The Joy of Sucking Cock, PLUS! 3 Delicious Tips to Help You Savor the Feast

I remember the first time I sucked a man’s cock. I was 19 years old and desperate to explore my sexuality (the high school boys always seemed too “immature”).

I’d spent several days anticipating my upcoming tryst with this man and poured over the internet for hours looking for the best ways to give head.

After memorizing what seemed like countless “Top 10” articles, I deemed myself an expert and set out on my mission for fellatio.

The hungry little slut was born.

CLICK HERE TO READ THE REST OF THE ARTICLE ON "MY TINY SECRETS"

69 Vlogs. 69 Days. #5: Candice Reveals Desire

I've got a little something to reveal about desire...

Addicted to Daddy: Hunger and the Search for the Integrated Masculine

Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo

I hit a pretty hard low yesterday. I played it off as “I’ve just been working too hard” and “I’ve got PMS” and “It’s almost a full moon,” but something in me knew I was lying. I woke up around 3am the night before. I had had a dream, but couldn’t quite remember it. I was shivering. I had three comforters on me, a pair of pants, thick socks and a sweatshirt—and I could not warm up to save my life. I wasn’t really sweating. It didn’t feel like a fever. But something in me was stagnated. Cold. And my blood just didn’t have the strength to flow. My legs were shaky and I could barely stand. I got up, put on a thermal shirt and went back to sleep.

Later, I woke up around 7:30am exhausted, but focused. I got some work done, but by 12:30pm, I had to lie down. After two hours, I woke up, heavy and extremely depressed. “Oh God,” I thought to myself, “What is going on? I do not have the will to even get out of this bed.”

I finally did drag myself out of my pit of depression and decided a salt bath would be a good idea. I figured immersing in the warm feminine would be a healthier way to draw out this painful energy, rather than stuffing it down with Girl Scout cookies or glasses of scotch. So there I was, heavy and silent in the bathtub, with my most depressing song mix playing on my iPod, when it all flooded back to me—the dream that woke me up at 3am.

I was with my ex-husband. We were at my mother’s house in Georgia. I don’t remember what we were talking about exactly, but the feeling was like meeting a dear friend again. Laughing, sweet. A glowing warmth surrounded us. He turned his back to me and the next words I heard were not his voice, but my father’s. I was then interacting with my father in that same warm glow. We spoke for some time. Then I saw that it was nearly 6:30. The wife would be home from work soon and it was time for me to go. There was no room for the both of us. At that point, I think my father has blended into my ex-husband again, so I am unsure if the woman coming home was my stepmother or my ex’s current partner. It really doesn’t matter who the woman was. What matters is the feeling of loneliness, the hollowness in my chest and the tight ball in my throat. Again, I had the sense of “bucking up” and “being a big girl” in order to make room for those around me.

Back in the bathtub, hot tears prickled my eyes and dripped down my cheeks. My heart cracked and a thick warmth dripped down my chest. The pressure in my throat grew to a painful, sharp ache. I tried to relax my body and breath, but there was a nausea coming over me and I had a feeling like I could not hold anything else inside of me. I heard my roommate just outside the door and quickly choked up to muffle my sobs. I was vibrating with a mix of sadness, anger and embarrassment. I was shaky and could barely breathe.

I realized that while I have been working to reconnect to my tamped down feminine, I have neglected to acknowledge my hunger for an integrated masculine. I am consciously choosing the word ‘integrated’ and steering clear of the words ‘divine’ and ‘spiritual’ because those tend to refer a way of masculinity that tries to ‘rise above’ and ‘transcend’ the body, the mud, the blood, the anger and all other ‘unpure’ and ‘unsavory’ expressions of energy. But the feminine thrives in that fleshy, earthy world and if we try living only from the waist up, we disconnect ourselves from our raw power.

An ‘integrated’ masculine, however, knows how to go down deep, stand firm in the fire and can come back up to the surface with vision and clarity while still staying connected to the feminine. The integrated masculine does not live in shame of its feminine counterpart, but is strong enough to be the container for it, so that whatever wildness arises, it can hold it all and weather the storm. And when the storm has passed, the integrated masculine knows just the right moment to dissolve and move on to wherever desire leads it next.

OK, so what does all this mean in the ‘real world.’ My personal brand of masculine hunger (and one to which I believe many people can relate) is an Addiction to Daddy. This means seeking out men who will take care of me and provide stability in some way, either financially (the men with the nice cars and the money who will whisk you away to fancy dinners and trips to exotic locales) or emotionally (the men who are connected to their feelings and will love you and bend to your will every time). This addiction comes coupled with a level of insecurity and shame that has me dying to feel loved and approved of. So a shadow arises in which I need these men to believe that I am the most gorgeous, smart, amazing, perfect, fill-in-the-positive-adjective woman they have ever met. Yet, when my desire meets the reality of the situation (I really don’t want to be in a relationship with these men), I end up leaving. After a while though, the hunger starts to gnaw at me again and the cycle begins once more.

The thing is addicts tend to attract addicts. So while I am seeking this hit of masculine approval, the men are looking to connect to their wounded feminine through me. They get to play out being the stable provider and the one who fixes all the problems—everything a ‘real’ man should be. Unfortunately then, we are all walking around relating to each other as drugs, rather than as humans, and we use the hooks of romance, relationship and porn for our hit.

