I’m back from my third rafting trip through the Grand Canyon.
Unlike my first trip that resulted in three erotic essays and my second trip trip where I did erotic photo shoots, this voyage down wasn't so sexy for me.I'll admit this was more than a little disturbing since one of the many ways I describe my erotic memoir is river erotica (click here and here for a little tease). Normally the river seduces my man and consequently me, into this highly aroused, spiritually-awakened ecstatic state.
Not this time. And as you can imagine, I’ve been trying to figure out why.
Rationalization #1: Maybe the river is just done with me. Or perhaps I’m done with her. She always has scared me shitless.
But, no. No way.
Rationalization #2: I was on vacation, so my sexy muses decided to take one too. Quite possible.
Rationalization #3: This year’s launch date was a month earlier than my other two trips so the weather was cooler. Plunging naked into water that was so cold it burned didn't cultivate a sultry vibe.
But I did it anyway.
Rationalization #4: I wasn’t Blogging Me Sexy. I wasn't consciously manifesting sexiness every week and writing it down for you.
That must be it.
Good thing I’m getting back at it.
Sexy prod: Inspire me. Share one of your sensuous spring moments in the comments.
I'm about to unplug. No cell phone, no internet, no electricity.
This sounds incredibly sexy to me. Especially since I'll be doing it for twenty-four days on the Colorado River in the depths of the Grand Canyon.
I've written five erotic essays from previous adventures with my man and that voluptuous stretch of river.
I can hardly wait to see what kind of material she has for me this time.
See you in May.
I found a sexy file.
I was rushing out the door to rendezvous with my man at our cabin when he called and asked me to grab some tax documents. When I found the file he wanted in the cabinet, I partially snagged the file behind it as well and its contents slide out all over the office floor.
Annoyed, I reached down to shove all the papers back together and noticed the name on the tab .
It was my mine.
I looked down at the top sheet of paper and saw the words Act One on the heading. It was the first page of a play I wrote for him for Christmas a few years ago.
A role play.
I was the melancholy erotic dancer who wrapped my legs and longing around a stripper pole (I improvised with the log beam under the loft). He was the lonely graduate student who had been dragged to the strip club by his office buddies. That was the year we almost burned the turkey.
Lying askew at the bottom of Act One was an unlabled, lumpy, legal-sized envelope. I picked it up, intrigued by it’s heft and bulk and just about had an orgasm when I realized what it was.
My magnetic poetry set. The erotic version. It's been MIA.
Oh the sexy prose we composed! But we had to dismantle our refrigerator smut when his family came for a visit.
I ripped open the envelope and let a few words fall in my hand. I couldn’t help myself and started pushing them around on the carpet.
We just got a new white refrigerator at the cabin.
It’s about to get dirty.
Everyone should have one.
I did it.
I found the sexy in taxes.
I’ll admit, it wasn’t easy. But I’m pretty determined here at Blog Me Sexy.
At first, I found myself doing that typical procrastination thing. A snack. A nap. A cup of tea. Cleaning.
So let me deviate here for a moment and state loud and clear to myself and anyone else that needs to hear this:
Procrastinating is so not sexy.
It magnifies that which you are dreading, prolongs it, and more than doubles the agony. As soon as that light bulb when off, I resigned myself to a night with my calculator, determined to crank through my financial records and get back to living my sexy life.
But then something unexpected happened. As I was reconciling my receipts with my credit card statements, I saw charges from all the sexy things I did last year. Like this. And this. And this. And her.
Suddenly retracing my financial steps through the year got really juicy. I got to relish in those sexy moments all over again…
…and start strategizing sexy expenses for this year.
I was curious and typed the words 'sexy' and 'taxes' into a Google search. Voila! Check out this blog: Budgets are Sexy.
Under the column 10 Sexiest Posts, I found this post with tips on becoming a phone sex operator.
Last week I blogged about finding sensuousness in insomnia.
This week I thought I'd blog about the sexiness of doing taxes.
I....uh....I'm still working on that one.
A short article on the G-spot.
I’m pretty proud of this:
I've been making insomnia sexy.
I decided about two months ago that when I awaken at 2 a.m. after just five hours of sleep, I could lie there frustrated and drift in and out of sleep that feels like I’m awake…
…or I could get out of bed and dwell in that space of wakefulness that feels like I’m still asleep.
The later is so much sexier.
I've found that being awake while still tethered in the dreamy consciousness of sleep is an incredibly sensuous place.
Now when I wake up in the middle of the night, I give myself thirty minutes. If I don’t fall back to sleep, I slide out of bed and into something luxurious~cashmere, satin or silk~ that I’ve left beside my bed. I stoke the woodstove, light a few candles and sit in meditation while a mug of hot water with a slice of lemon steeps at my feet.
When my body craves movement, I sip lemon water between yoga postures.
When my thoughts crave movement, I pick up a pen and let them flow across the pages of my journal. I’ve found that in the fire-lit hours, words move like breath on the page, even and measured, when my critic is too sleepy to comment or care.
Ever since I’ve let go of the angst around not sleeping, I’ve come to cherish this sacred solo time when I can bask in the moonlight sneaking in my windows. I've reframed the idea of a sleepless night into a sleep less night.
After about an hour or so, I slide back into bed, curl up with my man and let the cadence of his breathing lure me into a deep restful sleep.
I wake up hydrated, centered and stretched. My writing and contemplative practices are already done which leaves time for coffee in bed with my lover.
It’s a pretty sexy ritual.
How about you? How do you make the most of a sleep less night?
I’m by myself in the winter aspens. I’ve never felt less alone.
I take off my glove and press my bare hand against a silvery trunk, eager to touch, to see, to feel with my fingers what vibrates in every cell of my being when I find myself pulling out of a waist-deep powder turn because I am even more enthralled by the trees I am skiing through.
