The Healing

“…say farewell to the dark of night, I see the coming of the sun…I feel like a little child whose life has just begun…You came and breathed new life into this lonely heart of mine…You threw out the lifeline just in the nick of time…One, you’re like a dream come true – Two, just wanna be with you – Three, girl, it’s plain to see, that you’re the only one for me – And four, repeat steps one through three – Five, make you fall in love with me – If ever I believe my work is done…Then I’ll start back at one…”


And here I am…soft.

I have my soft back like I used to be.

I have my soft.

Thought my softness died in me.

But look at me now.

I am sweet smiling joy,

and so soft.

All over, inside and out,

gentle and tender.

Like water rushing over a hard stone

for a thousand years to finally make it smooth

Him finding me took a thousand tears

but when he did he finally proved

that the soft part of me was still alive.

Just dehydrated.

Thirsting for proper care.

Didn’t know how much I’d missed my softness

until he rediscovered and kissed my softness

and made the waters return,

bringing life back

to the most womanly part of my essence.

The part that is soft,

especially in his presence.

And here I am…soft.

Poured him onto my skin

and it made me soft.

Let him just soak right in.

And now I feel so supple and moisturized.

So silky and revitalized.

He is a spa treatment for my wounded self

and my tired spirit.

So real to me.

So healed with he.

Now I bathe in the reflection of the beauty

he reminded me that I possessed.

Now I am soft,

from the curve of my breast

to the smoothness of my back

to the fullness of my thighs.

My lips and my eyes.

All soft.

Still soft, to my joy and amazement.

Because I wasn’t sure my soft would survive

this life of hardness.

When I threw that shell over it

for its own protection

I worried that my soft might suffocate.

And I had to leave it covered for so long

I thought it might be too late.

That no one would be able to resuscitate

the soft in me.

But he knew what was living

beneath the surface,

strangling and gasping for air,

but still managing to stay alive.

So he took a deep breath, held it,

dove deep, long and probing,

and recovered my treasure.

Rejuvenated my pleasure.

And when he came up for air

he had in his possession my soft.

And he still does ‘til this day.

Because with him is the safest place

for the softness in me to be.

He cares for all of it

like he cares for all of me.

Me who is again finally…


“…Through the night, I feel your voice…and with nothing but you in my mind, as you quench me of all my desires…and I’m filled with ecstasy…I can’t believe its real, I can’t believe its true, I can’t believe that you chose me when I was choosing you. And I can’t believe that you are here with me, and I am here with you…softly kissing you…forever kissing you…gently kissing you…”


Recovering from amnesia with my lotus flower bomb…

So, I’m not as young as I used to be as many of you know. And one of the bad things about getting older is you often lose pleasure in certain things that at one time made you happy. Or you forget about those things completely, and about how much fun they used to be. But happily, I was reminded of one of those things Saturday night. That thing is (drum roll)…


Petting…making out…going to first base/second base/third base…and stopping! Whatever you want to call it. In fact I can’t even think of a current term for foreplay that isn’t necessarily intended to end with sex, and that is really my point.

Once you get to be an adult, especially a fairly sexually experienced adult, sex is intended to be the end result of foreplay. In fact, it is the primary reason foreplay exists. The kissing, licking, nibbling, sucking, touching, squeezing, etc., that is the predecessor to “it” is pleasurable of course, but ultimately it becomes an accessory of sex, like a cute purse or a great necklace or a fabulous pair of earrings. When we think of what sex is, we tend to think primarily of penetration, and these enjoyable pre-sex activities become somewhat secondary. Now don’t get me wrong…we all know that being an accessory is not a bad thing, and the right accessories are what MAKE AN OUTFIT AMAZING, but they’re still accessories, and without them you’d still be dressed. So it’s like they aren’t as necessary. So foreplay become a stop you make along the way to the destination of sex; in and of itself foreplay cannot be the destination – well, more often than not it isn’t. You forget that the journey should be as beautiful as the destination…or can even be the destination.

I had forgotten this before Saturday night.