It is also my belief that society feeds this addiction through selling the ever-pressing need to ‘find a mate.’ Millions of hungry women are all over dating web sites. Hungry women go to the movies and feed on the idea that ‘if only I find my soulmate, then I will live happily ever after.’ Women’s magazines (purchased by hungry women) are plastered with headlines like “How to Hook Him and Keep Him Forever” and “3 Easy Steps from Single to Saying ‘I Do’”.

And make no mistake—I am not speaking only about heterosexual relationships. This isn’t about men and women, but masculine and feminine. What we are dealing with is an overall dearth of an integrated masculine energy. So whether you are homosexual, trans, bi, whatever—we are all looking to fill in those energetic places in ourselves where we feel we are lacking. So a feminine-energy man may go seeking a masculine-energy man. Or a feminine-energy woman may go seeking a masculine-energy woman. Whatever. The point is that this is a universal way of managing our hunger.

I have seen Daddy Addiction manifest in many ways. With people who had the ‘ideal’ father, they may be serial monogamists, constantly seeking out that one man good enough (and he never is) to fill daddy’s shoes. In people with absent fathers, they may glut on masculine energy through constant dating and one-night stands. Still others may surround themselves with vibrators and romance novels and fantasies (to get the feel of interacting with the masculine) but are too afraid to connect with another person.

I also believe in the past years, there has been a stigma attached to anything that is too ‘masculine’, particularly in the spiritual/transformational world. I know many people who say things like ‘Oh, that’s the masculine way. You are not going with the flow. You are not feeling into me. What’s with all the boundaries?” Blah blah blah. Listen. There is nothing ‘wrong’ with structure or the masculine, just like there is nothing ‘wrong’ with chaos and the feminine. One is not ‘better than’ the other. In fact, with integration, they both support each other in ways infinitely greater than if each tries to work on their own.

Yes, as women, we have had to work hard in order to rise above the centuries of cultural shame that has come with carrying feminine energy. And there is still work to do. In the US, women continue to make only $0.77 to every man’s dollar (1). The crackdown on homosexuality, especially in males, is another example it. And of course there is the pervasive oppression, circumcision and torture of women in other part of the world.

However, blindly reacting in rejection and anger to the masculine is not the way towards healing. This will only lead to shadowy attempts at sneaking a fix of masculine energy (Daddy Addiction, in my case). What I am finding to be true for myself is that the more I peel the layers of shame on the feminine within me, the more I can trust my masculine to support her and stay connected to her desires as we all move on the journey. So my dream had less to do with my ex-husband or my father, and more to do with the relationship with my own internal masculine, first by acknowledging and feeling my anger/grief and then learning to love and forgive that energy within me. With that forgiveness, comes relaxation and space for my authentic feminine to arise, integration to happen and internal healing to begin.

Once we have learned to cultivate an integrated masculine and authentic feminine, we no longer grip onto others as crutches or fillers for our own insecurity. We are ok with being alone with ourselves. And our deepest hungers get nourished. From here, relationship becomes a choice, rather than a compulsion, and true unconditional love can arise—because we don’t need the person to be anything other than who they are. And however the relationship expresses itself, we can flow with that and see the conflicts that arise (because they inevitably will) not as places to project all our latent anger, but as opportunities for knowing ourselves better.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. It all sounds nice on paper, but in practice, it is tough as hell. I see all the places where I grip to a hollow masculine. I force myself to ‘be productive’ even when my body knows it needs a rest. I cling to people for their attention and approval in order to feel ok about myself. I hold myself back emotionally because I have shame around admitting my hunger. All these add weight to my bouts of depression and leak energy, contributing to my frigidity and exhaustion.

But I also have clarity and insight that would not have come had I not fully walked into the knot of my pain. And through developing this skill and sensitivity, I know who I am a little better, can express it more easily and feel more compassionate towards myself. These are the gifts of the shadow, harvested in the depths of my feminine and can now be shared with the world through language, structure and a more integrated masculine. 

Hunger: A Short Story

Fort Cemetery at Watson Mill Bridge State Park in GA.
Copyright Jamie Holdorf, www.serendipisea.com

I’m standing on the side of the road under a flickering streetlamp (the only streetlamp on this drag) after an excruciating night at the bar. 4am. My feet hurt. My lower back clenches. And the cut on my neck hums dully throughout my body. The faint smell of blood and beer still hangs on me.  I think back on the past few hours…

Gary usually stops by every Saturday for his fix. Loud. Crude. Angry. Your typical drunkard. He prefers cheap beer straight from the bottle. I knew he had reached his limit three drinks before the incident, but my greed overrode my better judgment. Plus he’d never gotten violent before. Maybe a belligerent rant or two, but nothing like tonight. Apparently his wife is cheating on him…or so he believes. I can’t remember all he was saying—I was only half listening. He never really talked much about her, except to complain every once in a while about how she rarely put out and when she did it was like fucking a cold fish. Honestly, I thought to myself, I couldn’t really blame her. I imagined having sex with him would be like having a reckless jackhammer slamming into me. I would have to shut down every bit of feeling just to survive the experience.

But when he started accusing everyone at the bar of sleeping with his wife, I had to step in.

“Gary,” I tell him, “It’s time for you to get a cab.”

“I don’t take orders from you, bitch,” he slurs.

I’ve been working here for so long (what's it...ten years now, right after high school?) that I’ve learned not to take it personally.

“Gary, c’mon man. You’re drunk. I’m going to call you cab and you’re going to go home and sleep it off.”

