The War of 2012 – A Year In Review

I stand here at the end of 2012 and realize the landscape of my life has totally changed. Much of what was my life 12 months ago is no more. Practically every person, place, and thing that was a constant in my life some 360 odd days ago is gone, swept away in a tsunami of repressed emotions I set free, demolishing everything and everyone in its path, including me. Now I am working to rebuild after the “War of 2012”. There were no winners in this war, only varying degrees of losers, and I was the biggest one of all.

2012 reminded me that in order to get what you really want, what your heart most desires, what your soul truly longs for, NOT just what you think you should have, or what seems reasonable to expect, you have to be honest about what you REALLY want, no matter how unachievable it seems. In the face of having to rebuild my life, I got brutally honest about what I wanted in it. I was going to rebuild it exactly the way I wanted it to be. So I asked myself: what did I want that I was afraid to go after?  What was I settling for? And was I willing to believe I deserved every wonderful thing I wanted?

I want to be in love and have love in open flowing abundance, flowing and growing between myself and a man I adore, who adores me. I want mind blowing lovemaking, sex, AND fucking with someone who truly wants me, craves me, who I want equally as much. I want to write and record successfully — financially successfully. I want to produce my own live theater show — maybe even a series of shows. I want to live in a big beautiful home, surrounded by the things and people I find beautiful. I want to be recognized more widely for my formidable talent. And I want respect from my peers as an artist.

2012 stripped me of my crutches — especially relationships I leaned on in an unhealthy way. It forced me to stand alone. 2012 took from me a marginally satisfying existence and left me empty. I hid from the world, drowning in the tears I cried daily. I was dying, and for a long time didn’t care that I was dying because I thought I wanted to die. But in my heart I knew I didn’t want to die. And for the first time in my life, I didn’t turn in on myself during a low depressing point in my life. I didn’t internalize my grief and loss, convincing myself that I deserved it. I didn’t go into total isolation. I realized I had a right to heal, and I needed support in my healing. So I reached out to others and asked them to help save me.

I reached out to anyone I though might have an ounce of compassion or caring for me. I didn’t care how weak I appeared. I unashamedly showed my most vulnerable hurting battered self. There were people I hadn’t talked to in forever who I knew would be there, and I went to them. (I had a falling out with a close friend and hadn’t spoken to him for a couple of years. I emailed him saying “I know you might hate me but I’m drowning. I need help.” And he called me an hour later. We’ve become good friends again.) Everyone I reached out to assisted me without hesitation. I didn’t put on the brave face for them either. I let them see me cry and scream and rant and hurt. The more I opened myself to others, the more I found acceptance, strength, and people who actually admired my willingness to work through the pain most people run and hide from, or pretend not to feel. And little by little, day by day, I felt the pieces of me reassembling. Best of all, everyone encouraged me to get back to writing regularly. They knew it would be the best medicine for me. And in the midst of all this, I looked up and there he was.

I’m still not sure where he came from. But something about him spoke to me, so I answered. He pointed out the most neglected parts of myself and helped me revive those parts. And now he is here for me in a strong, quietly solid, supportive way that doesn’t ask me to do anything but be myself, even when myself is ugly. In fact he doesn’t even think its ugly. He doesn’t flinch when I show him my wounds. He kisses them, and kisses the rest of me too. He admires and respects me. And he thinks I’m hot. He doesn’t even mind when I write about him here in my blog, and I appreciate his appearance in my life at this time more than words can express.

And for all of you reading this, I wish for you in 2013 the strength to uproot your life and turn it inside out and upside down if that is what is required for it to be what you want it to be. I hope you raise whatever hell you need to raise to find your bliss, your passion and your peace. I hope you find the people you need to share it all with, and cast out anyone not worthy of you. I also hope you keep reading my blog, because 2013 is gonna be fire!



This version of Auld Lang Syne is really nice…take a listen if you’ve never heard it before.