Now when I was young, I was all about the journey when it came to sex because sex was not the destination then. I made out with my boyfriend, and we were both clear on the fact that I wasn’t ready to go “all the way”. We knew our making out was going to be the extent of our contact. We had discussed it and he was accepting of it, so there was no pressure to “give it up”. So we really got into our foreplay, because it was all we had. We would spend hours doing “everything else but” while his grandmother worked doubles at Sinai Hospital. We never had sex during this period…or more specifically, there was no penetration. There were orgasms, and we both had them. But they all came from our “everything else but” activities. And we both enjoyed them. Yes we did eventually “go all the way” after a year or so of this, but even then “making out” was as important as the sex.

But as I got older, that changed of course. As sex itself took center stage, the activities leading up to sex, the “pre-game show” became less important. Sometimes I didn’t even require a pre-game show from my partners; there were times when we’d get right into the game. I don’t want you to get the idea that I’m undermining the importance of that other stuff, because I’m not. But I’ve never been one of those “you gotta lick me before you stick me” girls. So when foreplay was minimized on occasion, I consented. But as it became easier to minimize foreplay’s role, I became willing to do it more often.

Until this past Saturday night, when for the first time in ages, I made out with a guy and that was it.

Now I had no intentions of having sex with said man. Not that I didn’t want to, because I did. At least my body did. My head wasn’t quite there yet, and I’ve always needed to be able to connect to a guy’s mental for intimacy to really please me. I need to be able to enjoy him past and beyond the physical to have sex with him – or at least good sex. We need to have good conversation, and we need to be able to join on at least a few other levels. But we were just sitting there, in the car, talking about something or other, and then he touched me, and then he kissed my neck and…then things kind of got blurry and my eyes closed and my breathing got heavy and fast.

For the next 45 minutes, periodically we’d make out, then stop and talk, then start again, then stop. And at first it confused me because I kept thinking “what is the point of doing this if I know I’m not going to fuck him tonight?” And the thing about it was that when he touched me, it didn’t have that insistent quality you get when a man is touching you in an effort to convince you to have sex with him when you haven’t consented. It wasn’t like that. His touching me wasn’t a plea, its SOLE PURPOSE wasn’t just to change my mind. He really wasn’t trying to get me to go along with him – well he was of course, but that wasn’t all of it. It was just that he wanted to, and he felt it would please me, so he did it.

And that’s when I realized we were making out. And I remembered what making out was like back when I was young. It was just touching for the same of touching, licking for the sake of licking. The acts were complete in and of themselves. They were no precursor to anything more, no gateway that was supposed to lead him to ramming his dick up in me. It was really just…cool. A lovely introduction to things. Best of all, I came. A small fleeting orgasm, but one nonetheless, appropriate for what was happening. He touched me and realized I was very wet, and he seemed a bit surprised. Happy, but surprised. And when I dropped him off and drove home, I was actually happy. I remembered the pleasures that you can get just from very little simple things like touches and caresses and nibbles on your shoulders and licks on your spine.

Now I remember some of the things I’d forgotten about sex, and I have him to thank. But it does make me wonder what actual sex with him will be like…and if/when I’ll ever find out.


My strange Valentine’s Days these days…

This time of year is my busy season as far as my performing goes (in case you don’t know, I do erotic performance poetry with a band). What I do is very popular around Valentine’s Day. Since 2005, every Valentine’s Day I was on stage someplace performing; in some cases I wasn’t even in Baltimore. The fact that I’m usually so busy this time of year helps distract me from the things that bother most single people during the Valentine’s Day period. I don’t really have time to think about whether I’ll get flowers or candy or asked out on a date because I’m rehearsing, or picking out performance outfits, or finalizing travel arrangements. And this year won’t be any different – I’ll have several shows this year around V-Day, including performing at a popular local radio station’s speed dating event. While I do appreciate the distraction, I do see the irony in the fact that for the past 5 years, though my own love life has been strangely stagnated, I provide entertainment for lovers or potential lovers. They look to me to add spark to their celebration of their intimate and personal feelings for each other. They expect me to help them see each other through new eyes, to generate heat and passion between them for at least that night, and I try to do that. My Valentine’s Day sets are a combination of sensual and sexual pieces. I do a relationship piece here and there.