“Home?!” he cries. “Home…there is no home. There is no bed. There is no sleeping next to that…that…” His voice strangles a bit as he collapses onto the bar. Jim, another regular who spends his money slowly nursing Rusty Nails, catches Gary and tries to help him stand back up. Gary’s wounded pride must have hit its limit in that moment, because he suddenly roars back to life, grabs Jim’s glass and hurls it across the room, screaming, “I don’t need your help, motherfucker!”

“Gary!” I cry. Without thinking, I reach out to restrain his monstrous limbs. His angry fingers wrap around the empty longneck he just finished. A scream like nothing I’d heard before emanates from within him as he swings the bottle at my head. I duck just in time, but in his drunkenness, he doesn’t have a very solid grip on the bottle, so it slips from his hand and smashes into the glowing display of alcohol behind me. Glass shatters everywhere. Liquid rushes down the damp, dusty wood. I cover my head and squeeze my eyes shut, but not before a slice of broken bottle ricochets off the back wall and hits me in the neck.

“FUCK!” The stabbing pain buckles my knees and I have to lumber down to the end of the bar to avoid collapsing into a pile of shredded glass. My hand instinctively finds its way to the side of my neck. Blood, more than one typically wants to see coming from one’s own body, streams between the webbing of my fingers. At least I don’t feel any glass. Must’ve bounced off me.

In the chaos, five or six men manage to hold Gary down long enough for him to surrender the fight. He now lies on the ground, weeping, with his demons exposed. Were it not for the throbbing pain in my neck and the blood matting up my hair, I might feel sorry for him.

“Out! Everyone out now,” the manager, barks. He simply goes by JB. No last name. He’s on the shorter side, but built like a brick. Thick and wide. Late 60’s. Worked here for as long as I can remember. He doesn’t say much, but when he does speak, you listen.

It’s close to 2am. Most of the people have already paid their bills and those that don’t throw some wadded-up cash onto the bar as they rush out into the cool night. No doubt a relief compared to the thick, acrid stench inside. Gary half mumbles apologies as Jim carries him towards the door.

“I’ll take him home with me,” Jim says. Once the place is clear, I start to regain some awareness of my body. I’m a little frozen. Shocked. Except for the gash on my throat, I have lost sensation in other parts of my body. As I stand in the heavy silence, I exhale and feel my limbs melt a little. Warmth comes back to my feet and hips, as an exhaustion like I have never known sweeps over my eyes. I swoon a bit.

“You ok?” JB inquires. He’s less concerned with my health and more interested in making sure that he doesn’t have to take care of me. He’s always been uncomfortable when dealing with delicate matters. He’s a practical man. Intimacy is not something he does well.

“I’ll be ok,” I say.

“Well, take a few moments and then we’ll clean up.” He hands me a glass of water and I soothe my scorched throat. As I slide onto a stool, he heads to the back. I stare absently at the wreckage littering the spot where I stood just 10 minutes ago. JB returns with a broom, a dustpan and a metal garbage can. He starts sweeping up and throwing away mounds of glass in crashing chunks.

“I’ll be right back,” I say and head off to the bathroom to survey the damage. Despite the circles under my eyes and the glassy stare, everything looks alright. The cut is already starting to clot. It felt a lot worse in the moment than it actually was. The wound itself is relatively superficial. Just glad it didn’t hit any major blood vessels. I run some water over a wad of disposable brown paper towels and gently dab my neck. It feels cool and sharp. After a few rounds of this, I head back out to help JB.

Two hours later and we are finally locking up.

“We’ll take care of inventory tomorrow—er, um, later today,” JB tells me. “Just get some sleep and be back here at 4:30. If you need the day off, I understand, but I could really use your help here if you can make it.”

“I’ll be here,” I say. I don’t even pause to think about whether or not I want to. I just say yes. Like always.

“Good. Well then…see you later.” He makes his way to his truck. “Hey…uh…you want a ride?” he asks, as he turns to look at me.

“No thanks,” I answer back, a little shocked at this gesture of goodwill. “I’m fine.” Without a word, he heads towards his red Chevrolet, gets in and drives off.  I’m surprised I declined his offer. I mean, after all the drama of the evening, a ride home would be nice. But something in me needs the clean air, the solitude, the quiet. Besides, I feel too buzzed to go home now, especially after drinking all that coffee while cleaning the bar. A walk will do me good, I think to myself. I jog across the road, but instead of heading straight home, I lean against the pole with the flickering light.

My mind drifts to Gary. How long has he been married? 15? 20 years? How could his wife have stood it for so long? I mean, I don’t know the whole story, but if his behavior is any indication of their home life, my guess is that she’s probably not a very happy woman. He’s clearly a sad, wretched man. My heart drops a little at this discovery.

At least I’ve got James, I think. He’s a decent guy. Nice enough. Hardworking. Wants the best for everyone. True, our sex life has dwindled over the 6 years we’ve been living together, but that happens to all couples, right? I mean, he works during the day and I work nights, so finding the time and energy to get all hyped-up and hot and horny isn’t high on either of our priority lists.

I feel a sort of heaviness wash over me. A thick ball presses into my throat as I think back to the first sweet months of our relationship. How we couldn’t get enough of each other. How our sex was like this fantastic erotic playground. The light tickle on the back of my fingers while barely touching the hairs on his cheek. His front teeth slowly biting down on my nipple until a sharp, painful rush of heat rolled over my breasts. The electric current pulsing through the tips of our tongues when we lingered in a kiss.