The first time — finding freedom


My first time was with my first boyfriend. His name was Keenan Kersey. I met him when I was 14 and he was 13. In the typical teenage love fashion of that day, we spent hours upon hours upon hours on the phone together, watching television together on the phone, falling asleep together on the phone, waking up together on the phone, etc. We quickly became inseparable, and continued to be for the next six years. We were both very intelligent, super-nerdy extra geeky Virgos who were awkward and analytical as hell, and we were both virgins on top of all that. In typical analytical organized Virgo fashion, after a great deal of discussion we decided that we were going to lose our virginity to each other.

It made sense to us for a lot of reasons – we loved each other very much and felt comfortable with each other. We were certain we were going to marry as soon as we were old enough. During our marathon phone conversations both of us were anxious about being with other people who knew more about sex than us, which would make us feel even more awkward in what we both felt was going to be an already awkward situation.  So after expressing our fears about these things to each other, we decided we would journey into the uncharted waters of sex together.

But because we were nerdy and geeky, we figured we needed to consult some books on the subject to go along with our natural inclinations. His mother worked countless hours at her job, which gave us a lot of time together alone at his house on McCabe Avenue off York Road. So we went to the library and consulted copies of “The Joy of Sex”, “Teenage Sexuality”, “Your Child In Adolescence”, and “Our Bodies, Our Selves”. But because we wanted to be balanced in what we looked at, we also went down on the Block to get copies of Penthouse Forum and Playboy Advisor. We threw in a copy of The Kama Sutra just because it looked interesting. And with the help and guidance of these learning aids, we began teaching each other and ourselves about sex.

We went at it very slowly, when I was about fifteen and a half. For the longest time we would just kiss and touch each other, and when I say long time, I mean that was all we did for months. We touched each other everywhere, pressing every part of our bodies against each other. We eventually started being partially undressed during our make out sessions. After some months of this, we began exploring oral sex, both of us trying to learn how to give and to receive pleasure to each other and from each other. Keep in mind we still hadn’t had sex yet – we had mutually agreed that when it was time to penetrate that place, we’d both know, and we both felt the “everything else but” approach was the best way to go for now. Giving oral sex for me was a bit confusing, and while the books helped, their details didn’t answer all my questions. So my boyfriend suggested watching porn. I agreed that might help. He stole two videotapes of Vanessa del Rio from one of his uncles, and we watched them. I paid particular attention to her fellatio technique, and practiced on him. And this sex education until the summer before my senior year of high school, shortly after I turned seventeen and he was sixteen, when we finally decided it was time to do the deed. He brought condoms, and I made plans to start taking birth control pills. After a very extended foreplay session that went on for hours, it happened. Yes it hurt, but as strange as this may sound, it just seemed like a pain that was okay with me. It didn’t seem unnatural. It seemed organic. I didn’t feel like someone was hurting me, even though it did hurt. I remember one of the books I’d read talked about “breathing into the penetration”, so I did, and that helped. And with that, my virginity was no more. When I got home that night at around 8 p.m. (it was a Saturday night), I slept until the following  afternoon – nearly 18 hours straight.

As I look back, I am very thankful that my first time went the way it did. I had plenty of time to prepare my mind and my body for what was going to happen. The extended time we spent getting to know each other physically allowed us to understand the complexity of our bodies. I was allowed to learn what turned me on and what didn’t. It wasn’t hurried or rushed, and it was with someone who genuinely cared for me who I cared for. I was in a safe environment in every way – physically and emotionally. It was a very mature and sophisticated experience that honored what sex should be. Though we were young, we didn’t take what we were doing lightly. We understood its importance and entered into the experience almost reverently. He was respectful of me at every turn and was always considerate of how I was feeling. Even during the intercourse itself whenever I seemed to be experiencing discomfort he offered to stop. It never was just about him getting off, and once we got comfortable with the mechanics of the actual sex act and I went on the pill, we were very active sexually. By this time he was living with his grandmother, who left to go to work at 5:30 a.m. every day for work. He would walk her to the bus stop, and then he would call me to let me know she was gone. I would leave my house, and usually by 6:30 a.m. I was in bed with him, and as long as I left by 7:45 a.m. I could get to school by homeroom at 8:25 a.m. And I did this at least three times a week, and sometimes every morning. So all my senior year, while still being a geek, nerd, a total bookworm and the one the boys least expected to be able to “get some” from, I was probably more sexually active than everyone in my class, including most of the teachers. Some days I wouldn’t make it out of bed, and we would both just hook school, lying together there until 2 p.m., when we could be outside without arousing any suspicion. Plus his grandmother got off at 2 p.m., so we always made sure we were up by then, had changed the sheets, aired out the room, etc. before we left.