I try to have at least some new material each year, so I don’t bring the same show back to places where I am appearing for a second or third time. That means I’m writing and memorizing at least 2-3 new pieces in preparation for my shows throughout January up until the events. Now that I’ve started doing covers (which means I perform work by artists), that does help me create new shows because now I put at least one cover in every show I do. But that means my band is constantly learning new music. A new show also means new outfits to wear onstage. At some shows I do acapella sets, and at some shows I perform with a full band, so I have to rehearse different versions of my show to accommodate different venues. If I’m traveling, I have to pack, get to the airport/bus station/train station, get to my destination, check into my hotel, try to get to the venue a little before my show so I can get a feel for it and watch the crowd come in (that’s how I make a final determination on what I do in a set – by watching the crowd). By the time February 15th rolls around, I’m exhausted.

In many respects I am thankful for my new Valentine’s Day rituals. Granted they are not at all what I thought they would be at this stage of my life – I find myself in the strange position of putting on some of my sexiest and most revealing lingerie and attire for a room full of applauding strangers instead of that one special someone. But it does help take the focus off myself; I am focused on other people, which is a good thing. Instead of wearing myself out worrying about love, I worry about performing. I don’t have time to wallow in self pity or self doubt, to wonder why I’m alone or visit my mental cemetery of dead relationships. I don’t make random phone calls to any of my exes, trying to get closure where there is none (something I’ve done in the past). I don’t have time to wonder about unrequited loves from my past, present or future. I have to work, and that’s what I do. Work. I throw all my energy into my work.

But I do wonder if I would be depressed if I weren’t so busy. If I really had to feel the sharp little needles of loneliness so many unattached people feel this time of year, how would I handle it? Though I’ve never been one to be big on holidays and expressions of affection dictated by the calendar, it is still difficult to totally ignore a world draped in red and pick, smelling of roses and chocolates with words of love dripping from its lips. No matter how much reason and logic you apply to the whole Valentine’s Day thing, you still can’t help but feel an occasional pinch of sadness – and I think that’s especially true of women, who often put so much more obvious emphasis on relationships and being with someone. Or I would feel bad that is, if I weren’t so busy. Performing is the anesthetic I pour on my heart during this Valentine’s Day season, but what would I be like without it?

Of course I have to appreciate Valentine’s Day, because it is the month when I earn the most money as a performer. I sell more CDs and downloads between January 25th and February 15th than almost any other time of the year. I can count on a bunch of performances that pay pretty well, and are a lot of fun to do. The shows I do during this period always lead to other bookings and expose me to people that help me in other ways. And I sell a lot of merchandise during my Valentine’s Day shows. Love and sex is thriving business for me the first 2 weeks of February, and I take full advantage of it. I start looking for Valentine’s Day bookings in mid-December, and by late January I’m all set. I plan out my wardrobe, load up on product to sell, make arrangements for someone to keep an eye on my kids – between rehearsals and shows I’m not home a lot this time of year. During these two weeks alone, if I’m careful, even after expenses, I earn a very decent amount of money. But if I slowed down – would the pain catch me? Would I be lonely? Would I notice that there is no “special someone” who comes to my shows to support me, to admire me, to care about me and what I do? If I stood still, didn’t write the poem, put on the makeup, lace up the corset, pull on the stockings, would I look up and notice there isn’t anyone wishing I didn’t have to work on Valentine’s Day so I could spend it with him? Over the past five years no man has said to me “can’t you take off this year” or “do you have to work so hard”? Would I really notice the couples in the audiences I entertain, would I see them and wonder why I am not part of a couple someplace? Would I envy the couples that come up to me after shows who buy a CD, get it autographed by me and quickly take a picture before running home (or wherever) to make love, while I go back to an empty hotel room, or go home alone to my kids and kiss them goodnight?

For the moment, I don’t have the answers to those questions. Between today and February 15th, I have six definite performances and two possible ones. I start rehearsals next week. I have two new pieces I need to get to two different groups of musicians I’m working with. I have a new piece I’m committing to memory, and while I’m not doing any major traveling this year, I will be in D.C. with the band for a few shows. Again I’m too busy to really notice the celebration I so actively participate in and profit from. And it’s probably better that way.