The heaviness gives way to a sort of hollowness. A black void opens in my chest that travels down to my belly—and then shifts to my genitals. When was the last time I had my pussy touched? Or even looked at, for that matter…

The thick ball in my throat rises. My face flushes. My forehead feels tight. An internal pressure builds to where I can no longer control the tears swelling in my eyes.

“It’s just been a long night,” I lie to myself. The tears back down for a moment, though my fingers start to tremble. For in that black void sits a burning, unavoidable truth.

I’ve had enough. And not just tonight. With everything. My life feels somehow…empty. My days consist of cleaning the house and catching up on sleep. My nights consist of emotionally managing men with a painfully unquenchable thirst.

And me? What about my thirst? What about my…what? What is this…hunger? I feel like one of those people who hasn’t eaten in so long that she has forgotten what hunger feels like.

I glance up and catch a masculine-looking shadow not twenty feet away from me. My defenses instantly snap into place, like a puffer fish flaring her blades. Who is he? How long has he been there? Has he been watching me this whole time?

I check my watch. 4:30. I’ve been here for half an hour already. Was he waiting for me to exit the bar? It’s not like someone to be hanging around alone this time of the night. There’s nothing else in this area but a bridal shop and a cemetery down the road.

I start walking. Quickly. My body is buzzing and I am holding my breath as I rush down the street. My feet scrape carelessly along the sidewalk, leaving a jagged, scratching sound in their wake. Behind me beats the brisk, steady rhythm of heel to cement. I fly past the bridal shop to my right (how many times had I gazed longingly at its offerings of layered, white organza) and head towards the cemetery. Normally I hate walking through here, but the groundskeeper lives on the other side and if I can make it to his place in time, hopefully it will deter my shadow.

I race to the iron gate, affixed between two, six-foot high, rectangular columns of cement. I curse under my breath to find it closed. I locate the latch and use all my strength (what little is left) to lift it up. It’s not locked, thank God. But I have lost precious seconds and I nearly freeze in horror to see my pursuer only three long strides away from me. I slip inside the gate, but as I try to close the door, he catches it in time and swings it open, sending me nearly flat on my back. I regain my footing and turn to run, but I don’t make it more than four steps before one arm grips around my waist and another wraps around my shoulder to cover my mouth. We stand there suspended in the moment for what could have been between thirty seconds and three hours. I feel my pelvis press firmly into the hard angles of his hips. His belly is methodically breathing into my spine, while I struggle to manage the chaotic symphony of my rasping chest. My mouth is slightly agape. I can taste the salty, acidic wetness of his palm. The hot moisture of his breath tickles my left ear and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Eventually, my rigidity gives way. I melt into the warmth of his body in surrender. I know I am outmatched. He feels this shift in me.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

He guides us towards a mausoleum about forty feet ahead of us. We turn into the tomb and he presses me face-first into the corner made by the entrance and the left wall. The heady scent of wet limestone and stale mushrooms nearly asphyxiates me. He spins me around and we are, for the first time, face to face. Though it’s dark outside, the glow from the streetlamp creates enough light for me to make out his features.

I instantly recognize him. He started coming around the bar a few months ago. Early 40’s. Dark hair. Fairly good-looking, if it weren’t for the fact that the right side of his mouth was totally paralyzed—though that never really bothered me. He always sat at the left edge of the bar, where the wood started to curve away from the main stretch. He never talked to anyone. Never drew attention to himself. I didn’t ask for his name and never thought much about him, except for the curious fact that the only thing he drank was soda water with lime—an odd choice for a hardcore dive bar.

“I know you know me,” he says, as if he can read my thoughts through the changing expressions of my face. “And I know how miserable you are. I know you want more, so much more.”

I stand there, fascinated, vacillating between repulsion and unspeakable attraction. Who is this guy to chase me down in a fucking graveyard just to tell me about my life? What had I ever done to him? What did he want from me? And why was I all of a sudden hungering for him to pull me deeper inside him? A magnetic current swirls up from my feet, my legs, between my thighs, to my chest and washes over my face. Despite the darkness, I was positive he could see the reddening in my cheeks. Something in me hated him for that, for feeling me so deeply without asking my permission. And yet…another part of me, some part that had been dry and hidden for so long, wanted him to feel me even more.

He looks at my face for quite some time. I’m not sure if he’s contemplating what to do with me or if he is just curious. His gaze is intense, but I stay with him. I’m still a little on high alert, but I also don’t want to miss a drop of his exquisite attention. He traces his finger over the arch of my brow, down my cheek and along the edge of my jaw. I gasp a little when he strokes the gash on my throat, but it’s more in anticipation than in pain. He furrows his brow a little and peers into my eyes, as if asking for permission. I nod my head once and he brings his mouth down to my neck. He draws the tip of his tongue along the wound. A prickly, stinging sensation stretches over me, but I surrender to his touch.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, as if he has just eaten something delicious. “I want to taste all of you.” He bends his misshapen mouth to mine and the cool, freshness of his kiss is irresistible. Like cold lemon-water in the middle of a desert. I reach my tongue deeper into his mouth. I want all of me inside of him. I want him to consume me…and at the same time, I want to consume him. To suck him deep into me. To envelope his flesh with mine.