To this day I am thankful that I was wise enough to know my first sexual experience deserved to be a special one, even a sacred one, which is truly how I viewed it. I knew I didn’t want to be unplanned, unprepared for. I knew I didn’t want it to be with some random individual who didn’t care for me. It happened just the way I needed it to. Most importantly, I felt fully in possession of my sexual self even though I chose to give myself to him sexually, and that feeling is the one I most treasure now. From the very first time I was with a man I never felt ashamed, that something was being taken from me, or even that I was giving him something. I felt it was a sharing thing.

Unfortunately I see a lot of women who do not own this crucial part of themselves – their sexual selves. The reasons vary from woman to woman, but once a woman becomes an adult she has a responsibility to herself to become a whole sexual being in every respect, and to take full ownership of and responsibility for herself sexually. She should do whatever that requires – whether its therapy to recover from some sort of abuse trauma or a new vibrator so she can figure out what she likes on her own. This means understanding her sexual self is a gift she should offer on her own highly personal terms, terms that cannot afford to be clouded with fear, pain, self-doubt or self-loathing. These terms don’t have to be approved by anyone else or even understood by anyone else, but they must be terms she has set without considering outside influences. My sexual experiences have afforded me the unique opportunity to have always felt free to set my own terms sexually with little real thought to how society felt about it. I never was trying to fuck society, so I didn’t really see the need to involve them in my process. I have always owned me, because there was never a time when I was made to feel like I shouldn’t or didn’t. It pains me to see women who, for whatever reason, have had to give up control of their sexual selves, whether through brute force, societal pressures, or psychological abuse. It is my hope that any woman reading this is fully in charge of herself sexually, whether single, married, young, old, whatever.

And if you need a new vibrator to help you out…I’ll be happy to sell you one!

You can visit me at to purchase adult novelty items like vibrators, massage oils, scented candles, lingerie, etc.

Exposing SSB (Secret Slutty Behavior) Part One — Transitional D**k

One of the things that I seek to do in my writing is to expose women’s SSB – “secret slutty behavior”. These are things that many women typically do that they are ashamed of because they feel the behavior in question makes them slutty. Now while I’m all for being private about one’s sexual activities (except for those who need to know about them), I am violently opposed to secrecy that comes from shame or an unwillingness to acknowledge and deal with reality. I am against secrecy that keeps a woman from seeing the entire truth of who/what she is, not just the parts that society says are acceptable. With that said, here we go…my treatise on transitional d**k.

I was recently talking to a girlfriend about her relationship woes. She was just coming off a lust affair that had gone downhill in a very rapid period of time. Still adjusting to the unhappy turn of events, she was sharing with me how she’d awakened one morning really, really horny, and how she hated feeling that way. Of course feeling that way made her miss her most recent lover. He’d been a good lover by her reports and his absence had been especially troubling this morning.


(This picture has nothing to do with this topic. I just liked the eye candy.)

This brought up the subject about which I am going to discuss:

TRANSITIONAL D**K. Transitional d**k is one of those unspoken rituals that pretty much all women engage in at some time or another. Women don’t talk about it for various reasons, but high on the list is that certain activities supposedly make women sluts, and transitional d**k is one of those things. Clearly I don’t care about that kind of thing, which is why I have no qualms about bringing it up here. In fact, in addition to explaining what transitional d**k is, I’m going to relate my most recent transitional d**k story.

