When I first met my man he brought me here.
I could write an entire blog post about that.
Oh wait, I did.
When the snow melted, he loaded his kayaks on top of his truck, made sure I knew how to work the solar system, and left me for six weeks to go make love to his favorite river in California.
The cabin is in a gated community...
...with high security.
So even though it's isolated, on 120 acres in the mountains of Colorado, I felt safe.
But my Inner Child felt totally abandoned and lonely.
I meditated a lot with the mountain to the south...
...and tapped into my Inner Stripper.
She enpowered me to write erotic essays about the river and the threesome dynamic of my relationship.
And now my man isn't the only one who runs off in the spring to chase a passion.
For the next three weeks I'll be on my writer's path, going solo and deep as I put the finishing touches on my erotic memoir.
Cell converage at the cabin is questionable and Internet access doesn't exist. So blogging will be random and limited to chance encounters with wireless on trips into civilization.
Where are you running off to this spring? Tell me about it in the comments.
The foreword to my memoir reads like this:
In 2001, I was with the wrong man for all the right reasons. He was a nice guy. He loved my dog. He made me laugh.
But the passion and emotional commitment that was lacking in our relationship made me cry as well. After seven years we had never followed through on the engagement and we were no longer living together. But neither one of us could quite let go.
I sought solace in yoga and meditation and let go of my obsession of trying to figure things out. I started channeling all my longing and sexual fantasies into an erotic romance novel. My female protagonist had not one, but two, sexy men of the West vying for her attention.
A year into the draft of that story, a ruggedly handsome adventurer walked into my yoga studio. He was a mind-blowing manifestation of the heroic qualities of both my male leads blended into one...
Pretty soon after that, I abandoned the novel and started writing erotic essays.
WRITE DOWN WHAT YOU WANT.
I’m continually amazed by the power of a written intention.
My novel manifested my man. My erotic essays have sustained my passionate marriage. And this blog! I am always thinking about sensual topics to blog about now. I vibrate at a much sexier frequency now than I did in October. That is just the way the universe works. Energy flows where intentions goes.
For example, a few weeks ago I was working on a blog post about my first erotica reading last spring at the Seattle Erotic Art Festival. Before I even posted it, two women friends approached me and asked me to do an erotica reading for a women’s gathering. Coincidence? I think not.
The reading is this weekend. I can hardly wait to tease, tease, tease. I plan to leave these Northeast Oregonian women begging for more which will drive me to stay on task with researching (yawn) publishing options.
So things are really starting to simmer here at the sexy manifestation blog. This week I’m inviting you to jump in the pot.
What are you ready to manifest?
Write it down.
You can scribble it in your journal or tack it on your fridge like you've probably done in the past.
But, The Powers That Be love and respond to boldness. Go ahead and give your empowered, sexy self a pen name and unveil your deepest desire in the comments sections.
Every time you read my weekly offering, make a comment, share my website with a friend or 'like' it on Facebook, you are supporting my vision. I’d love to do the same for you. Besides, I’d like to get to know you.
Tell me: What makes you wet, what makes you hard, just thinking about it?
And then get ready to show up when it starts happening.
That’s all for this week. I have an erotica reading to prepare.
The classic book on Creative Visualization from Shakti Gawain is an oldie but a goodie. If you know of any others, please enlighten me in the comments section.
In my last blog post, I mentioned my first public erotica reading at the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival.
I dressed for the occasion (obsessed about it all week, of course) and ended up wearing a little black dress with some knee-high black leather boots that I scored at a thrift store in Aspen. The boots have always been a tad bit big, but nothing a pair of thick socks wouldn’t cure.
I made the mistake of pulling them on over a pair of sheer black stockings as we rushed out of our hotel to catch a cab to the event. We arrived at the festival just in time for the literary arts readings.
When my name was called to read, my nervousness suddenly manifested as sweaty feet, making the inside of my too-big boots feel like they were covered in olive oil. So there I was, coming out as an erotica writer, trying to be all sexy and I could hardly walk because my feet were slipping around so much inside my high-heeled boots.
I made it to the stage but as soon as I planted myself in front of the microphone, my legs started trembling like they do when I get really nervous. I’m a yoga teacher, so I took a deep breath and tried to ground my energy as if I was standing in Mountain Pose. But there was no stopping the earthquake as my feet kept shifting like tetonic plates inside my boots.
I scoured the audience for my husband for support.
Being super connected energetically to my man is amazing when we are on the dance floor or in bed. It wasn’t so great when I was on stage and he was unknowingly clutching my faux-fur trimmed suede cape to his chest, mirroring my anxiety.
I shifted my gaze to a cute tattooed woman in the second row and silently thanked the literary arts judges for choosing my grilled cheese erotica story, one of my shorter essays that is only three pages long.
You may be wondering what could possibly be sexy about a grilled cheese sandwich. You’ll find out in detail someday soon when I publish my memoir, but in a nutshell, the story is an exploration of desire and, bless her, the tattooed woman laughed in all the right places. The pages stuck together from my sweaty palms and I ended up tossing them on the stage as I read which garnished a few more laughs.