He pulls away a bit and the hand near my face glides down my chest, over my abdomen and to the top of my pants. He unbuttons my black jeans and slips his hand down the front. His first two fingers curl in and slowly slide into me. Once he’s inside, I become keenly aware of the thick, heavy wetness dripping from between my legs. My walls ache and pulse around his fingers. He pushes them in a little deeper. A low groan escapes my throat. He holds me here, suspended in the chasm between my wanting and my satisfaction. In this space I would normally rush to have him fuck me hard, but this time, there is something so different, so expansive happening within me that I don’t dare move a muscle.

Unhurried, he pulls out of me and I can feel almost every ridge and crease of his dry, cracked fingers. He brings his forefinger towards his face. He brushes it against his mouth and then in one single move, he places it on his tongue, wraps his lips around it and pulls it out, sucking up all the juice. He then takes his middle finger and brings it near my mouth. I lick my lips and open them wider. He slides his finger in my mouth and a rush of sweet, salty warmth cascades over my tongue. He draws his finger out and I linger in the moment with my eyes shut.

I open my eyes to find his devilish, lopsided smile reflecting back at me.

“So?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

I blink in confusion. No? He’s telling me no? No what? Why is he here if not to fuck me? I want him. He clearly wants me. What’s wrong? Did I do something wrong?

Again, reading the emotional storm through my silent expressions, he softly laughs and says, “This is how I always want to remember you. Hungry. Open. Vulnerable. Consumed by desire. I want every moment of your life to be this electric. This…alive.”

And as quickly as he came upon me, he makes his escape into the breaking dawn. I remain glued to the mausoleum wall. The coldness of the stone is no match for the heat coursing through my body. My brain can’t make sense of what just happened. I begin shaking. What…was…that? Should I go after him? Should I go home? How can I go back home? Is it possible to go back? Do I want to go back?

My thoughts collide until I can think no more. I stand stunned. Frozen. Then, in my mental blankness, I suddenly recall a line from years ago (tenth grade English?) that brings everything into perfect focus:

What’s done cannot be undone.

The truth of who I am is so undeniable that I have no choice but to follow the path that has opened before me. No, I will not be meeting JB at the bar at 4:30. No, I will not be returning home to James. No, I will not be confined by the walls of this town. And no, I will not be running away from my hunger anymore.

My body starts to float back down to the earth. A few more minutes pass. My cells settle into my skin. My feet feel firm and connected to the ground beneath me. I peel myself away from the wall, head out of the tomb and walk towards the cemetery gates. I exit the iron door, still standing agape from the struggle earlier (a moment that seems like a lifetime ago), and I stand silently on the street. I inhale deeply, as if I can finally breathe for the first time in my life. I feel awake. The virgin morning is crisp and clear. And even though I don’t know exactly what the future looks like, I do know that everything feels exactly right.

As I turn towards the open road, I catch a final glimpse of my little bar on the edge of town—the only town I have ever known. And the last thing I recall is the single streetlamp, now no longer flickering, but burning brightly against the white hot glow of the rising sun.

Happy OM-iversary: The Terrible Twos

La Vague Violette, Georges Lacombe, Museé d'Orsay

I feel like I am going out of my mind right now. Truly bonkers. Climbing out of my skin, bloodying my nails, ready to scream and looking for anything, anything, to deaden the intensity of this sensation: food, cock, wine, Facebook, TV, picking a fight, obsessive cyber-stalking, inert-your-checkout-vice-here.

On the verge of tears. Can’t make a decision. My feelings get hurt at every turn (even though I try to play it off like I am so caring and understanding). And here comes the entitlement. The anger. The bitchiness. And a splashy cameo by the Princess (or is she really front and center?).

Two years to the day. Two goddammed years doing this crazy stroking practice and I feel like it's only just now that I have begun to lean against the membrane that surrounds my hunger…and everything catches my attention and whets my appetite like the smell of freshly baking bread (or is that sizzling raw meat?).

What. The Fuck. Is Going On?

I ask for what I want. I get it. I get angry. I deserved more, asshole—didn’t you know?

I ask for what I want. I don’t get it. I get angry. Fuck you.

I feel your resentment (or is it mine?). I get angry. Go away from me.

I want. A lot. And I want that to be ok. Why is it not ok? Don’t warn me against greed or consumption or that I am setting myself up for samsaric suffering (please, spare me the self-righteous bullshit, thank you very much. Your greed to collect income in the spiritual bank is just as comparable to my carnal hunger).

Who is this person I am fighting with? Of course, the obvious answer is myself. Yes, yes, yes…like a good little coach I “inquire” and “take responsibility.” I see all the faults and fears and scarcity in others and project all my shit all over that. Where am I saying YES when I mean NO? Where I am giving in to unspoken requests, when deep in my heart they are not in alignment with my integrity? Where I am acquiescing as opposed to surrendering?

But as a real live human woman, I just want. So very much. And the most pressing question in my mind is “What do I want?”

I was originally thinking of calling this post “The Sex I Want,” because I was feeling confused and hurt and angry about my sexual hunger. Was I craving sex to fill a void, which will ultimately leave me undernourished and depleted? Or was there really a desire to intimately connect and express. I think it’s a little of both. And there was this overwhelming shame that came with wanting more. More than 2 OMs a day. More than sex twice a week. And once that faucet started to turn on, a whole flood of other desires started to flow. Beyond the sex (which was just the catalyst). Into the shoes I want. The clothes I want. The acting roles I want. The money I want. The job I want. The car I want. The travel I want. The writing I want. The awards I want. The glamour I want. The beauty I want. The people I want. The freedom I want. The life I want.

