“The Inn Of The Small Comforts” – a new poem

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

No one comes to me to stay.

They linger for a tiny spell,

and I send them on their way.

They continue on their journey.

They come to me only to rest.

To quench their dry and thirsty mouths

with milk pouring from my breast.

They lay their burdens on my shoulders.

Their worries, cares, and fears.

Releasing their most tightly held emotions

with loud screaming, and with tears.

They lay their heads down in my softness,

and take shelter from the storm.

They regain their strength within my caring

‘til they’re no  longer weak and worn.

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

My tables overflow with food

that is fresh and well prepared

and nourishing and good.

My bath is a luxurious scented dream

of soapy, watery, bubbly bliss.

I massage their heads and backs and feet.

I send them to sleep with a soft kiss.

But I always remind them,

“This place with me is not your home.”

Yes I will let you rest awhile,

but then you must go on. Alone.”

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

But all comfort does pass with time.

And then I remind them that it’s time to leave.

Staying too long is a crime.

“You cannot stay here with me” I say.

“This is not your domain.

This place will never be your own;

must never bear your name.”

“You cannot stay too long within my walls.

You are too weak to keep them strong.

So leave when it is time to go.

This is not where you belong.”

Once a wounded, wandering soul

thought he should not leave.

“I could stay here the rest of my days.

The air is so sweet and here I can breathe.”

He admired how well I ran my inn.

I do it with what seems to be ease and grace.

With pleasure dripping from my curves,

and a smile upon my face.

But it took me years to learn to run my inn

and while I don’t ask others to assist,

this man said he wanted to help me.

He asks and then insists.

He chops wood, gets water from the well.

He fishes and hunts and brings me game.

I serve him juicy fruits fresh out my garden,

and his words are always the same.

“I want to be in this place with you

and I want to earn my keep.

I want you to take a break sometimes.

To relax and get some sleep.”

But there are more chores than he imagined,

and I bear many heavy loads.

He had no idea this was the life

behind the gates of this abode.

Now he resents the work he asked to do,

but now I’m used to his helping hand.

He wasn’t strong enough yet to work so hard,

and yes, I guess I understand

that his wounds were still fresh, though healing.

And now he’s angry at me too.

For I just let him stay there knowing

there was too much he could not do.

I am “The Inn Of The Small Comforts”.

Or I was, but not anymore.

Too much damage done to my sanctuary,

and so I’ve finally closed my door.

But one day I do plan to reopen,

that I do guarantee.

But when I do, I’ll have a new name,

“This Is The Place Called Me”

–Petula Caesar


Free story Thursday! – www.tulalove.com/freestory

Today’s post is going to be short and sweet, because I actually want to TRY to spend some of my day off relaxing for a change.

Today, I’m asking for a small favor. I’m going to call it a small favor, but you may consider it a big one. Either way, I’m asking.

I’m asking you to listen to one of my erotic short stories. Now, before you just say “no”, bear with me for a bit longer and read on.

I write erotica (among other things), for those of you who do not know. A lot of people turn up their noses when I say that, and I understand why they do to some extent. But at this stage of my life I have created a body of work, both erotic and non-erotic, that clearly demonstrates that I am an excellent writer. Period. Yes at times I choose to use my talents to write erotica. And when I do I’m very good at it. I don’t write about sex to titillate necessarily, but I do write about it because it intrigues me. Its power intrigues me. How it is viewed and framed by men, by women, by religious leaders, by political leaders, by the old and the young intrigues me. How it is used, for good and evil, intrigues me. Its beauty, and ugliness and everything about it is just fascinating to me. How people respond to it intrigues me. How it makes some people introverted and secretive and other people extroverted and exhibitionary intrigues me. How it really messes some people’s heads up intrigues me.

What does bother me is that a person might actually enjoy my work, but don’t or won’t give it a chance because it is erotica.

I write very frankly and openly about sexuality and sensuality from lots of perspectives. That I won’t deny. But because I am good at what I do, the stories I tell are excellently crafted and constructed. I take care to capture and convey emotions honestly. I really do consider my choices in language carefully, even if I do at times select “bad words”  as the best way to express something. I don’t just write about sex, I don’t just take a bunch of sexual things and put them on paper (or wherever I put them). I don’t write pornography – writing about sex with total focus on the sex acts. I write about sex in the context of life in general, and relationships specifically.

Today, and today only, you can go to www.tulalove.com/freestory and download one story from my erotic audiobook “Unusual Positions: Volume 1” for free. The story I’ve selected to give away is “Footsie”. You can just listen to it in the audio player on the page, OR you can download it for FREE and listen to it whenever. It’s yours to keep. Trust me, you’ll like it, and more importantly, you’ll feel it. And while you’re visiting www.tulalove.com, take a look around, read the poetry, listen to the music, sign the email list, etc. And feel free to give me feedback once you’ve listened.

Thanks for your time, and I hope to see you on my website soon.


Learning how to “not give a f***”… – A woman’s journey to freedom


One of my friends, a woman, just turned the BIG 4-0. Well, it’s big to her because she’s been in her thirties for the last 10 years. Tell someone who is 80 that you’re feeling “some kind of way” about turning 40 and they’ll quite likely smack you if they are able to; like everything else age is relative. But I do get that it does have a milestone quality to it that other birthdays do not have. I acknowledge that. It is an age where you truly cannot, in good conscience, consider yourself young anymore. Granted you aren’t old, but I don’t think you can lay claim to young anymore. Sure, you can try, but you’ll just look foolish if you do. It can be considered the prime of life, or middle age or any number of things that can be positive, but it is not young. And there is nothing wrong with that, unless you’re one of those people who want to stay young all your life. I don’t mean youthful, I mean young.