Transitional d**k is basically the dude a woman sleeps with after her last long term involvement who she intentionally does not become involved with. Transitional d**k serves several purposes, but the most important one is that he allows the woman’s memory of her last sexual experience to be a memory of someone other than her ex. Transitional d**k does serve other purposes as well: if a woman had a particularly bad breakup she may be feeling unattractive, and transitional d**k lets her know she is still sexually attractive at the very least; if a woman’s last sexual experience was a bad one, transitional d**k will (hopefully) leave her with more pleasant feelings about sex. Transitional d**k can also help a woman reclaim her “sexual game” if it has been a long time since she’s had sex – in this instance transitional d**k helps her dust off her bag of tricks and she gets some real-world practice with certain moves and certain acts she may no longer be as good at because she hasn’t been sexually active. But the most important function of transitional d**k is to clear the path for the next man in your life that you want to keep around for a while.

temporary feelings

BUT for transitional d**k to work, several steps have to be taken:

First, a woman has to TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY leave her ex alone. That means no dipping back for occasional strolls down sexual memory lane after the breakup. Let’s keep it real – breaking up with a man usually means losing a reliable and at least an adequate sex partner. In some cases he may have been more than adequate, or he may have been outstanding, which makes leaving even more difficult. So lots of women have what I call ex sex – they’re supposed to be broken up with their former boyfriend, but they’re still making and responding to booty calls and such. As long as a woman keeps the sexual connection to her ex alive, she cannot transition. A woman has to completely cut it off. The sex I mean. With the ex I mean.

Secondly, a woman has to TOTALLY AND COMPLETELY leave sex alone for a while. Transitional d**k cannot work if you immediately jump into it after you break up with your ex. You can’t break up with your man on Tuesday and have what you want to be transitional d**k on Thursday and think it’s going to be all good. You have to put some time and distance between your last time with your ex and the next time, so that the transitional d**k can clearly be defined. It needs a clear line of demarcation – a beginning, a middle, and an end. There are lots of reasons why a person should take a break after a major breakup that have nothing to do with sex, but as far as transitional d**k goes, that period of not having sex, of missing sex, of wanting and really needing sex is necessary. This helps enhance the relief, reflection, and re-direction you can achieve with transitional d**k. So a woman needs to just chill sexually for a bit, a bit being however long it takes her to really miss sex A LOT. I’m not talking about that first wave of missing sex that occurs a week or two after your ex is gone. I’m talking about the kind of missing sex that makes you physically ill, the kind that ties your stomach up in knots and makes you dizzy if you sit up too fast in the morning and makes you sleep with all your pillows between your legs. I’m going to say it takes at least four months to get to that place but you have to be in that place for transitional d**k to be most effective, but of course it varies from woman to woman.

Third, a woman has to then temporarily compartmentalize her desire for sex. A lot of women are really not good at making clear distinctions between their sex lives and their romantic/love lives. Because transitional d**k isn’t meant to be love, a woman needs to be clear on the fact that for the present time love and romance are not priorities for her. Sex is. Only sex. This means being able to have sex with whomever the transitional d**k man happens to end up being BUT not having any real desire to turn that situation into something more than transitional, NO MATTER HOW TEMPTED SHE MAY BE. This is where a lot of women mess up. They don’t see their transitional situations for what they are, perhaps in part because they don’t want to seem like sluts. But embracing the idea of transitional d**k, of choosing it as one of the tools you use to heal after a breakup is important. A woman should never feel uncomfortable about anything she willingly chooses to do with her body as long as its done with full knowledge and comprehension of any/all consequences and as long as its done safely.

But who does a woman select for transitional d**k? She should consider guys she is acquainted with that she likes who like her BUT for whatever reason the two never got together. A lot of times men may have a bit of a passing interest in a female but because of various circumstances in their lives they really can’t pursue her. Ex-boyfriends generally can’t be transitional d**k because you run the risk of unintentionally reviving the relationship, and that’s not what is supposed to happen. Dudes a woman may have dated a few times who slipped into the “friend zone” could perhaps be considered, but again there is that risk of escalating what is supposed to be a very temporary situation. A woman wants a guy she likes enough to let hit it, who wants to hit it but can respect her after he hits it even if nothing comes of the sex. There are some dudes out there (even these days) who base their opinion of a woman on some shit relating to how women conduct their sex lives, something they know nothing about since they don’t have pussies. Women should stay away from those dudes. A woman should consider that passing acquaintance that she never really got close to that she doesn’t necessarily want to get close to now, but she still have some sexual curiosity about. Other good options for transitional d**k are men a woman may meet while on vacation far from home or former lovers who may be stopping through town for a day or two. The point is that transitional d**k has to have limited appeal and ideally should only be temporarily available. This is another safeguard against mistaking transitional d**k for something more than that – he’s a guy you’re only marginally attracted to in a very specific limited way, and he’s only available in that limited way for a limited time. A little bit later I’ll tell you about my most recent transitional d**k dude, and you’ll get a clearer picture of what I mean.