Their pull on me is irresistible and intense, a seduction I felt all the way from Oregon. Now that I am back in these winter aspens ~my habitat, my home, my tribe~ it’s as if I can hear them whisper and giggle, as giddy about this homecoming as I am.
When I lift my hand, my palm is dusted with the soft white powder of their bark. My thumb moves between my brows and even though I’m now more of a Mardi Gras pagan than an Ash Wednesday church goer, I integrate the two as I smudge a small cross over my third eye.
I hear the mumbled chant of my Inner Catholic girl youth.
Ashes to ashes.
My index finger drops to my lips.
Dust to dust.
I trace the curve of my smile with the aspen dust, completing my anointment, my own sacred tribute to life, death and every precious breath in between.
Last week I promised the wisdom of The Queens.
But then the snow gods bestowed twenty-four inches of champagne powder on the mountains by my home and my Inner Ski Bum kind of, like omigod totally, took over my life. Because plunging clit first through that most magical of mediums amidst a tribe of silver-barked aspens is one of the most ecstatic things I do.
But I did manage to survey a couple Sexy Queens who incidentally are a little hard to track down. They aren’t exactly waiting by the phone for someone like me to call and ask them how they’ve managed to stay so sexy. They are out doing sexy things.
Like taking in, fully, twenty four inches.
So from the lips of my Sexy Mentors, here's how to sexify your approach to getting older. I had planned to mix and blend their responses and serve them up like a top shelf margarita or an article for More magazine. But, given the snow conditions here in Colorado, I’m going to serve it to you neat.
Question posed by Blog Me Sexy: What advice do you have for women who are struggling with feeling sexy as they get older?
Recognize that you are indeed losing the power and beauty of your youth. Grieve it, move on and don’t get stuck there. Because you aren’t losing your power and beauty, you are just gaining it elsewhere. Focus on what your power is now at your current age. What are your strengths? What are your greatest assets? Focus on those, cultivate them. That’s sexy.
When you find you are no longer the center of attention or attracting as much attention, look at why you needed that and let it go.
Recognize the gifts of getting older:
Your refined sexuality and sexual experience
Greater emotional stability
Your interpersonal and organizational skills
You’re ability to love purely
Buy beautiful lingerie. Just for yourself. A Sexy Queen recommendation: Elle McPhearson’s lingerie line
Wear heels, notice how you walk differently in them.
Smile a lot. Laugh a lot. Look people in the eye.
Take care of your skin. Wear sunscreen. Good products do make a difference.
Take care of your body:
Don’t drink too much.
Eat healthy foods.
Exercise. Lift weights twice a week and get aerobic at least three times a week by doing something you enjoy, walking, skiing, dancing…
Buy good-fitting, sexy jeans.
In your 20’s it’s was easy to be attractive. Sexiness at 60 comes with confidence. You have to work at it.
Enjoy the aging process. Embrace it and focus on the positives.
Don’t try to look 20 when you are 50. And don’t try to compete with younger women. Remember that you are attractive in your power and confidence.
A Queen in her 70’s told me that what they say about post menopausal vigor is all true. Once she got through that transition, she’s felt great for the past twenty years and still does. She emphasized how important it is to take care of your body and health so you can ride that wave as long as possible.
Stay open to new experiences.
This blog post would not have been possbile without the help of some very gracious, sexy women. Merci mille fois.
If you have anything to add, do express your sexy self in the comments.
I had a request from a friend who just started reading this blog:
Could you blog about how to feel sexy as you get older? I’m 48 now and having a harder time feeling sexy lately with the changes in my hair, skin and body. On top of all that, my job keeps me in front of a computer all day and I have less of an adventure lifestyle. Help!
I sent her the link to the Sexy Mentor blog post but I know she needed more than that.
Last year my friend Jenna (she's a goddess check her out here) gave me this gem of a metaphor that helped me reframe my thoughts about sexiness and aging:
In our society we’ve developed a limited perspective of feminine beauty by focusing primarily on The Princess archetype: that dewy lusciousness of women in their late teens, twenties and early thirties. (This can also translate to men as the prince/knight archetype.)
But in all our Princess worship, we’ve forgotten about the sexy grace, elegance, and wisdom of The Queen. (Or for you men, The King)
And from what I’ve seen, Queens are damn sexy.
So I decided it's time for another Sexy Survey. I’m going to interview a few of my Sexy Mentors, sensuous women in their 50’s, 60’s and 70’s to see what kind of advice and wisdom they have to share.
So if the tiara isn’t working for you anymore (or you hate the idea of getting older), come visit next week to get some insights on how to rock the crown.
One of the sexiest women I know fell in love recently. I haven’t met her man yet, but I love hearing the sparkle in her voice when he comes up in our phone conversations.
Her new lover, she says, has these long, graceful fingers. They are so perfect that when they photographed their hands together, his threatened to steal the admiration despite the engagement ring on her finger.
She was glad she’d just had a manicure.
“Sexy hands,” I said.
Her voice droped an octave. “Definitely.”
So the other night my man and I were curled by the woodstove after dinner. Without any prompting from me, he looked down at his hands.
“It’s good to have my hands back,” he said as he flexed his fingers. “They were starting to get soft in Oregon.”
His hands have been busy reclaiming our life in Colorado: building outside in January; tinkering with our wind and solar systems; cutting and splitting firewood; and fixing everything that breaks at our two properties.
He turned them over under the light, showcasing blood- red gashes on his knuckles, dried scabs near his thumb and lots of torn cuticles.
And the feel of those calluses parting the soft flesh of my inner thighs?
My kind of sexy hands.
Tell me about your favorite pair of sexy hands.