Don’t get me wrong — it wasn’t always like this. I have had extremely romantic Valentine’s Days in my past. I remember gifts. I remember perfume. I remember flowers, candy, jewelry, shopping sprees, and romantic dinners in beautiful restaurants. I remember getaways to quiet sexy places, satin sheets, and massage oil. I remember bubblebaths for two, bottles of champagne. I remember lingerie worn for only one set of eyes. I remember love letters and love poems written for me, instead of by me for others. I remember hands, a man’s hands, moving across every part of me with tender and sensual dedication. I remember scented candles, rose petals on my skin and passion in my heart. If I strain really hard I think I can even remember love, which made the lust much more potently powerful. Men in my past have showered me with love in its most luxurious, decadent, generous fashion in my past.

But these are my memories, not my realities. And the ocean between the two is dark with pain, regret, and probably even fear that the tide has turned away from my shores for good, and these things will never return to me.

So perhaps my present is a blessing. From where I stand onstage, I can at least acknowledge that these things do still exist, though they aren’t in my world. I can look out onto the sea of love, though I may never dive in again and ride those waves to wherever my lover and I end up. It perhaps is enough that for now love welcomes me on its sandy beach, offers me a special place to sit, tickling and teasing my feet with splashes now and then. It may be just as well, because I probably have forgotten how to swim in that powerful current anyway.

Having said all this, I must go now. I have a poem to memorize!


A blog about my hair…

Today’s blog is a rant/question more than anything that came from a few random conversations I’ve had with folks the past few days, and a blog I read through one of my Facebook friends’, DeWayne Alston’s page (the link to the blog I read is at the end of this entry). It’s nothing deep, meaningful, life-altering or soul-saving. In fact a lot of the time I make a point of avoiding that crap because as a writer (especially a Black one) every little bit of your creative energy is supposed to be about uplifting folks, and honestly, sometimes I don’t feel like it. (Most of the time to be totally honest…but that is in a blog that is coming soon.)

In the meantime…here is my question.

I have “natural” hair. For those of you who don’t know what I mean by that (and yes I do have some readers that wouldn’t know…), Black women often take their hair through a process called “relaxing”. The end result after this process is hair whose original natural texture has been altered to more closely resemble the hair of Caucasians. Most Black people’s hair, without this (or some similar) process, would have a texture that would be kinky, curly, wavy, or  a combination or these; the hair would have a “S” or even a “Z” pattern to it. It certainly wouldn’t be straight, which is what the “relaxing” process does. Sometimes it is called a “perm”; I refuse to call it that because the process is not permanent, it is temporary. I do not process my hair in this manner, so my hair is called “natural” hair. Nor to I have a weave in my hair.

Now I have learned over the years that all women of all races and nationalities do things to their hair cosmetically to alter its color, texture, length, style, or whatever. Unfortunately, oftentimes Black women alter their hair’s texture for reasons that go beyond the cosmetic. I don’t want to get into a long diatribe here about the self-hate that goes into some Black women’s desire to relax their hair, or wear weaves, etc. Because why women do it is not my question.

My question is – how can you possibly have a decent sex life with a relaxer or weave in your hair? Or one of those lace front wigs that is “supposed” to stay in a few weeks?

No….seriously…that’s my question. That’s it. That’s what I want to know.

Now Black men joke about how when their Black women have just returned from the salon with a freshly styled head of hair, sex is pretty much off the table for the next few days (or longer). Trips to the salon can get to be rather expensive if they are frequent. And even if you get a girlfriend or relative or someone like that to fix your hair, chances are he or she not going to always be at your beck and call to do it whenever you need it done. So in the interest of practicality, most women get as much mileage as they can out of their hair once they leave the salon. And for their men, that means either no sex (in most cases), or in some “alternative” sexual pleasuring that will not dishevel the hair too much — whatever the alternative sexual pleasuring is, the man must always mindful of the hair style must leave it intact. Most importantly, the hair must never be touched or get wet, either with water or sweat.

(SIDEBAR: Now I do know the high-end strand-by-strand weaves do allow you more freedom in these areas, but chances are if you can afford a weave that starts in the low-to-mid four figure range, you can afford to keep it up…)

So my question is ladies, does it not bother you at all to have your sex lives dictated to you by your hair style? What you do, when you do it, how you do it are all controlled by your hair – I mean, well, let me continue before I get to sounding judgmental, which is not what I want to do here. I really do want to understand. I’ll be the first to say I don’t know a lot about what goes on with relaxed hair maintenance these days, so someone school me.