But she just turned 40, and I thought, as someone who has already crossed that threshold, that I would offer her the best thing about being a woman in your forties.

Generally, that is when you will TRULY lose all ability to give a fuck. Now people may say “I don’t give a fuck” all the time, at any time.  But there is truly no person in humankind who “not gives a fuck” with greater enthusiasm, sincerity, genuine unconcern and true disinterest than a woman over the age of 40.

I often hear women in their 20’s and 30’s say that they don’t give a fuck. And they seem to mean it. They say it with force and conviction, from deep down inside themselves. They inhale to the very bottoms of their abdomens and push the words out with powerful momentum. “I…DON’T…GIVE…A…FUCK!” And I get that in that moment, when they’re saying it, that they mean it. It is heartfelt. It’s not as if they are lying or being in any way dishonest.

But I can tell that they don’t really know what it means to not give a fuck, because of the targets they select for not giving a fuck.

Women at this stage of life “don’t give a fuck” to the outside world. To “society” as it were. Society places a lot of expectations and burdens on women in terms of how they should think, and act, and behave, and should live their lives and want for their lives. There are too many labels and stereotypes women must avoid; whore, Jezebel, slut, bitch, homewrecker, man basher/hater, nympho, etc. Women have to avoid being considered too “evil”, have to avoid appearing to “have too much attitude”, have to avoid “thinking they are cute” or “thinking they are all that” or being “too independent”. There are too many obstacles to true self-discovery for women – if in the process of figuring out who you are as a woman, you engage in any behaviors that in any way resemble any of the titles listed above, you are in trouble. And if you do engage in them, they must be done secretly; not PRIVATELY, but SECRETLY. This is especially true when it comes to matters relating to sex; women just don’t get the opportunity to explore and understand who they are as sexual beings without someone, or the entire world, feeling they have the right/responsibility/duty to comment.  Most of the world’s religions seem to feel it is their God given role to guide women to virtuousness and chastity because women can’t possibly choose those things for themselves and find their way to those things themselves. In fact the extreme leanings of most of these religions have no problem using violent deadly force if need be to keep women in line.

So for a young woman, “not giving a fuck” is against those societal expectations. Suggest to a young woman that she perhaps is too indiscriminate in selecting her sex partners, and she’ll likely say “I don’t give a fuck, I’ll have sex with whoever I want.” Suggest to a young woman that her skirt is too short, or blouse is too low cut and she’ll likely say “I don’t give a fuck, I’ll wear what I want.” Suggest to a young woman that anything that she is saying or doing is in any way inappropriate, or unnecessary, or just plain wrong, and she’ll quickly inform you that she does not give a fuck.

And that’s how you “don’t give a fuck” in your thirties…say from 28ish through almost all of your thirties. Not giving a fuck is usually about not being forced to adhere to standards that you don’t wish to, not giving a fuck is rebellious, is a rejection of whatever it is that some outside force is trying to make you do, or say, or feel. In some cases it’s revolutionary. And there is nothing wrong with that…those late-twenties through mid/late thirties “I don’t give a fucks” are a necessary part of the evolutionary process. You need them to get to the even more fabulous place of not giving a fuck once you’re past 40. But the downside of this particular younger “I don’t give a fuck” is that it often is done to justify behavior that isn’t necessarily in the woman’s best interest. It is all well and fine to say “I don’t give a fuck, I’ll have sex with who I want”, but being indiscriminate about your sex partners on a regular basis is really not a good thing for a number of reasons. It’s all well and fine to say “I don’t give a fuck, I’ll wear what I want”, but oftentimes these same women exhibit a great deal of discomfort when they are admired by men they don’t necessarily want to admire them. The youthful “I don’t give a fuck” is usually a big middle finger to external forces that are seeking to impose their will on a young woman’s life. That is where the battle is during these years, with the outside world.

The change starts slowly occurring someplace about 37 or so. It is a process, like all things are with women, so it has to start in your late thirties so it can fully bloom and blossom by the time the forties hit.

Not giving a fuck becomes internal.

It’s easy to tell the outside world that you don’t “give a fuck”, especially if the outside world is the obstacle keeping you from what you wish to achieve.  And sometimes it is, but other times it isn’t. Other times what is truly holding us back are the things inside of us, the things we internalize, our own issues, insecurities and self-doubts. And women’s self-doubts are a thousand times heavier than men’s self-doubts, because everyone feels entitled to add to a woman’s load in life without her permission or consent. It’s easy to tell the outside world “I don’t give a fuck.” What is really hard, what is really challenging is finding a way to tell YOURSELF “I don’t give a fuck”. The difficulty in life is often flipping off those little voices in your head that seek to limit you, hold you back, discourage you and hinder you. What is damn near impossible is to see the enemy within yourself, the enemy that IS yourself, and telling it “I don’t give a fuck.” And mean it.

It usually takes time to learn to do that.

That type of “I don’t give a fuck” is the most fucking liberating thing ever. You become fearless with your own life in a way that makes damn near anything possible if you’re willing to work hard and fully embrace the not giving a fuck.

