I’m posting a day early because it’s Halloween. We get to dress in costume, slip into character and become someone else for the night.
So why not do it more often? With your lover. In a role play.
I touched on this concept last week with Miss Kitty but I think it begs for more discussion. Because even though finding a soul mate, a trusted lover and a life companion is one of the greatest gifts in life, there’s that little bitty part about never having a new lover again.
Not the most erotic reality.
So change it.
Become the naughty schoolgirl, the sexy neighbor, the French chamber maid, the doctor, the dominatrix, the erotic photographer, the stripper, the intern, the bodyguard, the nanny, the Chippendales dancer, the personal trainer, the prom queen.
Don a wig, heels, dramatic make up, ripped fishnet stockings, skin tight silk boxer briefs. Play with props: a cigarette, a feather boa, a stethoscope, a feather duster, a string of pearls.
I don’t care who you become or what you wear just get outside yourself. Get into character. See what words come out of your mouth. See how differently your hands move across the landscape of your lover’s skin.
Get warmed up to the idea tonight. And when your lover gives you the choice between trick or treat, summon your inner call girl and go for the trick.
Let’s start now. You are the role-playing neophyte. I am the expert. Ask away.
Share one of your favorite sexy role plays and I’ll share some of mine.
Last week I alluded to my aversion to wearing pink and how my Inner Tomboy thinks it’s too girlie.
I forgot about Miss Kitty.
In my defense I didn’t pick her out. My man and I were cruising around an Aspen thrift store before our wedding looking for some fun duds.
“Hey, look at this!” he said as he held up this pink teddy, with not one, but two pink bows. “You have to try this one,” he said as he handed it to me.
“Uh…okay,” I said trying not to cringe.
The things we do for love.
I tried it on for him and damn if it didn’t fit perfectly. And those bows! They could be tightened to create cleavage or with two quick tugs they dissolved that teddy into a pile of lace at my feet.
“Sold,” he said as he caressed my lacey pink breasts. When he pulled my hips to his I could feel the effect Miss Kitty was having on him.
"I'll take two," I said as our lips met. If it hadn't been for the flimsy curtain and the two women waiting beyond it, we may have christened that teddy right then.
The energy of the former owner must have been infused in the material because the first time I wore it, I became Miss Kitty. A sweet southern accent drawled from my lips. I called my man Sugar Pops and asked him when he was taking me back to Aspen so he could buy me another fur coat.
My man slid right into his role, and told me I could have anything little thing I wanted but first why didn’t I bring my sugar lips a little closer... and a lot lower.
My Inner Tomboy has to deal with it because there is no denying that when I slip into Miss Kitty, I feel pretty in pink, sweet as cotton candy and oh so sexy.
And most importantly Sugar Pops thinks so too.
Had any fun role plays lately? Miss Kitty is just dying to hear all about it.
I’ve never been a big fan of the color pink. Too girly. I flip right past the Pink section of the Victoria Secret catalogue in pursuit of black lace and cleavage.
But lately, everywhere I look I see pink.
And it’s pretty sexy.
I’m living in flat open ranchland surrounded by five mountain ranges now. Every morning the sun drops in and paints our huge canvas of a sky in every nuance of pink imaginable. I get a repeat performance at sunset.
The twice-a-day shows have been blowing my mind for over a month now. I feel like I have a pair of rose-colored glasses permanently affixed to my face.
And then the other day, my UPS man dropped off a package and included a copy of the free daily newspaper from Steamboat.
It was pink.
I read every cotton-colored page that was dedicated to breast cancer awareness. The stories of the survivors, their courage, strength and hope brought tears to my eyes. To raise money for the movement, the community is throwing a black lace/pink tie fundraiser called Bust of Steamboat where they auction off high-end, breast inspired art. Last year they raised $45,000.
So I’m walking through the hay meadow by my house at sunset, the surrounding peaks rosy with alpenglow, wondering if my lesbian friend in Steamboat would want to don a pink tie and be my date for the breast event. I'm not being present at all as I start fantasizing about what outfit I'd wear: the lingerie gown with the black lace bodice or the black lace pants.
I look up and see this car drive by:
Some of the sexiest advice I’ve ever been given was this:
Follow the energy.
I had called my older sister looking for guidance. A sexy whitewater kayaker was attending my yoga classes and fantasies of him were keeping me up at night. But I’d just extricated myself from a complicated long-term relationship and it seemed rather insane to jump right back into something new.
But I took her advice and dove in heart first.
I just had my eight-year wedding anniversary with that sexy kayaker. As a gift I gave him a printed, bound copy of my mostly erotic somewhat spiritual memoir of our marriage. It’s thirty-five essays in manuscript format. It's got a title page, a quote, a foreward and even a table of contents.
It’s done. (For now anyway. The sexy adventures will never end with that man.)
I should be elated, celebrating and moving boldly forward with publishing, right?
Unfortunately, that energy isn’t around to follow.
Instead I’ve been tucked into my high-country nest feeling rather uninspired about the realities of creating a writing career in the current publishing climate. I have a stack of materials from my latest writer’s conference and I know what I need to do next. I just can’t find the mojo to do it.
One of my writing friends pointed out that I’d just birthed a big creative project.
“You’re post partum,” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
So I've been wondering, does that mean I get six weeks of creative maternity leave on this project?
Because where the energy is beckoning lately is towards a leather portfolio I unpacked last week. It's the draft of the erotic romance novel I was working on ten years ago when my man showed up, a mindblowing manifestation of the sexy qualities of both my male leads blended into one.
I think I'll take that dusty old draft to the cabin this weekend and see what happens.
Are you following the energy in your life lately?
To my Inner Catholic Girl readers: I curled up at the cabin last weekend with John Groban’s (author of Marley and Me) memoir, The Longest Trip Home. Great book. I loved reading about his Inner Catholic Boy. Thanks for the recommendation, Muzz.
A couple of mountain blue birds were hanging out at the cabin the last week. The male was an amazing vibrant blue. The female was mostly grey with a subtle display of blue on her wings.
I’m by no means an expert, but it seems like female birds leave all the sexy posturing, color and flash to the males. Think cardinals, peacocks and sage grouse.
So opposite of our species.
But lately, I'm down with the girl birds. I've been wearing a lot of brown, beige and black. No makeup. No earrings. Unpainted toenails. I’ve been flying below the radar lately, not wanting to draw attention to myself, not wanting to be seen. I can’t bring myself to post my blogs on Facebook, chat with other bloggers or hop around BlogFrog.
This is not how one builds an erotica writing career.
But upon further reflection, I realized my current bird girl status makes sense. Right now I’m putting all my energy into re-establishing my home in Colorado.
I'm sitting on all these ideas that I got from the writer’s conference in Portland, waiting to see which ones are going to hatch into a publishing plan.
I put on my brown and black feather earrings and I've been embracing my girl-bird self.
But then yesterday I was unpacking a box and found a single peacock feather. I have no idea where it came from but I know why I kept it. It’s beautiful, a piece of art.
I placed it on my meditation alter as an intention. A reminder. An invitation to my cockier self to come on back out whenever she feels ready to fly.