So…this is the process of “turning on.” I get flooded with energy (orgasm). My system comes alive. And what no longer serves me comes to the surface like salt in a wound. All the ways I played small so as not to acknowledge that very dangerous appetite. And then comes all the anger I feel for playing that game. Oh God…I don’t want to see that. And then, my poor little body (which isn’t used to this much activation) tries to do anything to expel this energy.

Growing pains. It hurts to expand out. To break through the old armor and feel the raw, exposed nerves and tender flesh of something so well-hidden that I feel too humiliated to share it. Not knowing anything anymore. Not knowing what’s right. Having really no clue what the future holds for me. Just sitting here with an unbearable ache and no way to find relief.

Just sit. Just sit. Just. Sit.

I could search around for the some lame piece of self-help advice. Some momentary aphorism that may inspire me for the moment. Post it on Facebook. Secretly hope all my friends like it and think what a cool person I am.

Or I can just be here and listen to the quiet little voice in me that has one simple message: Live your life.

Huh? That’s not very comforting. But on some level, it’s the only true thing that exists right now. There is nothing to figure out or fix. No map or plan or prediction that is going to make it easier. It’s only through simply living my life and cultivating a relationship with all that arises—the fear, the confusion, the pain, the joy, the love, the heartbreak, the rejection, the surprise, the anger, the hunger, the magic—that I will come any closer to knowing what I want. If that even matters anymore. What if trying to “know” anything is in and of itself an attempt at triggering the pressure release valve?

Just live my life. It feels so simple. A moment-by-moment fumbling in the hot, blind, wet cave of my wanting. And in that one stroke, I suddenly feel just how very sexy this place is. This void. This empty hole. This cavern wanting very, very skilled penetration—to cut through the briars of my NO into the aching warmth of my YES.

My heart is racing. My genitals pulse. My belly is swollen. My breath is slow and deep. I feel the cool wood of the floor against my tingling feet. I feel…alive.

OK, Orgasm. You win. Gratitude washes over me and I suddenly know that I am capable—more than capable—of holding this and so much more.

This is the process. The alchemy. Orgasm in. The fire burns. The pain. The fighting. The acceptance. The surrender. The insight. The gratitude. The expansion. The love. The pouring out. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

Two years—a lesson in unbearable patience. I’ve been hungry for so long that the moment I see something that remotely resembles nourishment, I clamp down on it and I want it all for me right now. A vicious cycle of feast or famine. Now the work for me is to simply sit. Sit in the hunger, trust that she is loved and will be fed and that with the passing storms, the next right thing will appear in time.

And breathe. Always remember to breathe.  

Starving for Approval: Anorexia and the Mother Shadow

Mother and Child, Mary Cassatt, 1897

View this article at elephantjournal.com


To-day's your natal day;

    Sweet flowers I bring:

Mother, accept, I pray

    My offering.

And may you happy live,

    And long us bless;

Receiving as you give

    Great happiness.

--To My Mother, 
Christina Rossetti

Ask any anorexic who has a shred of consciousness around his/her behavior and 99% of them will say “It’s not about the food.” And as much as it’s “not about the food,” it’s also not about the models in the magazines, the actresses on the TV or the media. Sorry to blow your cover, finger-pointers, but I am done using the media as my scapegoat.

Yes, I agree that a lot of the images shown are heavily photoshopped and are idealized versions of beauty that no one could possibly attain. I also agree that many of the images (especially of women) are dismissive at best (like when she plays the one-dimensional “love object” to a male protagonist) or deeply damaging at worst (like when she is a glorified corpse for abuse and rape).

But as difficult as it is to admit, they are giving us exactly that for which we are asking.

Honestly, how many times have you and I looked at the TV and said (or at least thought):

“How old is she?!”

“Check out that plastic surgery!”

“He has gained some weight!”

“Ugh! What a slut!”

We, inside our own personal psyches, have an internal war of judgment and hatred that is then reflected in the cultural ideals with which we are surrounded. And then that judgment is projected when we see something as “ugly” (that fat whore really needs to just give it up) OR when we see someone “beautiful” (she only got that role because she was fucking the director. Give that skinny bitch a hamburger!).

How can anyone possibly win when everything around us is a mirror of our own self-doubt and fear?

We as a society are all walking around starving for approval and are too full of pride to admit just how much we want it. This approval somehow validates our right to exist in the world, but it is a temporary salve—a fast-food, quick fix so that we don’t have to face the deeper hunger within.

For me, anorexia is the quick fix. For example:

1. It keeps my body small and childlike, so I get to have the concerned attention of those around me, rather than overtly admitting my desire and risking rejection.

2. It keeps my ovaries and pelvis frozen, so as not to run the risk of pregnancy (because that would require a level of responsibility that I could never handle).

3. It dulls out the hunger within. This way, I don’t have to face how greedy I am and thus won’t feel the shame that comes with admitting that I haven’t done the work to know what I want. Or oftentimes I know exactly what I want, but expressing that comes with a high price, usually in the form of people’s judgments (which is humiliating and hits my vanity in a deep way): “Are you sure that’s what you want?” “That sounds way out there.” “You just like the attention.” “LA is just not your kind of town.” “Is that really for the greater good?” “Be reasonable.” “Save some for the rest of us.” “You’re not ready for that yet.”