This type of “I don’t give a fuck” allowed me to love and lose love, because I found that I really wasn’t ashamed of having loved someone like I was when I was younger. When I was younger and my relationships went badly, I always felt taken advantage of, used, played. I would spend a great deal of time denying how much I’d cared, and how much it hurt. But me in my current “I don’t give a fuck” stage didn’t want to deny my feelings because they made me seem vulnerable and weak. I said “I don’t give a fuck” to that and meant it. And owning my hurt because I didn’t give a fuck about how it looked is helping me heal much faster than I expected to. This type of “I don’t give a fuck” has helped me truly talk to my family members about past hurts, and is helping me get a clearer understanding of things that happened in my past so I don’t have to take responsibility for the mistakes others made that I wasn’t responsible for. This type of “I don’t give a fuck” is internal. It’s personal. It has nothing to do with what the world thinks of me. The world stopped phasing me long ago. It has nothing to do with what my family and friends and other loved ones think of me. This has to do with what I think of me. This is about me saying “I don’t give a fuck” to all the negative things I have INSIDE that are damaging me, keeping me from joy, from love, from peace, from the pursuit of my happiness. This is me saying “I don’t give a fuck” to my shyness, to my fear of burdening others, to my tendency to not ask for or accept help when I need it. This is me saying “I don’t give a fuck” to my assumptions that no one really likes me, or wants to see me, or enjoys spending time with me. This is me saying “I don’t give a fuck” to my tears, now I let them fall without shame; saying “I don’t give a fuck” to my anger, now I let it roar when it is absolutely necessary. Now I say “I don’t give a fuck” the minute I see fear trying to strangle the life out of my dreams and aspirations. I say “I don’t give a fuck” all fucking day long, to my own fucking self, and it feels fucking great.

I first started doing my erotic poetry when I was 37, which was clearly an “I don’t give a fuck” moment. It was just something in me that I wanted to express, that I felt would resonate with other women, and it didn’t matter who did or didn’t like it. It was really done for me. So I said “I don’t give a fuck” and did it. And from then everything I have done artistically began with a deeply personal “I don’t give a fuck” moment. Because I knew if it was something I needed to say “I don’t give a fuck” to, I probably wasn’t the only one. And time after time, no matter where I go, women approach me and talk about the freedom that they allow themselves through the things I say because I decided I didn’t give a fuck.

I truly believe one of the biggest problems with people nowadays is everyone’s unwillingness to make some kind of contribution to healing the hurt souls surrounding them. I’m not saying that you should go out and try to solve everyone’s problems, or we should perform surgery on the walking emotionally wounded in the world. But our society has become so selfish, we adamantly and rather snobbishly make a point of saying we don’t want to deal with other people’s baggage at all in any way, form or fashion, which would be fine if we didn’t have any for others to deal with. It’s so unrealistic. I do think we should be willing to offer at least small comforts to those we see hurting, which is what I think my writing does. Sometimes those small comforts you give to someone give them just enough space and time to pause, catch their breath, regain their strength, clear their head and find their way to not giving a fuck too.

And so, here’s to not giving a fuck at the precisely correct moment in your life.





Returning to me…my adventures in therapy

NOTE:  If you think you may have a mental health issue that may be addressed by a professional, PLEASE make special note of the information at the bottom of this blog post about Pro Bono Counseling Services, an organization that helps people find licensed counselors, therapists, etc. free of charge. You do not have to suffer silently…so don’t!



So…I started therapy on Tuesday.


I’ve been entertaining doing this for a number of years on and off. My dad was diagnosed with bipolar disorder (manic depression) when I was 19. He was hospitalized at various intervals throughout my adult life because of it, including spending time in the psych ward. He even had electric shock therapy treatments at one time that I’m convinced saved his life (more about that another day). That was when I first seriously considered it, but I didn’t act on it at the time. Over the last 10 years my desire to enter into therapy has increased, though I never took action until now. I’ve always been the “therapist” in all my close relationships as an adult, from professional to personal. I was the one people came to for counsel and direction. I’ve always been the observant one, the smart one, the insightful one, the intelligent one, the one who was so good at expressing things. So the idea of being on the other side of that equation didn’t make sense to me. Plus, because I had all these qualities, I felt they were enough to get me through life. Plus, you know Black people tend to shun professional treatment for our mental health issues. We’ll self-medicate with alcohol and other legal drugs, illegal drugs, with sex, or the Bible or the Koran, or with music, retail therapy, food, and whatever else we can get our hands on – all in the name of feeling good temporarily. But we very rarely will sit down and take along hard look at ourselves with a trained unbiased person holding up the mirror and offering objective guidance. We don’t get treatment for our mental health, though we are probably most in need of it because of all the extra things society makes us bear. And I know all the reasons why we don’t, the primary ones being that it just seems so weak minded and supremely self indulgent. But with so many of our lives spiraling out of control, it definitely needs to become more of a priority.


Strangely enough, it was my equally mentally disturbed former best friend (I hope one day I don’t miss him as much as I do) who all but dragged me off to get counseling. He felt I was depressed, and I think he was genuinely concerned. I can’t say I disagreed, but I honestly felt it was situational. I was under a lot of pressure and stress in my life and had been for quite a while – I’d be a fool NOT to be depressed. But I did think that more things were piling up on me than ever had before in my life, and my coping skills had been pushed to their limits and were starting to fail me. So, in spite of having no medical insurance (so don’t let that be an excuse!), he found an agency that helps match people up with counselors free of charge. (I’ll include their info at the end of this blog entry). I called them and got a referral. He said he was very proud of me. I wonder if he still would be.


