduction post yesterday (many days ago now), I wasn’t even quite sure what I wanted to say and where I wanted to go with this one. I feel I’ve just made a start. Thus, a “Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby” series (or, “Let’s CONTINUE To Talk About Sex, Baby” series). These post won’t all be consecutive (after all, as I say, there is more to life), but I’d like to think an open discussion will help encourage the freedom I’m writing about. Hopefully, you, my readers (and listeners… ahem, singer/songwriter first here…there’s that “more to life” thing), will stay with me. If not, it’s been fun having you and I wish you well.
Ok, enough revising… I’m just going to hit post now and…uh, enjoy the afterglow.
Now it happened as they went that He entered a certain village; and a certain woman named Martha welcomed Him into her house. And she had a sister called Mary, who also sat at Jesus’ feet and heard His word. But Martha was distracted with much serving, and she approached Him and said, “Lord, do You not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Therefore tell her to help me.” And Jesus answered and said to her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things. But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.” – Luke 10:38-42
Be still, and know that I am God. – Psalm 46:10
During a recent time of worship, I wrote a song based on this account of Martha and her sister Mary from the Gospel of Luke. It is also based on the first part of Psalm 46:10.
My desire has always been to be like Mary but, I have to admit, I have spent more of my life being rather Martha-like: anxious, stressed out, overwhelmed, frayed and frazzled. And, then there are my really bad days.
This song was birthed equally out of my desire to more like Mary and my Martha-like desperation. It’s a heart-cry and, since writing it, I can’t get it out of my head.