I got a round of applause and practically collapsed in my man’s arms when I got off stage without falling on my face. The elation was the equivalent of running a much-anticipated Class IV rapid at the end of a long day of paddling. But instead of being rewarded with a beach camp and a cold beer, we had the rest of the night to explore the festival.
Now that was an adventure. A fabulously erotic urban one.
Check out the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival.
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.
I’m undoubtedly in the least sexy part of Portland as I ride my bike around my airport hotel. Planes are roaring in for a landing overhead as I weave through traffic, but I keep pedaling. After two days of sitting inside the Willamette Writer’s Conference, I desperately need to get outside and move.
I’ve pitched my erotic memoir three times. Two balls. One hit. I somehow got lucky with an editor who extracted outdoor adventure erotic memoir from my excited, muddled delivery.
I’ve been obsessively refining my pitch for three days now but it’s still missing the plate. My head hurts from thinking. My body aches from sitting in workshops.
I’m all out of sexy.
But I need to get it back. I have one more pitch appointment with an agent scheduled for tomorrow, the last day of the conference.
I turn left on a road less traveled and within a mile it is framed on both sides with blackberries. For the first time in three days my thoughts quit trying to condense my 60,000-word manuscript into four dazzling sentences. I hear the ripe, voluptuous berries instead, hundreds of them, whispering to me in their enticing, collective voice:
I abandon my workout, toss my bike on the shoulder, and feel a little like Eve as I let myself be seduced.
The berries bleed purple on my fingertips and melt like August sun on my tongue. I clean the branches closest to me like a small bear. Their sweet juicy essence is exactly what I need. But to get more, I have to navigate through the thorny branches that have been puncturing my fingertips and scraping my legs.
As I lick my sticky fingers, I have a small epiphany on how the universe is giving me exactly what I put out.
These tangled, thorny branches remind me of mental state the past three days, all twisted, prickly and sharp with perfection. Yet, I’ve also been in ripe berry mode, flirting with everyone I meet and showing my juicy, erotica-writing self.
I realize I need both the thorns and the berries to bring this goal of publishing my memoir to fruition.
But right now I need way more of the berries.
I brace myself and step deeper into the thicket.
As I ride back to the hotel, my breath catches in my throat as I see Mt. Hood rising white and jagged out of the lavender twilight. My fingers and lips are stained and sticky. I have red scratches all over my hands, arms and legs. My bike shorts have a few new snags.
I’ve got my sexy back.
What are you working on bringing to fruition? What are your berries? What are your thorns?
If you are a writer, here’s a blackberry bush for you: Check out www.janefriedman.com
After seven years of marriage to an adrenaline junkie, I’ve gotten better at doing things that make my legs shake. Usually this involves running a Class IV rapid or skiing a backcountry avalanche chute.
Even though I hate that anticipatory churning of fear in my belly, the transcendent, high-on-life buzz afterward makes it all worthwhile.
Not this time.
Pitching my erotic memoir last night in front of four agents and 150 other writers definitely had my legs shaking. But my first attempt at a pitch fell way short of the plate.
I’m not exactly basking in a confident, sexy glow as I slump over morning tea with my Portland-dwelling friend, Jenna. And I have two, one-on-one pitch appointments with agents this morning.
“Okay, this is so Marianne Williamson,” she says. Her hazel eyes darken with intensity as she leans into her kitchen table towards me. “But your job is to go into that conference and bless everyone you see…”
She was wise beyond her years when we were bunk buddies at our month-long yoga teacher training at Kripalu in 2000. She has since added trainings in massage, integrative nutrition, the psychology of eating and vipassana meditation. Her current passion is helping her clients use pleasure rather than deprivation to lose weight.
“Let go of the fear and defeat. Own the sexy, powerful energy of the woman who wrote this erotic memoir."
I feel my shoulders roll back and my spine lengthen.
"Embody her joy, her hunger and her sense of adventure." She stands and puts her tea cup in the sink. "Have fun with it.”
She goes upstairs to meditate. I transform her futon bed back into a couch and dig around my bag for something sexy and powerful to wear. As I head upstairs to shower, I bump into her coming back down.
“Here,” she hands me a piece of paper with her handwriting on it. “This is from the Mama Gena daily e-mail, the one about pleasure I was telling you about last night.”
It’s not wrapped but I can tell before I even read it, that it’s a gift.
A woman in the act of flirting can beguile the entire world with her enthusiasm. ~Mama Gena
“You are a hot firecracker of a woman,” she says.
I hear a sizzle as my fuse ignites.
“Go flirt with everyone you see.” She smiles, turns and goes back to her meditation room.
I shower and shimmy into a little black dress. The word beguile rolls around my tongue as I adorn with gypsy-sized hoop earrings and smoky blue eyeliner. I mouth the word firecracker to the mirror and glaze my lips in red.
As I saunter out of Jenna’s Portland townhouse, my legs feel solid, grounded, in my knee-high suede boots.
I’m ready to explode into that conference.
Who lights your fuse? Spend more time with them.
Mama Gena’s Daily Fluff e-mail