Once I seriously began entertaining the idea of therapy as a real option for me, I began mentioning it to my friends to see what they thought. As it turned out, therapy wasn’t foreign to most of them. To my shock and surprise, a good number of my friends had received counseling over the years. As one of them put it, “I think at some point everyone has to do it, because after a while so many things happen to you and they pile up, and you really have to talk to someone who is totally objective to get some perspective.” And I had to agree with her. I do think that the kind words and counsel of friends, while useful, has certain limits. I do think there comes a time when you need to go a step further in looking at yourself, or a situation you may be in, especially if you can’t get it turned around on your own, which is why I went ahead and got into counseling.


I had my first session Tuesday. And I learned something after just one session.


I learned that a lot of the things I feel really bad about were NOT/are NOT my fault in any way. I don’t know why hearing my counselor say that made such a difference, but it did.  I know that I have always taken on responsibilities that belonged to other people, but her saying it brought it to life for me, as if the world had gone from black and white to color. I have always bitten my tongue so that other people could freely express how they felt, because I did not want to rob them of that freedom, though it cost me my own. And I did not want to damage them. I have a sharp tongue you see, and laser like focus when I use it. I never miss my mark when I take aim. The wounds I inflict with my words have ALWAYS caused serious damage with every single opponent I have ever faced, and are often fatal. This has been pointed out to me throughout my life – even people that I consider friends have always told me how absolutely awful the things I’ve said to them made them feel, and they always remember the words, even if we move past it. It always remains a slightly sore spot. Even my casual remarks at times have done damage, so I guard my tongue closely and frame my words with great care and consideration when dealing with others, even if it forces me to not do what is in my best interests emotionally. (Strangely enough, when speaking of myself and to myself I say very hurtful things in the most brutal fashion.) I have always NOT said things to keep the peace, to keep people comfortable, to make sure no one argued or fought, especially in my family, particularly with my mother. Protecting her was always a priority for me, because the minute I said anything that could have been construed as hurtful, she’d wail and moan about “why was I hurting her” and “why did I have to hold onto things” and “why couldn’t I just let things go” and “you just have such a low opinion of me” and such. And in the face of that, I always disengaged. I always swallowed my own hurt and bitterness so that other people wouldn’t have to be troubled by the things I would say if I spoke. I always felt I was better equipped somehow to deal with the consequences emotionally than they. I was always the stronger one, the smarter one. I was always the one who understood what others didn’t, was more sensitive and in tune with others’ pain, so I just shouldered all of their emotional burdens. But after one day with the counselor, I am finally acknowledging what biting my tongue has cost me and is costing me. And now I will learn to stop. There has to be a way to balance my desire not to hurt anyone with my need to (and my right to) truly express what is on my heart and soul.



I was supposed to be in my sister’s wedding. I was supposed to be the maid of honor. I was surprised when she asked me, because we didn’t always get along very well. But I was very pleased and happy about it to. It made me think maybe she didn’t have as much disdain for me as I thought she had. I truly was looking forward to it. But there was a small issue…I was pregnant with my second child. My daughter was 3 at the time, and this new baby was by a different man. Now these aren’t necessarily earth-shattering things, but in my family, who still champions the shotgun wedding, (women in my family are just as likely to be pregnant on their wedding days than not,) this was a big deal. Plus I had not married my daughter’s father, and had made no immediate plans to marry the new baby’s dad, which was not in keeping with the family’s tradition.


I was nervous about telling my sister. I thought she would be ashamed of me. She had always been very judgmental where I was concerned. She very rarely had kind words for me. She frightened me to be honest. She was very “blunt” (her words, harsh my words). And that might have been okay if she was just as blunt with her praise of me, but she never was. I was sure she’d have a lot of opinions that she would freely express, and none of them would be anything resembling “congratulations”. But I would just have to deal with it.


Unfortunately, because I was afraid to tell my sister, I allowed things to get to the point where I had said nothing about being pregnant right up until we got to the bridal shop to be fitted for our gowns for the first time The entire wedding party was there, including my mother and my daughter. I was about three and a half months along by then. I had discussed with my mom how I should go about telling my sister I was pregnant, but she didn’t really offer any advice. I secretly hoped she’d blab to her and tell her so I wouldn’t have to (as she often did), but this time she didn’t. So in the bridal shop in Queens when my sister saw my belly was how she found out.


I felt really bad. I knew she’d be ashamed of me, and that hurt. But I didn’t get to express any of my thoughts.


She began yelling at me. I honestly don’t remember exactly what she said. I remember feeling sick to my stomach. I remember feeling hurt. I remember something being said about not knowing what size I would be by the time the wedding came around. I remember thinking how silly that was, because pregnant women did buy and wear wedding dresses without knowing exactly how big they would be on their wedding day and still managed, so why couldn’t I do the same? There were buzzings about it being a church wedding, and how inappropriate it would be for unmarried knocked up me to be in the wedding.


But what my sister did was worse than what she said. When the salesgirl at the bridal shop brought out my dress for me to try on, my sister called my mother over. She instructed the salesgirl to cut off the skirt part of my dress to my mother’s length, just at her knee, like a suit. She also asked her to tailor the top of the dress to fit my mom, and she told my mother she would wear this in the wedding. And that was how she put me out of the wedding. No discussion, no explanation, no nothing. She did not acknowledge me in any way. She just put me out of the wedding.  And my daughter was her flower girl, and she didn’t seem to think that I might pull her out the wedding since I wasn’t in it, though I didn’t do that. And my mother did not say or do anything to defend me, to attempt to smooth things over. She never said anything to my sister about how she’d treated me, how she’d spoken. She never told her that it wasn’t right how she had just thrown me out of her wedding.