Ideally transitional d**k should take no more than 3 sessions. That should be enough time for a woman to get her enjoyment out of it, for him to get whatever he needs physically, and to then have the brief conversation afterwards to re-direct the relationship. Because we are human, we can never be sure how human interactions are going to go. So the other way you make sure transitional d**k remains just that is by being honest about it if it comes up.  If the man asks about some sort of dating arrangement, or even if he just wants to have sex again, you politely explain that you are in the process of going through a breakup and while you’re not looking for anything at this time, you really found him attractive so you “treated” yourself to him. Then cut it off. Even if he says, “I’m not looking for anything serious either”, cut it off. Transitional d**k situations are almost never transformed to full relationship status. That’s not to say it has never happened in the history of the world, but the odds are very much against you. Hey, you’ve been warned.

My most recent transitional d**k was a guy I had known for a while, someone I’d met through a friend. I always thought he was a good looking guy, but he wasn’t my type. Whenever we ran into each other he always seemed very very glad to see me, and he always seemed to be checking me out, but he never did enough of these things to make me ask what was up with that. Plus as I said, he wasn’t my type, though he seemed to be a nice enough dude. Also, when I first met him he was married, but legally separated from his wife and in the process of divorcing. We were Facebook friends of course, and because Facebook is the devil I happened to stumble across his status one night a few months ago which read, “I really need a bunch of drinks right now.” Foolishly I responded, “me too”, and an hour and a half later we were in a bar drinking tequila and we were getting caught up, me talking to this guy about my last relationship while he talked about his divorce and a move south he was contemplating. We visited four bars during the course of the evening, and had excellent conversation. When he dropped me off at home he stole a kiss goodnight that I totally wasn’t expecting, and it did make me stop and think (well as best I could after drinking tequila for four hours). I stumbled into the house, and managed to post on Facebook that he’d gotten me intoxicated before I staggered off to bed. Because most of my friends are alcoholics in varying degrees, next morning I found my announcement peppered with numerous “likes”.

He reached out the next day to say he’d had a good time. Cool. But the following day he actually called. We talked a little bit and he asked if we could go out. I wasn’t really sure how I wanted to proceed, and eventually agreed to go for a drive with him. He picked me up and we talked and talked for hours about this and that. I learned a lot about him that surprised me.

Without getting into too much detail, we hung out a couple of other times and we did end up fucking. Twice.

(This was playing on the radio when he took me home after the first time.)

Now after the first time we had sex I was a bit confused. I honestly wasn’t sure if he was a transitional situation. He would call just to talk and stuff like that, so for a minute I was confused about his intentions. To me he was a guy that I found attractive who found me attractive, and his actions made me think that maybe he was pursuing me beyond the physical for a minute. But all of that stuff was still secondary to me – my primary concern was that it had been several months since my ex and I had parted company and I was starved sexually. This guy was definitely curious about me sexually, I was extremely horny, and painfully aware of my need to get the sex with my ex out of my head, especially since my ex was the only man I’d been intimate over the past three plus years. And while I thought this guy did have some kind of interest in me, he also had some kind of domestic situation which was going to preclude him from really getting into something with me. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was, and to be honest I didn’t care. I can’t say he lied about it, because truthfully I never really asked for details. I asked very general questions and he responded, and I filled in the blanks. With all of those things factored in, by the second time we had sex I realized that he was my transitional lay. And I was good with it. I made sure I got what I needed that time because I knew it was my last time with him. But it was no harm no foul as far as I was concerned. After those two incidents it was nearly 6 months before I had sex again, but when I did, I wasn’t carrying memories of my ex to that man’s bed with me, and by the time he was done I really couldn’t think straight about much of anything anyway.

