that back-arching orgasmic throb I’ve missed these last ten years….when you lose weight like I’ve done these last two-three years and this last year in particular you have a very good chance of regaining hormonal balance.
…..at 54 I am ovulating and bleeding on the regular with menopause pushed back a bit, I guess…..but yeah, my body’s loving what I did to the place, i.e., loving how I cleaned my head up, took my meds, reduced my stress levels by confronting abusive people in my work environment and personal life, with the former being an ongoing venture because my workplace is not just toxic, but actively and openly toxic and unwelcoming to Black women–especially chicks like me who are outsiders/non-conformist.
…..and prayer does work–it protected me and comforted me this last year, which is why I’m able to write this morning feeling good and look with wonder at my body in the mirror as my waist reappears and my belly fat disappears…my thighs and upper arms looking and feeling so much better.
…..and therapy with my meds did work for me.
Now I’m horny when I wake up like my early twenties.
Like right now.
I use that energy to write and come up with ideas. Would be nice to be able to be in a LTR, FWB, D/s, M/s, etc., situation to get all that energy exchanged, but that’s not happening for me during COVID-19, and especially not in tight-ass, anti-sex, misogynistic DC. New England and West Coast are so much more friendly scenes for me. But since I’m not moving anytime soon unless I get a blessing/opportunity to go west or back to NE on my terms, I find my own path to orgasmic, writerly bliss.
I do have a would-be lover/stalker/predator/creepy fucker hovering around me who I’ve retooled as a virtual muse after realizing he has some control freak mental issues that make my anxiety/depression issues look small in comparison. My suspicion? Unresolved problems from childhood and growing up in a toxic part of the United States.
As mentally unhealthy as he is towards me, I do love him, which is why I do write about him, pray for him, and look for ways to send him not-so-subtle indications that his stalker/predator/bitch-ass energy is being retooled into my writing and as such, no longer energy he can use to intimidate or control me. I made that energy a mental sex toy and idea generator for my poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. He gets nothing but a hard-on from downloading my selfies for his jack-off sessions in his bedroom.
I’d still fuck him, but I don’t think he knows how to fuck women who are conscious, resistant to gaslight attempts, who know affirmative consent, or who have a sex drive. He’s one of those types–you know what I’m talking about–guys who only deal with chicks who are passive, don’t have a voice, meek, etc., but then turn around bitching and moaning about not getting enough sex, having a cold spouse/partner, whatever. Cats like this dude actively choose women who they can control, but get pissy at the limits of such thinking to their sexual interests. Makes for some fascinating writing, though.
Haven’t decided yet what I want to name him for future posts. I’ll figure it out. Might be good for a short story series, flash fiction.