And not one time did it ever occur to my sister that doing this might hurt me, might damage our already difficult, tenuous relationship. I felt that although what she was doing was mean, hurtful and spiteful, I knew she didn’t understand that. I knew she wasn’t capable of understanding my hurt, how rejected I felt, how I felt that she treated me like I was unimportant. I knew it never occurred to her to let me stay in the wedding as a gesture of kindness, as a way of truly extending an olive branch to me, as a way of letting me know she really did love me. She never asked me if I wanted to stay in the wedding. She never asked me anything. I wasn’t even worth addressing as she put me out of her wedding. She just took the dress from me and that was it. I did nothing, and I said nothing, but I cried and cried we got back to Baltimore because I was so hurt. As preparations for the wedding went on, I couldn’t feel any of the excitement everyone else was feeling. All I felt was isolated and alone while the rest of the family bubbled over, talking about the wedding this and the wedding that. And I bit my tongue the entire time. I felt like it was my fault because I got pregnant and made her ashamed of me, ashamed to have me in her wedding. I felt like I deserved it to some extent. But I didn’t! I was pregnant for God’s sakes, not suffering from leprosy! Even if she hadn’t wanted me in her wedding, which was certainly her privilege, she should have had the decency to tell me to my face. I was a person, regardless of what she thought of me or the fact that I was pregnant. But I said nothing. She let all her other cousins and her husband’s sisters and her girlfriends be in her wedding (she had like 8 or 10 bridesmaids), but not me. And I still went to the wedding, though by this time I was very sick with my pregnancy. I sat on the sidelines, belly swollen, and watched them walk down the aisle with the dress meant for me. I was pregnant with twins and was supposed to be on total bed rest; my health was really in jeopardy. But I got up off my sick bed and drove all the way to New Jersey to transport the mother of the bride and the flower girl to the wedding I was too much of a whore to be in, because there was no other way for my mother to get there. (And though everyone knew how sick I was, no one offered to help get me or my mother to the wedding.) I felt horrible the entire weekend of the wedding, and when I returned from the trip, one of the two boys I was carrying was dead in my womb.


That was 18 years ago and I’ve still said nothing.


I should have cussed her ass out at the very least. I should have beat her ass at the most. Maybe when I really get a grip on the idea that things really aren’t always all my fault, that people sometimes just do hurtful things and there is nothing you can do, that I really do have a right to respond to being hurt and I shouldn’t let anyone, family or not, take that from me…maybe I will.


Until next Tuesday…




The Pro Bono Counseling Project assures that uninsured or under-insured, low-income families and individuals in need of mental health care are linked with licensed mental health professionals who provide care on a volunteer basis at no cost. This non-profit 501©(3) corporation supports the volunteer efforts of participating clinicians, by distributing those cases that could not be served by any other means. No other public or privately funded organization provides the unique services of the Pro Bono Counseling Project, which is to provide free mental health services for low income individuals and families, who are without medical insurance. To be eligible for our services, you must live and/or work in Maryland and should not have a need for a new medication or medication resources. We are here to help you connect with a therapist and the best resources to assist your individual needs.


Please call to request a confidential consultation: 410.825.1001.

What happens when you lose your best friend?

I recently had one of my best, closest friends let me down. I mean really let me down. As in they treated me in a way that I didn’t think they were capable of treating me. As in I honestly didn’t recognize this person while they were treating me this way. And this was someone I know…well, I knew…as well as anyone can know anyone. But in the last ugly moments we shared, as we were trying to discuss some things, my friend…well, my former friend, became a stranger right before my eyes. My friend became mean, became callous, became hard-hearted. My friend basically became my enemy.

My friend was very angry at me. I knew this. I had said things to hurt my friend’s feelings. My friend had also hurt me. I’ve had people be really angry at me, and I’ve been really angry at people. But for me, when someone is your best friend, your anger at them is different. When someone is your best friend, no matter how angry you get, you know that at some point you both are going to come around and work it out somehow, because the friendship is more important that whatever you were arguing about. You may not speak for a while, and avoid each other and all that, but in time you find you miss each other. You find you miss talking to each other, telling your private jokes to each other, and stuff like that. You miss doing whatever made you friends, you miss sharing whatever made you friends. And once that happens, you find a way to figure out how to get past whatever your issues are, and each of you give a little and take a little and you make up and go back to being friends. This is one of the reasons why I think people who get married should be best friends. That kind of endless resilience no matter what is exactly what is required of a husband and wife if they plan to stay together for a lifetime. You have to just know, no matter what, that having that person in your corner is what is most important at the end of the day, and you make that happen, you BOTH commit yourselves to making that happen. And you work out whatever it is. If you can do that, at the very least you can maintain a friendship over all kinds of damage that being so close to someone always does. I would never suggest that a person just mistreat someone else just because they feel like it. But a friendship is knowing that your bond with a person is there, is really there, even in the heat of very emotional moments when things are often said without consideration for the consequences. Knowing that you’ll find your way back to your friendship no matter how far you roam away from it. A friendship that has never been tested by difficulties has certain limitations to it because you really don’t know how strong it is, what it can withstand.

