The irony of writing this blog is that I’m spending more time sitting at my computer, which for me is the antithesis of sensuous.

So this morning I’ve decided the best way to blog me sexy is to go out for a run.

But twenty minutes into it, I realize that even though I am in the heart of beautiful canyon with some groovin’ tunes playing on my I-pod, mentally I’m still at my computer.

I close my eyes and reel myself in, grounding my awareness in my feet as they rhythmically hit the earth.  I tune in to the warmth of the rising sun on my back. 

When I open my eyes, I notice a dark figure running out in front of me.  Her ponytail sways from side-to-side just like mine.

I lift my hand to wave just as she does the same. She’s kind of cute in a dark, mysterious way. She looks rather serious though, so I raise my other hand and sway both arms overhead to the music. I can’t see her smile but I know it’s there as she mimics and flows right along with me.

I add my hips and she is good, matching my every move.  I bounce from foot to foot, shimmy my shoulders, and giggle as the two of us boogie up the canyon trail.

This is way more fun than re-writing the same paragraph over and over in my head as I drag my body uphill.

This blog has me flirting with my own shadow now. I’m either losing it or really on to something.

Alarms clocks are so not sexy.   Especially at 5:30 am on a Monday. 

I resist the urge to pull on some cotton Hanes and faded sweats to match my mood.

I do it for the blog.

I open my top drawer and go for the lace. I dig around until I find some curve-hugging yoga pants and an old favorite party shirt that has been relegated to sexy lounge wear status. It’s velvety, blue and still has some breast clinging capacity.

When I stumble into the kitchen, my man has his coffee dripping and my green tea steeping.  We carry them out on the front porch to wake up with the sky.

The morning air is sweet and unseasonably warm, one last breath of Indian summer. When the sun rises, too yellow and bright, we retreat into our living room to stretch. 

In the first few years of our relationship, we never made it very far with our yoga practice. There was something about  my hips pushing up and back into downward dog.  Our practice would go from spiritual to carnal in one slow, mutual exhalation.

We’ve been married seven years now and recreating hard on this planet for over forty.  The need to stretch our bodies often over rides our need to orgasm them, especially on a Monday morning when we are trying to sneak in a hike before work.

We stay on task and get through twenty minutes of stretching and then move into some sit ups. After a set of fifty I am hot, so I pull off my shirt and yoga pants. I must admit I’m pretty pleased with myself when I look down my torso and see a leopard-spotted thong and a lacey black bra. I roll over and knock out a set of push ups before stretching my hips towards my heels for child’s pose.


As my man nuzzles my neck, I remember images from our Bliss viewing the night before. I can tell by the long, slow strokes across my leopard spots that he is too.

I end up with rug burns for the first time in years.

I think this blog is working.



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Fixing the fung shui of our underwear drawers was such a success, I decided to apply it towards the rest of the house.

As I tackle the dust and clutter around the stereo cabinet, I see a DVD with the words Bliss: Third Season. 

I feel my cervix tingle.

We’ve been in Indian Summer mode this past month, riding our tandem in the evenings to absorb every particle of light before the descent of winter. Now that Daylight Saving Time is over and we've been thrust into darkness at 4:30 in the afternoon,  it is officially movie watching season.

And Bliss is the perfect kick off. 

Bliss is an erotic Canadian television series that shows women’s fantasies from the women’s point of view. They are fun, sensual, soft porn shorts.

I pick up the DVD and walk it into my man’s office.  He’s totally engrossed in a wildlife manuscript he’s working on for publication. 

I shouldn’t bother him, and usually don’t, when he is in scientist mode.  It’s painful to watch the grind of his mental gears as he shifts to converse.

But I can’t help myself.

I spin the disc around my index finger. “How about some Bliss tonight?”

At the sound of the word bliss his head pivots towards me so fast I think he’s going to get a whiplash.  He looks at me and blinks a few times. His mind is taking a little longer than his body to pull out of statistics.

“Sure.”  I even get a smile out of him.

I run my feather duster across his keyboard, flutter it across his lap and go back to my cleaning. 

I suddenly have a hot date tonight.

You can order Bliss on Netflix. They get better with each season, but go ahead and indulge a little with Seasons One and Two. Why not? We have about four months of winter ahead.

You'll appreciate Season Three that much more.

In my last blog about sexy undies I included a link for Mansilk Boxer Briefs.

I have a bit more to say about those. 

Because really, what could be better than wrapping your man’s package in silk?

I love silk, but I'm a Sweaty Betty and can’t wear it.  If I even look at a silk shirt, I start to perspire imagining the dark pits stains that would appear as soon as I put it on.

So I buy silk boxer briefs for my man. He loves them.  Besides the fact that I love to rub my face up against them, they are thin, warm and a perfect under layer for winter outdoor sports.

I sound like a rep don’t I? 

Good. Because I have this plan, a marketing plan, that as soon as I get my erotic memoir published, I’m going to hit the road for a book tour. As I travel around to all the ski towns and do erotica readings (and ski), I’ll sell my book and Mansilk to women who want to sex up their life and their man’s top drawer.  

Killer idea, right? So I started doing a little research on how I could make this happen and maybe get some sponsorship to boot.  Long story short, I pulled this excerpt from my erotic memoir to prove what a Mansilk devotee I am and put it in an e-mail:

He is yang, like the sun, that never burns dim.

I am yin, like the moon, that waxes and wanes.

Somewhere between the two of us there is a balance. I beckon him to the couch in an attempt to find it.

“Give me some of that,” I say as I reach for him.

He is puzzled at first, since usually it’s his food that I am after and he isn’t eating any.