Many of the things I enjoy about sex are gone the minute I put a weave or a relaxer in my hair. He can’t pull my hair. He can’t run his hands through it all the way to the scalp. He can’t wash my hair. If he touches my face, he has to make sure he doesn’t touch my hair. He can’t hold my head during oral sex. He can’t play in my hair. He can’t twirl his fingers around and through it in a random kind of way when we’re just chilling afterwards. In fact, a lot of the touching that promotes intimacy and closeness goes out the window. We can’t have sex in the shower, or the Jacuzzi, or the bath, or the swimming pool, or the ocean, or in the rain. I can’t sweat, nor can he. For me, that’s too much stuff to worry about. It kills spontaneity. It kills a lot of things for me. At that point I don’t see the need in doing it if all these “rules” are in place.

When I first cut out my relaxer, this was one of my primary reasons why I did. I remember certain people praising me for letting go of the chemicals, for not “lye-ing” anymore, for being proud of my true born hair, and yes, a tiny bit of that went into the decision. But at my core I am a practical person, and “going natural” was just as much a practical decision as anything. My hair was falling out first of all, and secondly, I could never keep my relaxed hair looking decent, because I like to screw and relaxers aren’t conducive to that. So after hours in a salon and a ton of money spent, I might look good two or three days if I kept my man away from me, and most of the time I didn’t want to do that — and just as importantly, he didn’t want me to keep him away. And while in most cases the guy would offer to significantly contribute to my hair maintenance, there then became the time issue. Even if I had the money, who has the time to spend 2-18 hours in a hair salon (depending on where you go), two or three times a week so my hair can look good for a day before my man tears it all up again? When I decided to cut my relaxer out, one of thoughts at the forefront of my mind was “now I can have sex anytime I want and not worry about whether or not I have the money to get my hair fixed!”

And that is how it’s been since 2002. I’ve had natural hair, and I have f***ed whenever I damn well pleased, wherever I’ve damn well pleased, including in blinding rainstorms, in steaming hot showers, and in blazingly hot non-air conditioned bedrooms that would make a woman with a relaxer turn away in disgust, no matter how horny she might be.

Now I’m not saying my way is the best way. It certainly isn’t the only way. It is what works for me. I’ve always been a person who didn’t like to be told what to do, especially in my personal life. So the idea that my hair was playing a significant role in my intimacy became absurd to me, and I took steps to ensure that it no longer did.


The original blog that inspired this is called “Why Men Hate Weaves”:

“Sweet Submission” — by ME

When it comes to you

sweet submission

is my religion.

And you are my deity.

And you and me

worship faithfully

at the altars of our naked selves.

We call out “oh my god”

over and over again

to renew our bond

as lovers

and friends.

When it comes to you,

sweet submission

is my religion.

I part my legs to show my faith.

My trust.

My lust.

I must.

I can’t stop.

Won’t stop.

Reaching for bliss

with a touch and a kiss,

as we spin into



When it comes to you,

sweet submission

is my religion.

I sigh.


I let go.


You take me.


Now all of me

lives in all of you.

Lives in all you do.

Lives to make it through

to the other side of

our personal paradise.

When it comes to you,

sweet submission

is my religion.

Now I am forgiven

for the mistakes I made

before you.

Feel me inside

the core of you.

Feel me inside

restoring you.

Feel me in your heart

adoring you.

I’ll pour in you

every bit of my

my most devoted


All my soul’s wealth.

With you

Sweet submission

is my religion.


So…today’s blog…

is a poem I wrote that I am posting cuz I felt like it…


When loves’ slave catchers

throw their chains and traps

around me

I will chew off

pieces of my heart

to free myself.

During these sex-filled struggles

I lustfully bite

my pursuer

as I fight the ties

that seek to forever bind

me to him.

I sensuously swallow

pieces of him

during the battle of wills.

But I am always the victor,

and I greedily devour the spoils.

As for the love warriors

who rise up

attempting to rule my

personal internal  queendom

and who always fail,

they now will spend

the rest of their lives

trying to get back

the pieces they lost to me

in the battle.

The pieces

become part of

the fiber of my being

and the marrow of my bones.

These leftover spirits

invade me and

teach me how

to be the hunter

and still seem like

the prey.