That was the kind of friendship I thought me and my friend had. I thought it was kind of friendship where, no matter what, we would remain friends, because the friendship was the most important thing and always would be. We had our differences, sure. We didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. We handled a lot of things badly. We crossed a lot of boundaries we should not have crossed. There were lots of other emotions thrown in, like lust and varying degrees of love and pseudo-romance and longing and loneliness and such. But we were friends at the core of it all, or so I thought. And when all that other stuff fell away, ther friendship would stand. Lovers come and go, and the passion and heat of romance fades, and sex isn’t always this fabulous thing that keeps you panting after a person. I’ve had a number of lovers, and I’ll freely admit that. I didn’t always like those lovers. Hell, I haven’t always liked the people I’ve loved. To me love is kind of easy, but LIKE…LIKE is challenging. To me love is like a destination out there in the desert, but like is the camel you ride to get there. Love is pretty and ornamental and useless in a lot of ways. Love is like painkillers; it makes you feel good but doesn’t make you well. Like is medicine, it gets the job done, accomplishes things, builds things, holds things together when they get rough and ugly. Love is fantasy. Like is reality. Love is candlelight dinners at expensive restaurants and falling into rose-scented silk sheets later that night. Like is waking up in the morning, crusty eyes and stank breath, and still wanting to be there with that person. Like is what gets you through day to day with a person, love is what you end up with once you’ve gotten through years of the day to day you get through with like. I have nothing against love, I respect and desire love, but I love like much more than I love love.

I’m not one to genuinely like a lot of people. But I liked this person. Really liked them. Something in them just resonated in me once I really looked at them. That is a rare thing for me. And the friend I thought I had I thought liked me. I thought I resonated with them. I thought they liked me so much so that even  when you took away everything else, all the mistakes and the misunderstandings and the miscommunications and whatever other screwing up we both did as we bumbled through life together, you still had two people who were best friends.

I was often impatient with my friend. And sometimes I got angry. I didn’t get some of the things my friend did sometimes. Some of the things my friend said made no sense. Just seemed stupid, just seemed beyond logic and reason. And I sometimes felt my friend didn’t understand me. Other times I thought my friend understood me too well, and I wasn’t comfortable being so naked with a person. Sometimes my friend wasn’t comfortable with being naked with me. But as far as I was concerned, that was my friend. So when it was all said and done, no matter how angry, upset, incensed, mad I got, no matter how crazy my friend drove me, what mattered was that I still had my friend. And I thought that worked both ways.

Until one day it didn’t.

There were things more important to my friend than our friendship I think. Friends have to forgive each other of a LOT of shit if they’re gonna stay friends, and they have to be ready to do that at any time, sometimes for a long ass time, because people don’t usually warn you when they’re about to fuck up, or for how long they plan to be fucking up.  The kind of friendship I’m speaking of is not for the faint of heart or weak in spirit. I’ve had those kinds of friends a few rare times in my life, not very often of course. It happens damn infrequently. But that’s how it should be I guess; you shouldn’t be able to be that kind of friend with just anyone. It should really be someone who is broken in a way that fits the way you are broken. That wasn’t the kind of friend my friend wanted. My friend said to me once that being friends shouldn’t be so difficult. Being friends should be easy. That being friends should just happen because you want to be friends. My friend told me about how they had other friends who didn’t make being friends so hard. He told me about how his friends didn’t try to make him do things he didn’t want to do, they were content not to press him like I did I guess. My friend resented me because I guess somewhere along the way I had become more trouble than I was worth. My friend said that they wanted me around, but then did everything they could to make it impossible for me to be around and be okay with it.

I don’t think being friends is always easy. I don’t think it’s supposed to be. I don’t think it’s possible if you become close friends. I don’t think being concerned about someone else’s well being is always easy and comfortable. Anytime you put any two things very close together, there are going to be times when them being so close together is going to be a problem. That’s certainly true of people. But you have to decide if being so close together is worth the headaches it can cause at times. I didn’t understand how my friend could be so willing to enjoy the good times that friendship with me brought, and so unwilling to deal with the headaches. My friend only wanted friends that didn’t make my friend nervous, uncomfortable, that didn’t offer challenges, or suggest moving out of comfort zones. My friend didn’t like it when I pointed out things that were happening that needed to be addressed, or when I made observations that they didn’t necessarily want to face. I don’t think a friend is someone who always makes it easy and makes you feel good.

So I guess that means my friend didn’t really want me as a friend.

But what has been the hardest part of losing my best friend has been how my friend has treated me since we stopped being friends. I never thought my friend would do some of the things my friend has done to me. I never thought my friend would say some of the things my friend has said. And these things weren’t said in the heat of anger or strong emotions, which I would happily understand and forgive if my friend wanted me to. These are things my friend has said to me very calmly and coolly and rationally. Just cold and unfeeling. Even though I was prepared to try to get used to us not being friends, it wasn’t my plan that we would be enemies. And even when my friend was doing this, was speaking me to this way, I asked my friend to stop. I asked my friend not to burn this bridge. I told my friend that it had been my hope that we could be cordial once all the dust settled. I asked my friend not to make it so that we couldn’t even say hello if we ever passed each other on the street.

But my friend lit the match, and burned the bridge. And all my crying couldn’t put it out.

This is where my friend has really let me down. For my friend, my absence is more desirable that trying to find a way for us to be friends. It is the worse form of rejection. Suddenly I find myself questioning everything I thought I knew about my friend. I find myself examining everything my friend ever said to me, ever did with me and for me, and I wonder was it all lies and deception. I suddenly wonder if my friend felt I was this huge burden all along that they were glad to be rid off, though I certainly bore much for my friend’s sake. The way my friend…well, my former friend…has dealt with me in the aftermath of everything has really left me rather despondent at times.

