You've heard of the inner child.

I have an inner stripper.

I imagine that psychologically they are intimately related.  One feels invisible so the other begs to be seen or something like that.

When I learned, through yoga and meditation, to embrace my clingy little self, I unknowingly empowered her sexually-confident alter ego. It’s a fascinating dichotomy, especially since my inner child was raised Catholic.

I tend to attract friendships with women who are in touch with their inner stripper. Two of them worked in clubs and made a lot of money fully embracing their erotic-dancing selves. I sense there are quite a few of us in the front two rows of Zumba class who are one marimba step away from ripping off our sweaty clothes. 

Paradoxically, my inner stripper is kind of shy and hard to coax out. But once she steps out in her stiletto heels she loves to be center stage. She’s had three performances so far: only for my man and only at our cabin in Colorado which is one of the sexiest places ever. The bi-level, wood-floor structure creates the perfect stage and the log beam support under the loft doubles as a  makeshift stripper pole.

I haven’t stripped for my man in way too long. I’m not sure why.  I’ve had a song picked out for months and I have a pair of fabulous feather earrings that would look great with a pair of heels and nothing else.  

It could be because we haven’t been at our cabin since September. Or maybe it’s because I’ve been channeling a lot of my inner stripper energy into this blog.

I’ve been baring myself here, through my words, for you.

I’ll be traveling through Portland and Boston later this month.

I believe it is time for a new pair of elbow-length feather gloves. 

Sexy Link:

This video will ignite your inner stripper.
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. 

Not anymore. 

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.

Sexy Link: 

Spend some time lounging around the Erotica Readers and Writers Association website. 


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.