Now I chase others

by allowing others

to chase me.

To attract them

I strip my brain bare

in their presence


mentally masturbate

before them.

A psychological exhibitionist.

They watch me

and want me

while I wonder why

the presence of love

has always meant

the loss of my freedom.

And I must fly

until I die.

So, catch me if you can.

But know

that even I

haven’t caught me yet.


Find your sexy, live your sexy, love your sexy!

**AUTHOR’S NOTE: This blog got unexpectedly long once I got going on it, so it’s going to be presented in two parts. Anything I don’t cover today is probably covered in the second part, which I will post Saturday…ENJOY!**

These are my thoughts on dressing sexy. Before I get into this blog, a few disclaimers…

I understand completely that there are some people who, for personal, moral, religious, or other reasons, feel that a woman should be dressed in a manner that covers her fully at all times, and in a manner that is devoid of what most people would consider sexual. I have complete and total respect for those opinions, even if I disagree to some extent. Notice I said “to some extent”, because I don’t disagree entirely. I certainly understand the concept of modesty. I even get that modesty can lead to a certain heightened sensual awareness because things are covered and you can’t see them or get any real sense of what they look like. I definitely don’t think a woman should go around with every inch of flesh exposed all the time, and I am a firm believer in appropriateness. I also know that there are all different kinds of sexy just like there are all different kinds of women, and for some women, their sexy is going to reflect their modesty. That’s cool. My real goal in all this is that every woman identify and enjoy her sexy, for her own positive self image as well as for her man. So if any of my advice or suggestions make you uncomfortable or if you see something here that you conclude just isn’t for you, feel free to ignore that part. But please keep reading because I do touch on every kind of sexy in here so I am confident that you’ll find some things you can use. (Well, please do read the part about being properly fitted for bras. That’s so important.)

BUT…I am going to draw the line at the idea that women shouldn’t go around displaying their “goodies” primarily so that they won’t get extreme negative attention from men. I’ve even heard it suggested that if a woman is raped or violated while dressed this way, she deserved it — she asked for it. Absolute bulls**t. Women should never feel compelled to somehow take personal responsibility for any grown ass man’s behavior. It is every person’s individual responsibility to conduct themselves appropriately in any given situation, no matter what happens, what is said, what is done, or what someone has on. And…imagine this…that includes men. It is not my responsibility, or any other woman’s for that matter, to determine exactly what part of the anatomy might drive some man crazy if he sees it, and to conceal it. Should I be upset if you look at me? No. Admire me? No. Maybe I’ll even allow a bit of staring or a sincere “you look nice tonight” if I am in your vicinity. But ultimately it is still a man’s responsibility to know when to stop. He is still supposed to control himself. I refuse to  make it my job to make men behave. I don’t have that kind of time on my hands. Ultimately, if it is in a man’s character to be a gentleman he will naturally do it regardless. One lesson I am trying to teach my son is that it is his responsibility as a human being, a man, and a gentlemen to accord ALL WOMEN basic courtesy and respect, even if he feels they are behaving in ways that he may not personally approve of, or, in extreme circumstances, in ways that might indicate a lack a respect for herself. This is the standard I hold ALL men to, and if they can’t meet it…well, let’s just say I know how to handle it.  Too many times men don’t take responsibility for their bad behaviors, bad decisions, or inability to act reasonably. I am not going to add to that by taking extra steps in the hope that they’ll behave.

Now…back to the sexy.


Sexy is all about confidence. It is about walking tall and proud, head held high, shoulders back, swagger on full blast, smiling, acknowledging your female magnificence and allowing those who are fortunate enough to be around to bask in a bit of it as well. That is what sexy is. Often times I’ll go out and see very young women who don’t have that yet. They may have cute faces and great figures, but none of the real swagger required to do sexy effectively. How can you tell? They go out scantily dressed in ill-fitting, barely there clothing, then spend the entire night pulling and tugging at necklines that are suddenly too low, trying to adjust skirts that are too short and/or too tight now because they suddenly realize men are looking at them, drooling, lusting, attempting to approach them, and not in ways they want them to (in many cases, the way you carry your sexy will determine how a man approaches you, but that explanation is a bit further down the list).