But I genuinely feel I did everything I could in the situation with my friend. I was not perfect, but I was honest. I didn’t just tell THE truth, I told MY truth, which is much harder and done much less often in these days and times. And I tried to understand his truth. I tried to communicate as clearly as I could who I was and what that entailed, and I tried to understand who he was, even when he didn’t understand himself. (I have the gift/curse of very accurate insight, observation, and analysis, something he wasn’t as skilled at. Hey, it’s what Virgos do.) Again, I was not perfect, I have issues, I have shit with me, I have all that, and to be my close friend you take on some of that. But I felt our friendship was worth it. I was as supportive and as helpful as I could be, even when my friend didn’t want me to be, because that was usually when my friend needed it most. I let my friend cry on my shoulder for hours on end when my friend needed to. I took care of my friend when my friend was sick and there was no one else around. I tried to be a voice of reason in my friend’s difficult world. But for some reason, my friend didn’t see the value in the core of us when it was said and done.

And that is how my friend let me down.

The one good thing that has come from this is that my being so hurt has brought other friends to my rescue…friends that saw me hurting and who didn’t hesitate to come to my aid. It’s been very gratifying for someone like me, who isn’t close to many people, who doesn’t have a whole lot of friends to find that the few people I have let into my world and into my life and heart over the years have truly stepped up and been so good to me through this. These were people who I also felt I would always be friends with, people that I held in the same esteem and regard that I held the friend who let me down. The funny thing is that the minute they knew I needed support, they did not hesitate. One of these friends is someone I hadn’t spoken to in quite a while, because of a fight we had. I had basically written them off, kind of like how my friend has written me off now (life’s funny that way, isn’t it?) But as soon as he knew I was hurting, all the stuff that had happened in the past between us didn’t matter. He was right there, consoling me, letting me cry and scream and vent and feel horrible. He was right there helping me find my way back to myself. He was right there reminding me of who I was when I had forgotten. He was right there reminding me I wasn’t horrible when my former friend, whose opinion was so important to me, had me feeling like I was the lowest form of life on earth. He has really been a friend through this…the kind of friend I thought my former friend was.

So, what did I learn?

I guess I learned who my friends are. And who they aren’t.

See you next Tuesday!


I was going through my list of Friends on Facebook looking for someone and noticed that he had unfriended me. I got to admit that it hurt. Way more than it should. It never occurred to me to unfriend him. It really didn’t. I guess I still thought of him as someone in my life, even if was just on the edges of it.

One day I’ll get better at this, but today I’m just not good at it at all.

Does Size Matter?

A final, definitive answer to the age old question –
“Does size matter?”


The answer is –
“Not usually. But it can.”


Now some of you are disagreeing with me right now, and that’s all well and fine. But this is my blog, and you are a guest here. As your host, let me offer you the reasons why I say “not usually”.


When I was much younger, I was of the belief that size was all that mattered. The bigger the better. My very first sexual experiences were with my boyfriend starting when I was around eighteen. He was an extremely endowed young man. He was huge, like a freak of nature huge. Long and thick. His was the first penis I ever saw in my life, and though I hadn’t seen anyone else’s penis to compare his to, I knew it was huge. Anyway, he was my first, and my body learned to accommodate him. The downside to all of this was after we broke up, I was very disappointed in my next boyfriend, and the boyfriend after him, and the boyfriend after him. They were all smaller than my ex, which confused me for a while. I thought all penises were the size (more or less) of my first boyfriend’s penis. But once I got older and got some perspective on the matter (i.e. saw several other penises), I figured out conclusively that my first boyfriend had just been really big. But even with that understanding, I still preferred the larger man. It was what I knew, what I was used to. So eventually I learned to….ummm…discern between the smaller and larger men by developing my…ummm….senses in certain areas. And I got to be really good at it too. I was one of those women who could accurately detect penis size to an eighth of an inch accuracy without sight or touch.


Eventually I did become involved with less endowed men, mostly because one thing that you always get with a well-endowed man is well-endowed man arrogance (more about that later) and I eventually got sick of it, though I didn’t know what it was at the time. The first thing I learned about the lesser endowed men is that they all know they are less endowed. I have yet to meet one who didn’t know he had a little dick, relatively speaking. I’ve met some who didn’t know how little it really was, but they always have a general idea that they’ve missed out on an inch or two, or three, or…well, you get the idea. I guess someone tells them, or if they figure it out somehow or some way, but they always seem to know. More often than not they let you know in some way before you have sex with them…they drop hints as it were, but you have to be able to understand the code words for “my dick ain’t as big as you might want it to be.” I will admit, the first time I was “warned” I didn’t know that’s what I was getting…a warning. The first time it happened, as we undressed each other he said “I hope I got enough of what you need baby”, and at the time I thought he meant stamina. He was being much more literal than that as I discovered once he was naked. Then you have that moment of “oh wow” that you have to cleverly disguise if he can see your face. More often than not he won’t see it because less endowed men do tend to be more generous with the cunillingus – and more skilled at it to, in my experience.