Now if you are contemplating transitional d**k, please take all these things into consideration, always practice safe sex, and good luck to you! After all, you’re a grown woman, which means your p***y is too.



BEFORE WE BEGIN…I need you to listen to something. 

After clicking on the link below, click the play button at the bottom of the Reverbnation page the link takes you to, and listen to this poem by me IF you’re not familiar with it. IF YOU’RE FAMILIAR WITH THE POEM, feel free to skip the link if you wish and continue reading.

He Kissed Me — By Petula Caesar

This piece is one of my most popular ones, especially with the women. The speaker talks about how she is very intimately involved with a man who she will not let kiss her because “that’s against the rules”. She goes on to say that he has done “everything to her body that a man could ever do…”, but she resolutely refuses to allow kissing as part of their intimate physical activity. For many people, women especially it seems, kissing is a much more intimate activity than sex. It somehow indicates a higher level of affection for a person than sex does. It demonstrates a level of fondness, of being attached to, of caring for that person. And I have to agree that. While I’ve had sex with my fair share of men, I’ve not kissed all of them. I would even go as far to say that I haven’t kissed many of them. Even the ones I did kiss I did not kiss very often, or they had to request kisses from me. I did not volunteer kisses most of the time. This includes my ex-fiancees, and even my most recent ex.

In the case of my most recent ex, not kissing him often was my way of keeping my emotions regarding him in check, because I knew I had to. So if he didn’t ask for a kiss, he didn’t get a kiss beyond pecks on the cheek that I give to most of my friends. Strangely enough he usually asked for kisses during sex, and I would oblige of course, but it was always rather hesitantly, which he didn’t seem to like. He was always rather insistent during these times during our osculatory activities, but I was never completely comfortable with it. For me it took our intimacy into a deeper place that I didn’t let many men go, and it was a place I really wasn’t sure he wanted to go. He knew exactly how I felt about kissing because he was very familiar with the poem, had heard it many times, and he knew about the incident that caused me to write the poem. He knew how I felt about kissing and what it signified for me. Yet he still asked for kisses when we were intimate, and would sometimes just kiss me.


So I’d come not to be a huge fan of kissing over the years. Kissing represented the last line of my defenses when it came to personal relationships. It was my way of keeping a man at arms’ length — or in this case, at lips’ length — but still having him close to me.  When I allowed kisses, I quickly set up boundaries for them in my head so they didn’t leave me feeling too vulnerable and emotionally exposed. For me, doing these things kept me from not making a fool of myself with a man. I foolishly felt not kissing a man would stop me from loving him and even worse, finding my love unrequited.

But I suspected things were going to be different this time around after I had this conversation with the man I am dating now. We were discussing a show I was preparing for, and I was telling him what pieces I planned to do.

Me:  I think I’ll do “He Kissed Me”. In fact I have to do “He Kissed Me”.

Him:  Oh okay. I know that one. That’s the one where the girl won’t kiss the guy and he just goes ahead and she gets mad because she feels more vulnerable with him when they kiss.

Me:  Yeah. It always surprises me at how well you know my stuff.

Him: I’ve been paying attention. Not that I’m a groupie or anything…(chuckling)

Me:  (Chuckling also) Yeah okay. Well, women love that one. You know for a lot of women especially kissing is more intimate than sex, so kissing a man  is really a more intimate act. It like kissing means you really like them like…FOR REAL.

Him: Really?

Me:  Yeah, definitely.

Him: (pause) So…can I kiss you when we have sex?

Me:  (longer pause)  Ummmm…yeah sure. I guess.