4. It keeps my world organized and sane—all I have to do is be the good girl and get the good grades and be president of all the clubs and eat the good foods and avoid the bad ones and then I will be liked and will have earned some sort of credit in your world and you will allow me to stay with you for another day (yeah, that one’s really warped, ain’t it?).

In my case, this hunger for approval shows up strongly in what I call my “Mother Shadow.” Caroline Myss talks about different variations of the Mother archetype, but the overarching one that every woman has inside of her is the nurturing, loving caretaker. Yes, every woman has this archetype in her. We are biologically wired to house and nourish life: breasts, hips, vagina, uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes, estrogen—the whole lot. Now of course, not every woman expresses this energy through giving birth to physical children. Some women are doctors, some found charities, some are community leaders, some save orphaned kittens. It doesn’t matter how this energy is expressed, but that it is acknowledged, integrated and given an outlet.  

What makes this energy a “shadow” for me is that somewhere down the line I have chosen to reject it. For quite some time I have had an intense phobia of getting pregnant—like, my life was going to end if that ever happened to me. I have also focused very heavily on being a “career” woman—someone so driven by her oh-so-important life purpose, that I didn’t have time for that weak stuff. And I will also admit that there is a residual shame leftover from the feminist movement that if I showed any signs of domesticity, I was not in favor of women’s rights.

Now, I may get in a lot of trouble for saying this, but well…it’s my blog, so fuck it. While I am extremely grateful for the women’s movement and for what it did to bring to light the gender inequalities within society, I think it did a disservice to the deeper feminine energies within us. It taught us how to act like men—or rather, provide us with the false sense of masculinity that parades this planet as being “in one’s power.” Goal-driven, unwavering, never showing emotion, working non-stop, constantly producing, going up, up, up.

This particular flavor of nurturing Mother energy needs the soft, quiet receptivity of moment to moment connection and intimacy. This is at the heart of what we are missing within our culture and the very thing for which we are starving.

I was all good at being seen as Kali. Or the Bitch, the Whore, the Sex Queen or any other kind of wild and destructive feminine archetypes. But since I had rejected the Mother within me, I had to find secret ways to “sneak” her into my life (for that is how a shadow works—if you deny it in the conscious mind or body, the unconscious will find ways to get a hit through the back door, whether you like it or not). So, like a drug addict or an anorexic who has her once-a-week-secret-cookie fix, I would seek out the constant approval of women I considered to be authorities to me. Teachers, leaders, mentors, family members, even my own mother. I was morphing myself, moment by moment, into this person that would be likeable and loveable enough to receive the momentary nourishment of a Mother’s love.

Of course the problem with that is, somewhere down the line, I forgot who I was. My validation became a search of some feminine external, rather than the integrated feminine within myself. And so when I would slip up and my cover was blown, I revealed myself to be someone altogether different that who I pretended to be. It almost felt like an act of betrayal to those I loved, and most importantly, to myself.

I thank the Universe for my anorexia. Some may say “Oh my God! If only we had known then we could have prevented this from happening to her.” But what you are missing that anorexia is not the cause of my pain, but a warning signal that some other thing in my life is out of alignment—that I am not living authentically in my skin. To use the analogy of putting your hand on a hot stove, the anorexia is not the hot stove itself, causing the burn. The anorexia is the bundle of pain receptors sending messages to my brain saying, “Take your hand off this stove before you kill yourself!”

And so, here I am. In San Fran-Fucking-Cisco (of all the most random of places), facing the fertile Mother within me and learning to love her deeply. To expose my hunger and embrace the possibility of getting full and fat and pregnant with energy and giving birth to something. Receiving love, in all its forms, and knowing that I don’t have to produce anything in return or have all the answers. Redefining what success is for me and cultivating an unbearable amount of gentle patience with myself as I learn to take responsibility for my life. And to answer the most dangerous question of all—the one that may have me spinning in circles for lifetimes to unveil.

It’s a question we all have, really. We spend millions of dollars every year on gym memberships, guru books, self-help workshops, therapy sessions and calls to the psychic friends network in the hopes that someone will give us the quick answer. OR we spend billions on porn, alcohol, television, cigarettes, shopping, sugar and empty-calorie sex so that we can numb or distract ourselves to point where we don’t hear this question lurking in our basement anymore.

It’s time to turn on the lights. My shadows are quickly exposing themselves. And when the anorexia comes around again, I will get down on my knees and give thanks—for then I will know another rejected piece of me is waiting just behind that veil of fear. And in meeting her, I will have come one layer closer towards answering that ultimate question: Who am I?

Orgasm in the Marketplace: Engaging Hunger, Turn On & the Shadow

December 2, 2011, 4th St and Mission, SF

I went out yesterday afternoon on an errand.  I wore a short, black dress for the unseasonably warm December day in San Francisco. Low-cut. Spaghetti straps. I was only going to the dry cleaners, but I felt “on”. I felt good. And I wanted attention. I walked downstairs. The men in my community started flirting with me. Watching me as I walked to the bathroom. As I swung my hips. As my legs swished past each other in my arrogant strut. I could feel just how badly they wanted to fuck me. I loved it.

And then I turned the corner. From my insulated little block, I headed towards the open streets of SoMa. And at first it started with just a guy on a bike with a bright orange shirt.

“Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey girl, I’d like to get to know you!”