My point isn’t so much about age as it is about confidence. It is painful to see a woman who isn’t really comfortable with her sexy, or how she is presenting her sexy on a given day. It takes time to find what your sexy is and what your sexy isn’t and to get cool with it. So if you are trying to learn to enjoy and appropriately display your sexy, and you find yourself in an outfit that you spend the whole night feeling naked in because you are not quite comfortable with the spotlight that comes with the sexy, you need to rethink where you are in your relationship with your sexy. Go home, consider what makes you feel good, what makes you comfortable, read some of my tips, and put a different outfit on. And when you do, you have to remember that when you’re out and about in your sexy, you aren’t just going to be looked at by men you want to admire you. You are going to be looked at by toothless bums, men that stink, old men that should know better, and the dude on the corner selling DVDs for $5. You may not want any of these guys, or want them looking at you, but when your sexy is on public display, everyone can see it. Make sure you’re ready for that.


Sexy starts with acceptance of what you’re working with, the stuff you like and the stuff you don’t like That means accommodating all of what you have. Wearing clothing that does not fit runs completely counter to that. It especially means not wearing stuff that is too small. Ever. I know how frustrating it is to see something in the store you LOVE LOVE LOVE and they don’t have your size. I beg of you, don’t get the smaller size. Especially if its something you’re wearing to be sexy.

(QUICK SIDEBAR – Ladies, please go to a decent department store and get your CORRECT bra size. The lingerie departments of stores like JC Penney, Macy’s, etc. have salespeople in them trained to accurately measure you so that you know your correct cup size and your correct measurements in inches. If you don’t want to do that, MEASURE YOURSELF CORRECTLY WITH A TAPE MEASURE AT HOME. It’s estimated that at least 70% of women wear the wrong sized bra — instructions on how to measure yourself to get your correct bra size will be at the end of this blog. Oh – and just so you’ll know, the life span of a bra on average is 3 months. Everything you need to know is here —

You may think that pair of  jeans you intentionally purchase a size too small are going to make your ass look incredibly round and juicy, or that your incorrectly sized bra is pushing your breasts up and giving you great cleavage. Ummmm…no. It’s making you look fat, and I mean that in the most negative, unattractive sense of that word. It is impossible to enjoy your sexy if your clothes don’t fit. You think that a little extra tight, a little extra short is a good thing? It’s not. For those of you old enough to remember the OJ Simpson trial, you might remember Johnnie Cochoran saying about a glove that the prosecution was presenting as evidence against OJ “if it [the glove] don’t fit, you must acquit”. In this department I say to you “if you can’t sit, you must re-fit”.  . (You always test your sexy outfits before you wear them out – sit in them, walk in them, stand in them, dance in them, figure out how you go to the bathroom in them…all that. You need to know what to expect.) Sitting down is one of the things you must do at home to test your sexy outfit. If you find your thighs, back, arms, or belly unattractively spilling out of your ill-fitting garments, or if your waistband, bra straps, or girdle/pantyhose tops are digging into your skin and leaving marks, you need to re-fit. Finding your sexy is all about attractively displaying yourself, and that doesn’t happen with a muffin top. (This is one reason why I almost always wear dresses – I don’t have the muffin top issue.) The point is, your sexy has to fit you in every way, and that starts with getting the correct size. In EVERYTHING (yes shoes too!)


Sexy needs to start from the inside out, and I don’t just mean your personality. I also mean your clothes. Undergarments are just as important (in some cases more important) as what you wear on the outside.

Appropriate undergarments enhance your sexy. You get to display the smooth skin of your bare arms, shoulders and back without distracting bra straps, clasps, and hooks. (Now in some cases, a hint of strap can enhance your sexy, but you need to be very careful with this. The straps need to match your outfit, need to look good and not look at all frayed or worn, and should not draw so much attention to themselves that they draw attention away from the rest of you and your look.)  This means (depending on what your needs are) strapless bras, long line bras, plunge bras, bras with clear straps or stick on bras, racer back bras, halter top bras, 3 way bras, 4 way bras, thongs, panty girdles, all in one girdles, waist cinchers, panty girdle thongs, corsets, and yes, FULL SLIPS AND HALF SLIPS! You’d be amazed at what a big difference a slip can make in your clingy dresses – invest in one! The point is to create as smooth a line as you can, and that also means no panty lines EVER! If you need to “go commando” to achieve that (hope you know what “going commando” means), do it. AND make sure you have some lingerie that is just for his admiring eyes. (That is coming up too.)


