There is alone and there is lonely.
Before I met my man I was worse than lonely.
I was lonely in love.
I would lie next to my boyfriend at the time and long for a deeper spiritual, emotional and sexual connection. As relationship dynamics seem to work, the more I expressed my needs, the more he shut down. Eventually we grew weary of the same old fight. We retreated to our corners of the ring and carried on in a kind, but distant limbo.
Over the next year, I shifted my energy away from the boy and directed it towards meditation, yoga and writing. In the process I tapped into something deep, sensual and nurturing. I ended up having a love affair with myself.
When my man showed up at my studio and swept me off my yoga mat, I was over the moon. I had finally found a sexy, passionate, committed man.
But then I started to realize that I wasn’t the only object of his lust, passion and commitment. I had some major competition in the form of a femme- fatale beauty called the California Salmon River.
Our first spring together, he couldn’t hide his excitement to go to her to teach kayaking and run whitewater for six weeks. As he drove away with his kayaks strapped to the top of his truck, I felt my needy little self clinging to my legs. I pulled her into my lap as I sat in meditation. We did lots of yoga together. We wrote.
I ended up with a 250-page mostly erotic, somewhat spiritual memoir.
And I figured out how to be alone in love.
And this week, while my man is getting off on the Colorado River, I am remembering.
I am remembering how sexy it feels to slide fully back into my own skin.
Check out the Kripalu Center for Yoga and Health. It’s a great place to have a romantic rendezvous with yourself.
Feel free to share in the comments any books or retreats centers that have helped you tap into your sensual self.
I’m lying in bed curled up behind my man. Okay, so I’m clinging.
He’s leaving this morning for two weeks. I don’t have the skills to follow. He’ll be paddling his fourteen-foot kayak solo through the Grand Canyon.
He needs this river adventure like a cougar needs a kill.
The past month he’s spent too many days in his basement office at a computer working on a scientific paper for possible publication. He’s been acting a lot like his study animal, a frustrated caged one.
So I must admit, back in January I was looking forward to this day.
This week as he pulled out his river gear and started organizing for his trip, he morphed back into my sexy, happy-go-lucky kayaker. The outdoor guide I fell in love with came back home just in time to leave.
The front of my body is molded tight to the back of his. I trace the tip of my nose across the top ridge of his shoulder blade and find myself fascinated by his skin.
I can’t believe I’ve been lying next to him for nine years and I am just now noticing this incredible organ that encases the spirit of the person I most love on this planet.
I press my face into his upper back and can feel it breathing, cooling. I’m amazed by how alive it feels, how alive I want it to stay forever. I know it can’t, but please long enough to come back to me so I can have many more mornings of not taking this for granted and appreciating fully what I have and will some day inevitably lose.
May that day be decades away.
I inhale his scent as I brush my lips across his surface.
I want to crawl in.
Spend some time lounging around the Erotica Readers and Writers Association website.
The foreword to my memoir reads like this:
In 2001, I was with the wrong man for all the right reasons. He was a nice guy. He loved my dog. He made me laugh.
But the passion and emotional commitment that was lacking in our relationship made me cry as well. After seven years we had never followed through on the engagement and we were no longer living together. But neither one of us could quite let go.
I sought solace in yoga and meditation and let go of my obsession of trying to figure things out. I started channeling all my longing and sexual fantasies into an erotic romance novel. My female protagonist had not one, but two, sexy men of the West vying for her attention.
A year into the draft of that story, a ruggedly handsome adventurer walked into my yoga studio. He was a mind-blowing manifestation of the heroic qualities of both my male leads blended into one...
Pretty soon after that, I abandoned the novel and started writing erotic essays.
WRITE DOWN WHAT YOU WANT.
I’m continually amazed by the power of a written intention.
My novel manifested my man. My erotic essays have sustained my passionate marriage. And this blog! I am always thinking about sensual topics to blog about now. I vibrate at a much sexier frequency now than I did in October. That is just the way the universe works. Energy flows where intentions goes.
For example, a few weeks ago I was working on a blog post about my first erotica reading last spring at the Seattle Erotic Art Festival. Before I even posted it, two women friends approached me and asked me to do an erotica reading for a women’s gathering. Coincidence? I think not.
The reading is this weekend. I can hardly wait to tease, tease, tease. I plan to leave these Northeast Oregonian women begging for more which will drive me to stay on task with researching (yawn) publishing options.
So things are really starting to simmer here at the sexy manifestation blog. This week I’m inviting you to jump in the pot.
What are you ready to manifest?
Write it down.
You can scribble it in your journal or tack it on your fridge like you've probably done in the past.
But, The Powers That Be love and respond to boldness. Go ahead and give your empowered, sexy self a pen name and unveil your deepest desire in the comments sections.
Every time you read my weekly offering, make a comment, share my website with a friend or 'like' it on Facebook, you are supporting my vision. I’d love to do the same for you. Besides, I’d like to get to know you.
Tell me: What makes you wet, what makes you hard, just thinking about it?
And then get ready to show up when it starts happening.
That’s all for this week. I have an erotica reading to prepare.
The classic book on Creative Visualization from Shakti Gawain is an oldie but a goodie. If you know of any others, please enlighten me in the comments section.
My man and I are bunking up ski-bum style with our friend D.K. in a hotel room in Stanley, Idaho. Given the sleeping accommodations, we won’t be having sex. We are here to satisfying our lust for back country skiing.
Skiing in the Sawtooth Mountains has the extra bonus of a natural hot springs down the road from our hotel. The three of us just fit into the metal vat that captures the gushing hot mineral water that flows out from the river bank.
As the guys strategize about tomorrow’s ski route, my attention pivots as if I’ve been tapped on the shoulder. I turn to face the Salmon River and find myself captivated by her winterness. She is flowing wide and flat here in town, a dark slate blue. She is white with chunks of ice instead of rapids.
Usually my kayaker is the one seduced by the river. But right now he is totally captivated by skiing this new mountain range.
So she’s set her sights on me.
It makes no sense at all to leave this tub of hot water and journey out in the zero degree twilight towards her icy flow.
But I guess I’m a fool for her in any season because I do.
I’ve been allowing January lately, healing an over-pronated ankle and surrendering to pizza, naps and my not-so-sexy self. As I step across rocks beside this ice-choked river, perfectly warm inside my steaming bare skin, I feel sexier than I have in weeks.
I move towards some shallow, rock-lined pools and dip my toes in like Goldilocks. I find one that is just right and lie belly down beside the river. My pubis nestles into a mound of warm pebbles, my sinuses fill with the deep-earth scent of the spring. I dangle my hand in the river and flirt back, splashing her on my cheeks, lips and chest to cool my lobster red skin.
I roll like an otter and lie on my back. Algae pools at the juncture of my thighs and floats around my nipples. I catch some between my fingers and anoint my forehead. I place a smooth warm stone on my sternum as I drizzle a handful of hot sand around my breasts.
I lie, suspended, like the crescent moon that floats in and out of the clouds above me.
The final lines of one of my favorite Mary Oliver poems, Five A.M. in the Pinewoods, come to mind:
so this is how you swim inward
so this is how you flow outward
so this is how you pray
Check out the poetry collections by Mary Oliver. New and Selected Poems was my first love and has the poem Five A.M. in the Pinewoods