He bellows this as he circles past me a few times. It’s harmless. I crack a smile. “Approve,” I say to myself. But some part of me is starting to shrink back. I walk down Howard, past a grocery store with immigrant workers unloading boxes from a truck. They take their time to watch me as I walk past.

And then I turn onto 6^th street. Clumps of men standing everywhere. Hungry. For everything. Drugs. Food. Connection. Pussy. Care. Love.

“It’s only one block,” I think to myself, clutching my bag and covering my exposed chest. And how I hate myself for this. A guilt rises in me that screams, “You arrogant, little white princess. Look at you running. How would you like to be fucked now, huh? You have it so good. And what did you expect wearing something like that?”

I move quickly past as one of the guys screams out, “Hey, I like them legs! Mmmm mmmmmm…”

I duck into the cleaners—safe for now in this business-focused interaction. The script has been worked out and rehearsed in this scene and my sex has nothing to do with it (or so I tell myself).

I head out of there, back to the urban jungle of 6^th street, and quickly start to make my way home, when I see a very old man hobbling (drunkenly) down the road. He has a deep limp, a cane and very floppy sandals that do not bode well for his intended trajectory towards the sidewalk curb. I keep moving though—until I hear a crashing scrape just behind me. The man has fallen over and is bleeding from his ears (though, by the looks of him, the blood could have been present even before he hit the sidewalk). Myself and three other men (one of them wearing a suspicious Fedora hat) gather around.

“Are you alright man?” one of them asks. “Hey, hey don’t move,” he says. He starts banging on the locked gates of the shelter, trying to get some assistance. The door is open. I can see people inside moving in response to the situation at my feet.

The situation. This man is not a man, but a situation. And I am frozen. Impotent. This human being is lying here in front of me. Completely out of contact with the present, and yet he is still a human in need of immediate attention. All the horrible, self-centered thoughts come up.

“What if I touch his blood and get some sort of disease?”

“What if I bend over and expose the fact that I am not wearing underwear to the denizens of 6^th street?”

“Am I really helping him here or just standing here because I think I should help?”

“What if I go to pick him up and clutches at my breasts or bites me or hits my face?”

I feel so ruthless and disgusting. The men who reflect my light are worthy of my time and attention, but those who reflect my shadows are to be handled by those of a lesser kind.

And when I see that the shelter workers have it handled, I rush on (but not before Fedora man offers me a piece of silver to buy—never miss an opportunity, that one).

I think I hear one of them commenting on “that girl that’s running away,” (or is it just my own conscience—a sort of vanity-driven Tell-Tale Heart?) as I turn the corner onto Howard street into the sunshine of the late afternoon. As I make my way down the final stretch onto Moss, I catch from the corner of my eye an older man slowing down and to stare at my ass.

I make it back home and somehow feel saddened. Not quite crushed, but muted. Dampened. And confused. How much of that was me in my own shame-y, me-centered world imagining everyone looking at me and how much of that was actually the cloud of others’ starvation engulfing me. A little of both, I imagine.

And this leaves me wondering: how do I go out into the world and shine my turn on and still stay conscious and feeling into all the pain that surrounds me, while still maintaining healthy boundaries? How can I both in approval of my extreme vanity and humbleness. My insecurity and confidence? My repulsion and my compassion? When am I acting out of “shoulds” or daring myself into some extreme situation just to prove how brave I am and when am I outing out of true desire?

Honestly, I don’t have a clear answer for any of this. The only things I can come up seem vague and not very comforting, but there are a few:

2. Remember that you are not alone. We all have our vanity. Our insecurity. Our entitlement. The places where we more important than others and the places where we feel like pathetic pieces of shit. It’s in remembering our common human frailties that the seeds of compassion are sown.

3. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. To look a little rough and ugly. That’s living an orgasmic life. In the involuntary. Without a Step-by-Step How-To Manual. Just a present-moment compass and some vague sense of North. Learn the lesson, say you’re sorry, clean up and move on.

4. Express what is real for you in the moment. If you are feeling scared and want to run away, admit it. If you are repulsed, don’t try to be a “good, loving person.” Just admit you are repulsed. Until you are comfortable looking at ALL the emotional options on the table, you will continue the unconscious pattern of choosing the “shoulds” as opposed to being authentic. And then you are not truly free.

So instead of getting caught in the mire about how I am not Mother Theresa and I should have kept my turn on out and I should have more approval and say thank you and smile and be nicer to people, I just said Fuck It. I am freaked out and scared and horrified and hate my sex and hate the world and wish everyone would just wake up and take responsibility for their lives so we can all tap into our orgasm and live from purpose and desire so we find love for ourselves and stop war and save the planet and be ready for the next evolutionary phase of our existence. Is that so much to ask?!

OK, maybe I put a little too much pressure on myself. But this is the edge I am riding these days. Living a turned-on life and exposing myself to a hungry world that either tries to kill you with a jealous hammer or suck you dry of your turn-on.

What that also requires of then is to acknowledge the places I am hungry. I think that’s the biggest piece for me to get here. Their hunger reflects my own scarcity. And I don’t want to look at that because then I have to admit that I am not independent, invincible and can hold it all together. I see the beggar in me through their eyes. I see the hustler in me through their words. I see the vampire in me through their actions. And no amount of glossy, attractive men wanting to fuck me can cover that up.

But if I can learn to love myself here, then I can truly learn to love it out there. Then wherever I am, no matter who is there, there will be no need to cover the flame of my orgasm.