Now not every woman’s sexy is about revealing parts of her anatomy. Some women do their sexy more by suggestion than by uncovering themselves. (More on this later.) But if your sexy involves you showing some skin, here is my philosophy — you pick the one part of the body that is going to be displayed for the night, put it out there, make it look as good as you can, and pretty much hide everything else you got. If you’re showing off your legs, shave or wax them (just my personal preference, if you do hairy that’s on you), moisturize them completely from ankle to upper thigh, and then cover up your ass, your breasts, and pretty much everything else. If you’re doing low cut in front, get the well fitted sexy good looking bra and put the “girls” out there (properly moisturized and maybe with a hit of body glitter if you’re feeling special), and cover everything else.. If you’re doing extremely tight (more on the power of the sexy silhouette further down also), don’t do extremely short or extremely low cut at the same time. If you’re doing a low back, keep your front high, and don’t go too short on the leg. Generally speaking if you’re exposing a lot of more than one body part at a time, you tend to start treading into the “trashy” or “trampy” territory. For example ladies, visualize these looks: very short AND very low cut in front, very tight AND very short, very low backed AND very low cut in front. You probably thought you were looking at a hooker. Now if you just like to walk on the wild size you can mix extreme and moderate looks – short and a little low cut, tight and a bit short, etc. But I do recommend staying away from the total hooker look UNLESS you have a male escort with you who is just as comfortable with your sexy as you are. (More on this later as well.)


This should be self explanatory, but just to make sure I didn’t miss is – never travel out and about without ensuring you smell wonderful. Whether its perfumes, body oils, soaps, lotions or whatever, smell good. Even if you’re not one to do scents, make sure you smell fresh and clean if nothing else.


The biggest problem women encounter when they’re out and about with their sexy on display is that they attract a lot of attention from men they aren’t interested in. I am not just talking about men staring, I am talking about men approaching you that you have absolutely no interest in. Men that really should know better than to try you, men that have clearly miscalculated their attractiveness. But if you are arrogant, you can cut down on a lot of that.

When you go out, you have to put out just the right amount of arrogance. You don’t want to come off as totally unapproachable, but you do want the men that do approach you to do so with the proper amount of respect and deference. You want to weed out the losers, those not worthy of conversing with you, etc. Men have a tendency to go after what they think they are capable of getting, what will be easiest for them to get, what they think they have the capacity to get. I call it “low hanging fruit syndrome”. Men pick the fruit from the trees that is easiest to get to, especially when their hungry. You don’t want to be that low hanging fruit.

You want to be the fruit in the middle of the tree – fruit that men have to work a little bit to get to. You want to be the type of woman that a man has to think about before he approaches. And you want men that are of decent quality, and those men pretty much always think about what they’re going to say before they approach women. You don’t want the dude who applies the super-random “hey shawty” to every woman he sees. You want a man with some discernment, some thoughtfulness. And you’re more likely to get that dude if you come off as just a tad bit arrogant.

Now will this get you called the b word by groups of immature, insecure men? Of course. Will the immature, insecure women roll their eyes as you walk by, sucking their teeth and saying under their breath “she think she cute”? Of course. That’s how you know you’re doing it right!

How do you project the right amount of conceit? Your head is held very high. Shoulders back. You look men directly in their eyes, with an unwavering glaze, but not so long that they might think you are interested. You make sure you hold your conversations in low tones – you are never the woman laughing wayyyy too loud or being wayyyy too obnoxious. You smile pleasantly, but not too much. You present yourself as just a bit distant, as if you are there but not there. Only the men who think they can crack that veneer will approach. And you want confident men, you don’t want to be hit on by a bunch of losers all night.

Better to have one quality man talk to you than 40 jerks.

So fall back a bit, and wait for them to come to you.


TOMORROW’S BLOG: I’ll be talking about my misadventures in churches as a single woman, from the insanity of “single women’s ministry” to the “fellowship love” that takes place after services. I’ll also be adding my two cents to the article “The Black Church: How Black Churches Keep African-American Women Single and Lonely” by Deborrah Cooper.