Summer is such a sexy time of year. 

But it still feels like a cool, wet spring here in Oregon.  I haven't yet hooked into that sultry summer vibe.

I’ve had a few sexy moments. 

After my first pedicure in years, I strutted around the house in some high-heeled sandals admiring my Come To Bed Red toenails. 

A hooping class last Friday night left me all hot and bothered.  In case you didn't know, hooping instructors are some of the sexiest beings on the planet.

Oh! Oh! And there was this super sexy moment after my erotica reading when my man and I were walking through Seattle. I made eye contact with a young Harry Connick Jr. look-alike as he walked towards us with some friends. He had a lock of dark hair that fell recklessly over one eye, leaving the other one that much bigger and bluer.  

We shared a smile.
As our bodies brushed passed each other, he whispered so only I could hear, “You’re cute as hell.”

He only slurred his words a little,  I swear.

But all those moments were like Fourth of July fireworks, bright and exciting but fading quickly into a dark cloudy sky.

I need something more sustaining. Or more of those sexy little gems all strung together.  Or a river trip. More yoga for sure.

My dear readers, help me out this week.

What’s making you feel sexy this summer?

I knew this would happen some day.

I’d be scheduled to show up as an erotica writer and my Cancer crab would show up instead, the part of me that needs to crawl into my shell and hide, claws waiting to pinch anyone who gets too close. 

But I couldn’t retreat into my shell last weekend.  I had signed up to read my yogic self-pleasuring essay at the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival.

So the inner dialogue last week looked a little like this:

The Crab: I can’t think of anything worse than stepping up on a stage and showing myself like that. I’m not going.

The Erotica Writer: Don’t do this to me.

The Crab:  I’m tired from work and I really need to be alone.  I don’t know what to wear.  Seattle is six hours away.  I’m not going.

The Erotica Writer:  Don’t fucking do this to me.

Thankfully, on Friday night The Yoga Teacher showed up. 

She peeled off my work clothes and guided me to sit naked in front of my meditation alter.  She opened the windows and invited a warm breeze to caress my skin as she lit candles and whispered a modified version of the loving kindness metta in my ear, over and over again.

May I be filled with loving kindness
May I be well
May I be peaceful and at ease
May I feel sexy

She honored The Crab with all that quiet darkness. She honored The Erotica Writer by reminding her of the very essence of the story she was scheduled to share, a poetic essay about embracing the sensuality of the self through yoga. She guided us through a gentle vinyasa flow.

It worked.

When I stepped on that stage the next day in my magenta batik yoga pants, black spaghetti-strap tank and vintage suede boots (that unlike last year, fit as a tight as a glove) I felt empowered, sexy and excited to share my work.

I was still nervous, unaccustomed as I am to being in the spotlight on a dark stage reading about masturbating in front of an audience.  My voice and legs only did that adrenaline tremor thing for the first two paragraphs and then mellowed out.  This is progress.
But the point is...I did it. I showed up for The Erotica Writer.

And now The Crab gets to scurry into this cool, dark, new moon night. 


We all need mentors.  

Especially sexy ones.

By my definition, a Sexy Mentor is someone who is ten to fifteen years older than you and is still undeniably, incredibly hot. Without even knowing it, they remind you to reframe your perception of sexiness beyond the media’s oh-so-limiting portrayal of it as young, thin and unlined. 

I have Joan.

I loved her before I even met her in person. 

I called her on a recommendation from a friend who said she did skin care and carried great face cream. I explained that I was leaving for a two-month adventure to New Zealand and wanted something really good.

“It’s hard for me to recommend products without analyzing your skin,” she said.

“Irish. Freckled. Sensitive. Lots of fun in the sun.”

She laughed.  “Okay. North or South Island?”

My kind of esthetician.

Meeting her in person only confirmed it. She’s passionate about her profession and reminds me of those effortlessly beautiful women I saw all over France.  Vitality oozes from her every pore and transfers like osmosis through her hands into my face.

She knows how to saunter that line between fashionable and trendy and lucky for me, we are the same size so she gives me her castaway classy clothes.

She’s sixty-something.

Every time I see her, she reminds me that that sexy knows no age limits.

Who are your sexy mentors?

Here's Joan looking effortessly sexy in Florence, Italy
Erotic photo shoots are like running big whitewater:

Scary to think about.
Super exciting in the middle.
Incredibly empowering by the end.

I’ve done three of them so far. 

You’d think that since I’m an erotic essayist and somewhat of an exhibitionist at heart, erotic photos shoots would be a breeze for me. 

Au contraire.

First I have to lock my Inner Catholic Girl in a confessional. Then I have to transcend that conditioned cultural voice that wrestles with not being fit or thin or young enough which we all know is bullshit but… still. 

It rants.

I rave back.

You can too. 

When the opportunity for an erotic photo shoot presents itself (it will), I encourage you to go for it. Tuck the pictures away if you don’t like them at first.  Because someday, like today for me, you will pull them out and think, Wow, I’m so glad I ditched that bikini on the beach.

Courage begets courage. 

I need some right now. I have get to get sexy- psyched for a reading at the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival. So I'm posting this photo to manifest some boldness and get that juicy, carpe diem mojo flowing.  

Getting off at the confluence of the Little Colorado River. Grand Canyon,  April 2009.

Photo by Graham Charles.

Tell me about your fears, desires, experiences with erotic photos shoots and I'll tell (and show) more of mine.