It took me aback because no one has ever asked me if they could kiss me before we were anywhere close to kissing.

kiss cartoon

So this guy was someone who understood kissing really was out of my comfort zone, and not what I typically did. He did because he knew the poem very well. He’s even asked about how I came to write it. He had to have understood the ramifications of asking for a kiss from me, especially during sex, especially in context of the poem we were discussing. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious, and I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to get into a huge discussion over the comment unnecessarily, and there really was no point because I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to have sex with him, much less kiss him. His comment did make me start wondering what being intimate with him might be like, and I hadn’t done that until then because I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. After all I’d been through with men I really didn’t feel I had it in me to throw my  pussy back into the cold cruel world. Plus I felt like my ability to judge a man’s interest in me was completely gone, and to be honest, I was still in my hurt feelings a bit from my ex and was finding it somewhat difficult to believe a man might like me, or want to kiss me. So while typically a woman decides pretty quickly if a man could “get it” (which is no guarantee that he will mind you), I hadn’t allowed myself to seriously think about him that way until this comment. But he did ultimately get cool points for asking.

But as the weeks passed, and we talked, and went on dates, and started to like each other, much to my surprise late one night after a date, it happened. THE FIRST TIME (well, our first time together) happened. Now women usually know when the “first time” with a guy they’re seeing is going to happen. They plan for it, consciously or sub-consciously. They wear the cute bra and panty set, or even go commando. They give everything an extra spritz with their favorite perfume or body spray. They put extra condoms in their purse. They arrange for the kids to be gone all night, or make sure they take along a few extra things they may require for an extended date. Whatever. I was totally unprepared for the first time. I saw nothing coming. It was just another date night for us as far as I was concerned. I’d gotten used to us ending our dates with a “goodnight” and nothing else. But on this particular dark night he invited me in. When I came out the light hit my eyes with brutal force, causing me to squint, and when I did I saw his face over me, eyes slightly closed, lips parted, preparing to reach down towards my lips with his to kiss me.

Now because I had warning that he was going to kiss me (after all he had been proactive enough to get permission beforehand), I’d had time to prepare extra defense mechanisms in preparation for that first time just in case it ever happened. I was able to call them up pretty quickly even though I didn’t think that particular night I was going to need them — I basically put them on “stand by” status after he made that comment. So throughout the course of that first time together I was ready to be kissed. I was good with it. It was okay with me, and had mentally prepared myself so I could let him kiss me. Notice I said let him kiss me. I did not say I was going to kiss him. Kissing initiated by me wasn’t going to happen. There was no need for it to, because again, that was a form of vulnerability that I certainly wasn’t going to allow to ruin this pseudo-casual sexual experience I was going to have.

But…but…then there was the problem of his lips. Kissing him was kind of like sitting down to eat dinner and not realizing how hungry you are until the food comes.

Shouldn’t A Let You Kiss Me – Ama Chandra

There was something about his lips that were like a battering ram to years of carefully constructed, military-precise defenses that had held fast for over a decade. It was like they were under attack. I tried to hold on, to hold out, but I found as the hours slipped by like water rolling down a hill I couldn’t stop the assault, and TRUST ME I TRIED. I am the veteran of the lust wars, and I’m not a lightweight by any means. There was something about him, his lips on mine, him kissing me and me responding though I knew I didn’t want to at first. But as he kissed me over and over and over through the night, my defenses didn’t seem like a safe place to hide anymore. My defenses didn’t seem like a way to keep hurt and pain out. With him they seemed like a prison keeping me from something I might want, I might need, I might deserve to have. They seemed like something holding me back, holding me hostage, separating me from a place I wanted to go, from a place maybe I really wanted to be, even if it was just for a little while. My defenses seemed like they were keeping me from a place where maybe, just maybe, I could be me, and I could be free. Totally me, totally free. And that, more than anything else in the world, is what I’ve really wanted.

Suddenly I felt my defenses were hurting me more than he ever could.

So I kissed him back and in my head listened to the loud crack in my wall. I winced at the sound. But when it cracked the second time I didn’t flinch at all. I kissed him back, even harder, and I felt him pull at my hair. There was a third cracking sound, louder still, and I closed my eyes as tight as I could. In my head I saw my water starting to leak through the cracks. I felt it trickle out of me, bit by bit at first. His lips pushed against the wall, making the cracks larger and the water started to flow through the cracks more freely and I opened myself up so the wetness could leave me like it wanted to.

And then I wasn’t afraid anymore.

Wonder how I’m gonna feel the next time I do that poem…because I think I’ve been converted to a kisser. Or maybe I always was one.