Some less endowed men will make sure they’re erect before you see them so you won’t be as aware of their…ummm…shortcomings. That can work for a while, if the guy’s erect penis appears “normal” in size. Some guys with small penises have a lot of what I call “range”. They’re actually small when unerect, but once they get hard they expand to at least an acceptable length, though even then they’re usually not big. But eventually you’ll catch a glimpse of the total, unerect truth, and there is always a moment of sadness, even if you have been magnificently satisfied by the little fella. And no matter what you do or say, a less endowed man will always be just a tad bit insecure in this area. It doesn’t matter how encouraging you may be.

Ultimately a smaller penis isn’t a bad thing. Truth be told most women’s G-spot is more easily reached and stimulated by an average sized penis; it lays in a (relatively) shallow part of the vagina, it’s not deeply embedded inside. A man with a larger penis really needs to master a stroking technique that I call “half stroking” to stimulate the G-spot, and many of them don’t, which means oftentimes they do not satisfy women in terms of vaginal orgasmic pleasure through penetration as men who are less endowed. Once I became fully aware of the location of my G-spot, I did find that the larger penis tended to stroke right past it. Additionally, men tend to believe deep penetration is the key to sexual satisfaction, and men with large penises especially do a lot a deep penetrating, sometimes to the exclusion of everything else. While I’m not saying it isn’t a part of it, but it isn’t the only part. I tried to explain this in retrospect to one of my exes who was very well endowed but who was all about the super deep penetration, so he never really stimulated me to the extent he could have through penetration. To make matters worse, he was lousy at giving oral sex, and would not take any suggestions, instructions, guidance, or hints from me in this department. He was vicious with my clit to be honest, and when I tried to let him know, he actually told me something must be wrong with me. Yeah, okay.

But this is part of the “big dick mindset”. Men who are well/overly endowed, especially the less experienced ones tend to think penetration is the most important factor in sex. Some even think having a big dick is all they need, that they’re somehow won the penis lottery or something. Now let me be clear…penetration is a key element. But penetration on its own without other stimulation can lead to a dry pussy very easily, especially over an extended period of time. That is the other mistake men often make…that how long they last is all that matters. They think the length of time they have sex is more important than the quality of the sex they have for that length of time. Now again let me be clear; a two minute brotha is always a problem. But it as just as unpleasant and unenjoyable for a woman when a guy with a big dick goes poking around on and on for hours on end with no other stimulation as when a premature guy does what he does. Ideally you want to balance length and girth, stimulation and penetration, quantity of time and quality of time.

But back to the big guys. Generally because they know they have big dicks, they are more likely to seek out a lot of partners. Again let me be clear…men with little dicks can be hoes too, but usually they are hoes because they’re trying to get past the fact that they have little dicks. They’re looking for that one woman who will make them feel like they don’t have a little dick. But they’ll never find her, so they keep on going from woman to woman. Men with big dicks are hoes because they want to show off their dicks. It’s like having a Bentley or an Armani suit…what good is it if no one knows you have it? So when it comes to their sexual partners, they always know in the back of their minds that they can get another woman if they want, after all, they have a big dick! So there is always an arrogance there…it can be very hard to put your finger on at first if you haven’t experienced it, but this is the best way to tell you’re dealing with this kind of man. If you meet a man who is arrogant for no particular reason…he’s not good looking, or well off financially, or doesn’t have a great career, or an expensive car, home, or clothes, or isn’t famous or something like that…if he’s arrogant and the reason isn’t obvious, he has a big dick.

The downside of the big dick arrogance sets in when the man gets older. Eventually some women figure out that bigger isn’t always better, so a man having a big dick isn’t as important anymore. Secondly, when you get older, well…you’re older. You are likely to be less appealing to a woman as the new younger models of big dicks on the market. Plus because you are older, you don’t always have the patience to go out and solicit new pussy. You have other things you want to do, other things you need to do. Plus by now you’ve alienated the pussy you had in your life because you tossed them aside secure in the knowledge that you’d get someone else. So you can’t even go back to old pussy because it doesn’t want you anymore because you tossed it aside so callously. That’s one thing men with little dicks rarely do…they always leave the door open for old pussy to come back. Men with big dicks tend to be too arrogant to do that. Now you’re an older dude with a big dick, not as much patience, and, like what tends to happen as men get older, you’re not as energetic as you once were. Your dick is still big, but performance-wise it has gotten older, just like you. Takes longer to get hard, doesn’t get as hard, the usual stuff that tends to happen to dicks as they age. And now you don’t even have a woman who likes you around who will tolerate that kind of stuff. Because women who want big dicks want big dicks that work, and work well. And sure, you could get some Viagra or whatever, but the fact still remains that your big dick needed VIAGRA! Your pride and joy, your key to the pussy kingdom is on crutches. That’s not a good feeling for a man’s ego.

So back to the original question…”does size matter”?

I think it can, sure. If you’re a woman who prefers a big dick, a man less endowed is going to take getting used to, if nothing else. And it may not work at all if you insist on big ‘uns. Performance wise, I honestly don’t think it has to matter. I think if a man takes an enthusiastic and genuine interest in pleasing his partner, keeps himself relatively healthy, and is willing to take suggestion and direction, size can become irrelevant. So it matters as much as you say it matters. For me, a big dick isn’t as appealing as it once was. It’s not a requirement like it used to be. But a willingness to please me, a comfort with himself and with me physically, and an openness to what pleases me are requirements. And wanting me helps to. I need to be wanted, I do. Lusted after. Adored. Openly and secretly. Constantly. Inside and out. Without ceasing. Most women require a level of adoration to fully enjoy their sexuality with the men they desire and care for, and every man I’ve ever lost interest in had a problem with being comfortable with adoring me.

See you Thursday!