“Some of what?” he asks, displaying his empty hands. I pull his hips to my face and nuzzle my nose up against his MANSILK BOXER BRIEFS.

“Some of this,” I say as I cup his silky package in my hands.

His hands come to rest on my head as he caresses my hair.

“Take,” he says as he exhales long and slow, “whatever you want.”

My e-mail got forwarded around and ended up with a public relations woman in New York City.  Pretty exciting!

Her reply wasn't what I'd hoped for, but it was sweet nonetheless:

Thanks so much for your interest in Mansilk. At this time, we’re all set with our marketing plans for 2010-2011, which are taking us in a slightly different direction than what you’re proposing.

Slightly!  I loved that. She wished me luck with my project and thanked me for being a fan of the collection.

She hasn’t heard the last of me yet.


A woman’s lingerie drawer should be one of the sexiest places in the house.

I’ve got some seriously bad feng shui going on in mine

Sports bras, practical underwires, lacey push-ups, athletic boyshorts, sheer teddies, leopard print thongs, cotton bikinis (the comfort food of underwear)—they are all tangled together and crammed into the top drawer of my dresser. 

My man’s top drawer isn’t much better. Since one of the basic principles of feng shui is to get rid of clutter, I decide to purge.  I start with the underwear we never wear and then go for the ones we’ve worn too much.

Old underwear isn’t sexy. 

We agreed on this fact early on in our relationship when we made a pact to do whatever it took to sustain a sexy, passionate relationship.

I kept the juices flowing by writing erotic essays about our outdoor adventures. My outdoor guide kept the flow of material coming. We agreed that for Christmas and birthdays we’d buy each other sexy underwear.

Flash forward nine years: 

My erotic memoir is done.

My guide took a full-time job as a wildlife biologist so we had to give up (temporarily, I swear) our bohemian lifestyle in Colorado and move to Northeast Oregon. The flow of outdoor adventure material has dwindled to a trickle.

As I dig around our top drawers, we've obviously drifted from the sexy underwear tradition. A couple of New Year’s ski trips to Canada and a 1964 Schwinn tandem bike ate up the budget.

My man has a birthday coming, so I get on-line and jump start the tradition. 

When he gets home, sweaty and dirty from a day chasing cougars, he mistakes my pile of castaways on the bed for clean laundry. He grabs his favorite platinum-colored Mansilk boxer briefs as he heads to the shower. They look more gray now than silver and have holes near the hem.

“Hey, you can’t wear those.  They aren’t sexy any more,” I say as I point towards the pile. “None of this stuff is.”

It’s kind of sad, a small mound of Birthday and Christmas Past.

“You’re just going to throw them away?” he asks.

“I guess.  I haven’t been able to do it yet.”

He reaches down and picks out a shapeless fuchsia thong and a disintegrating nude demi-bra, the one I wore under my wedding dress. He hands them to me.

“I’m going to jump in the shower.  When I get out, let’s rip these off of each other.”

I take it back. Old underwear can be sexy.

Sexy Links:

For Her: Hanky Panky thongs:

For Him: Mansilk Boxer Briefs.


I’m so excited I can’t sit still.

This is unfortunate since I will be sitting in very confined space for the next twelve hours as my husband and I travel across the country to visit my family in Michigan.  We are on the first leg of the trip, the three-hour drive to the Boise airport.

In the spirit of my new blogging adventure, I’m wearing some short denim cut-offs, a breast-hugging Prana halter top and some fabulously impractical, wedge-heeled sandals. In a gesture of support, my man tossed aside his T–shirt and donned a button-down instead.

I finally nailed my pitch in the final hours of the conference.  I knew I had it right when I had the women in the pitch practice room blushing.  I left the conference with three requests for material from one agent and two publishers.

Since I can’t move much, all my enthusiasm is coming out my mouth.

 “I think it would be really cool to expand Blog Me Sexy to include our marriage.  We both need this.”

My cougar man, even though he still pounces from time to time, has been living in his head (the big one) as much as I have. We don’t have kids, but we are both gestating new careers as we juggle the ones we have.  We’ve become so obsessed about the possibilities of my writing career and his wildlife consulting business that it’s all we talk about.

We haven’t been so good lately at turning it off and getting turned on to each other.

He turns down the volume on NPR.  “Sorry, what do we need?”

“We’re too mental,” I say.  “We need to get back in touch with our sensual selves.”

He doesn’t say anything.  

“If we do this, we’ll have more sex,” I say.        

“Sign me up.”

“So, here’s what I’m thinking,” Now that I’ve got him on the line, I just need to reel him in. “We both make this commitment to be more sensual, as a couple, and then I can blog about how it is working.  Are you okay with me writing about that?

His right eyebrow lifts, conveying: Seriously?

I’ve spent the past seven years documenting every orgasm of our marriage for my outdoor adventure erotic memoir.

“But are you sure you are comfortable with me blogging about this? 

“More sex, right?”

I’m not sure he’s catching the full sensual, spiritual scope of my vision.

“Right,” I confirm. “But it’s about being more sensuous, slowing down and noticing how life tastes, smells, feels and sounds. It’s about cultivating more pleasure which will inevitably lead to more sex.  I’m sure a lot of couples would want to follow a blog like that. But maybe it should be a separate blog with a different name…”

I start brainstorming out loud and throw out some really lame names like Literary Lube, Lust Your Lover, Blog Us Sexy.  But nothing sounds quite right. I take a sip of my green tea.

“How about Fuck Me Already?”

I laugh so hard I spit tea all over my cute outfit.

By the time we get to Denver, I decide to stay on course with my original vision for Blog Me Sexy and archive the posts (like this one) For Couples.