From the outside looking in, the pastoral town where I live in Northeast Oregon doesn’t look like a mob town. 

Oh, but it is.

It all started last summer when my Zumba teacher descended on the Saturday morning farmers market with a gang of dancers for a flash mob.

Then, a few months ago, my favorite realtor gathered a posse and started hitting the downtown businesses in random cash mobs.

It's such a sexy trend~organized, sublime~and I jump in whenever my schedule allows which isn't often enough.  So I've come up with an idea for all of us pleasure thugs who thrive on spontaneity.

I’m proposing a sexy mob.  

Here’s what I envision:

When the mood strikes, a band of sexy mobsters come together and choose their hit (a friend across the bar, a co-worker, a downtown business owner, someone’s mom…). 

And then the flirtatious assault begins.

For the less demonstrative mobster, this could involve direct eye contact, a handshake and a sincere compliment like, “I’ve always admired your work.” Or a solid pat on the back with an expression of gratitude for the target’s presence on the planet. 

Experienced flirts could go for an affectionate mussing of the hair. A light caress across the shoulders. A neck massage. A hug.  A kiss on the cheek. A teasing spank.

It doesn’t matter what arsenal of appreciation is used.

When the flurry of flirtation vanishes just as quickly as it appeared, the hit is left feeling cherished, appreciated, confident and aroused.

And that all adds up to sexy.

Sexy Read:
I’ve been in a mobster state of mind lately reading the novel Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts.  It’s eloquent, edgy, engaging, excellent~and those are just my ‘e’ adjectives.  I read the first page and was hooked for the next 930.

I had a great sexy song experience last weekend.

On Saturday night my man was about to shut down Pandora radio so we could watch a movie when one of my favorite Bruce Springsteen songs came on.

“Wait, wait!” I said. “This is one of the sexiest songs ever.”

My man knows the benefits of indulging my sexy whims.  He paused and listened with me.

Tell me now baby is he good to you?
Can he do to you the things that I do?
I can take you higher.
Oooh I'm on fire

Those lyrics, and the smoldering way Springsteen delivers them, always get me, right down to my cervix.

The song struck a chord with my man as well. Even after the film, I heard him humming the melody as he moved through the house shutting off the lights.

The next morning I was astride him, our hips moving together in a slow, sultry Sunday morning cadence, when I felt a spark at my G-spot. My hips responded by moving faster, craving more friction, more heat and that exquisite burn.

My man grabbed my hips and intensified our rhythm until we both ignited in a burst of ecstasy.

I collapsed in a heap on his chest, the heat of our release and a space heater keeping us warm above the covers on a cool spring morning.

Our breathing slowed as we started to melt even deeper into each other. I inhaled, one of those deep satisfying breaths, and sat up in alarm.

“Something’s burning,” my man said. Our eyes met and our bodies reacted. 

I moved towards the kitchen since I’m famous for leaving burners on. He went for the pit bull who loves to lie so close to our space heater that his fur gets too hot to touch.

The kitchen was cold and odorless so I ran back to the bedroom.  The pit bull was fine and getting a belly rub.

The scorching smell was gone.  Relieved but a bit puzzled, we shrugged it off and moved towards breakfast.

As I scrambled some eggs, my lips curled in a knowing smile when I heard my man’s voice echoing like Springsteen’s from the shower.   

Oooh I’m on fire.

Sexy Share
What is your sexiest song ever?  Share it with me in the comments.

My intent when I started this blog was to cultivate more sensuousness, more sexiness in my life.

Last week I hit the bull’s eye.

I found one of the most sensuous places on the planet and spent two nights there.

This means I had two mornings to wake up early before the other guests, sneak through a dark, mystical rainforest, and have seven hot spring pools, a steam-room cabin, and a creek bursting with spring all to myself.

Which means I got to lie naked in water warmed by the core of the earth, beneath the branches of towering pines dripping with chartreuse-colored lichen.

Which means I got to hook my knees over the smooth river rocks that formed the perimeter of the pools, float on my back, and sway my torso from side to side with my arms overhead and my hair moving like thick algae as my nipples contracted from the coolness of the breaking dawn.

Which means that as the sun rose and the sky blushed as pink as my skin, I got to feel snowflakes huge and impossibly light melt on my tongue and my lips and my cheeks like kisses or tears or both.

Which means I achieved a level of relaxation and bliss so pure and so deep that I can’t quite recover or find any sense at all in the busyness of the life that I’ve been living.

Which means that I’m a bit lost this week.

Which means that I’m already strategizing my way back there.

Where do you go to find your most sensuous self?

Sexy Link:

Check out Breitenbush Hot Springs

I thought I was done with bad boys.

I had a serious affliction in my teens and twenties. I was drawn to those sexy, rule-defying, heart- breaking types like a moth to flame.  

And I got burned.

When I was twenty-eight, I landed in massage school with my shattered heart in my hands.  My  bartender boyfriend of six years had just dumped me (for the second time) for a new girl.  I took advantage of the school's free counselor who honed in on a deeply embedded unloveable/not-good- enough belief that was playing out in my love relationships. 

Seven months and many sessions later, when the bartender called and wanted to see me, I was able to tell him, with much love and compassion, to fuck off.

I high-fived my therapist, graduated from counseling and I decided I was free of bad boys for good.

Or so I thought. 

Because right now I am living with fifty pounds of charismatic bad boy all wrapped up in a caramel-colored coat.

You see, I've fallen for a pit bull. 

Talk about a bad boy breed.

And I'm stuck in the same old cycle of thinking that if I love him enough, he will change.  That if I rub his belly just right, he'll give up his bad boy ways and won't rip the lid of the trash can and spread a week's work of garbage all over the living room.  Or if we spend thirty-five dollars on a deluxe dog bed, he'll quit napping on the couch while my man and I are at work.

Like the bad boys of my youth, he knows he's being bad.  He just can't help himself.

And like my twenty-year old self, I know he is going to do it again.  But I keep taking him back.  I can't seem to resist his contrite, repentent look when he wants to crawl back in my lap after doing some hard time outside in his doghouse.

Since the old unloveable dynamic isn't there anymore, I've been trying to figure out why I keep letting him track his muddy paws all over my home and my heart.

And what I've come up with is this: 

My inner stripper, my sixteen-year-old rebellious Catholic Girl and my erotica writer all adore him.

Talk about a bad boy need.