Self Love Is Never A Bad Thing

As a woman, I can only exist as myself.

I forget that this is mine, like all mine. It's not like I see it often. 

Today as I took my favorite body parts into account, taking photos, rubbing in the lotions slowly and deliberately, I realized I take these body parts for granted.

My shoulders, breasts, stomach, ass, thighs, I really don't show them the appreciation they deserve.
these are the parts that have contributed to my claim to womanhood. These are the parts that everyone else sees and appreciates, these are body parts other women pay their souls to achieve, be it by augmentation or voodoo magic waist bands.

Oh but, I am not perfect, and I remind myself of this, to the point that I have taken my own beauty for granted. I cannot simply see what others see, because they only see what is the end result, but never what was the journey.

Everyday I see my brothers hailing the sexiest of the sexiest, the women who represent the claim that "Black women" are perfect.

Most of these women look like they popped out of ghetto barbie catalogs and got smacked with a dose of Daddy Big Buck's right to the ass...

They shake, they "twerk" (not a motherfucker ask rasshole me to twerk I will digitally throat punch the ever living RASSHOLE outta you for that shit. I am Bajan, I do NOT fucking TWERK!) They are deemed the "Baddest" and they are loved and admired by all far and wide.

This is me, flaws and everything.

Then come us humble girls, us normal women, who can't pay anyone to suck off our body fat, who have cellulite over the thickness of our thighs (in my case, because when I go down by 40 lbs, the appearance of cellulite ceases to exist) or who can't pay anyone to inject silicone to widen our hips, or lift our tits, who are struggling against the tide, because our men, our beloved men, think we should be simple, plain, and content to be cheated on by them in thought and deed as they shun our love for ourselves, but embrace the sexier plastic models and their unconditional implied love of selves.

We should be modest, because we are imperfect or something, which never flies well with me, I worked hard for this body, carried children, lost and gained weight unpleasantly, gave up favorite pairs of jeans that made me feel complete because of widening hips and you trying to tell me I cannot or should not be in love with myself? Jokes. Yet in the same breath, you would tell me most vulgarly how you would love to leave your seed swimming at the apex of my thighs, the same thighs you have condemned as unworthy of being shown.

Yes, I own a Panda fluffy hat/mitten combo!

I was once told by a guy (who once pleaded with me to let him cuddle me, and I declined several offers of his, after realizing that his affection to me only included him satisfying the part of him that needed to feel like he'd conquered some great intellectual, sexual dime, but not my own feelings or desires), that I clearly hate myself, and all men can see it, that's why I "don't have a man" (despite having 3 of 'em at the time, I don't do the social media advertisement slots with photographic evidence of my relationships, whether you believe they exist isn't my problem- so he ran with whatever). His conclusion of my self hate came according to my consistent evidence of posting sexy pics of myself, for men's approval.

I remember why I'd begun posting those images of myself, they were my testament of acceptance. They were me, loving me, and sharing my love of me with others.

Today, his words came back to me, and I felt immediate remorse, for not recently showing my own body more love and adoration for it being exactly what I'd wanted it to be.

Make no mistake, as a woman, I can only exist as myself, and I refuse to make any apology for it, except to myself, all of her, for not loving me, and taking me for granted.

An Abused Child, An IronHyde Woman.

Yesterday was a breaking point for me.

Got a lot of shit I don't talk about, in my personal life, the specifics of my "relationship" with my mother is pretty high on that list.

Sure, people know we don't get along, but, only a few knew why.

Now, I wasn't a saintly child, lord knows for some reason I started lying and couldn't stop. I was messy, and forgetful, gosh I was forgetful.

I don't mind that I got beat, truly, in my generation almost everyone got lashes.

What I do mind (I just fucking started crying) is that I got tortured, because I hadn't learned my lesson from the last beating, or because I didn't cry enough the last time, or because she was so much angrier that this time I did it in front of people, or because it was more creative to find more damaging things to hit a skinny ass little beansprout with to see how far she could be pushed before she gave up and just was exactly the child her mother/tormentor thought she was supposed to be.

Abuse had many forms.

I watched my collection of books burn, being an only child, to a reclusive socially dysfunctional mother, I didn't exactly have a lot of friends (Juliana was there from Infants B, because I spent Infants A at Ch Ch Girls) but I had my books, and because I hadn't washed my undies in the shower and forgot them in my laundry heap, I watched nearly 2000 books burn.

That was one day I would have just let her keep beating me if I knew it would have taken that turn.

I really don't know why I lied, I always knew it would come back to me, I would spend my bus fare buying snacks with the other children, and tell the conductor she didn't give me bus fare, after about 2 weeks of this, the conductor got tired and bawled her out in the road.

The beating that evening, tore skin from my back, ass and thighs, it started when Brave Star started and ended well after the Salem strangler had been standing by Marlena's bed.

She seemed to love my cousins more than she loved me, because all of them could get angry with her, or be rude or forget things, and just get a scolding, and all was well. Me, I got the electric wire, phone cord, window stick, hot saucepan, plugged in iron (that was reflexive, I hadn't washed my school socks and had to wear over a pair and I only told her when she was pressing, she just used whatever was near to lash out). My eldest cousin, beautifully quiet girl, got pregnant at 17 I think, while staying at my mother's house mind you, she was having trouble home with my aunt, but I, was constantly reminded that any boy comes near me, she would kill me.

If I got pregnant, she would kill me.
If I had crushes, she would kill me.
If a boy called my house (which one from secondary school did, and yip, I got beaten although this time I wasn't lying, I hadn't given anyone my number and certainly not a boy, but it was one of my school friends, I think Krystal Henry or one of the other girls, pretending to be a boy, pranking me, after getting my number from a sheet the teacher told me to put my number on) ... I couldn't go to school for 2 days recovering from that beating.

By time I was developing the mentality that there is freedom at 18, I was sexually active, I was discovering that people frowned on abuse, but none of those people had to go home to her so many times I shut up. She had isolated me from my father, and her family saw me as a problem child, and her as a problem, so no one ever came to my defense.

Oh but plenty people loved to tell her how much trouble I was getting into though, my first year of fourth form, I was tired, mentally, I was sick and I was stressed, someone played another prank, and wrote some shit in one of my exercise books that I had had sex with someone named Jeremy (hilariously, there is NO Jeremy who went to school with me) and the beating that evening was epic, my head got slammed into about 4 walls because I kept twisting to avoid the punches to my ribs, then she got tired, and decided to chop off all 14 inches of my hair, this was a Tuesday, my hair had just been done on the Sunday night and was gorgeous, but it was something boys liked so it had to go.

After that money was tight, so I stayed home a lot, she would tell me "You're not learning anything at school so you're not wasting my money to go to school" and her boyfriend would sneer at me, laughing that i was too stupid to know how to be what she wanted. Only as an adult I started wondering why she really kept me home so often, I thought it was a lack of money, but I remember she had a car, and my grand mother lived in Speightstown, so I could have always gotten food, plus there was always food in the house for her and her man, I thought it was because I was behaving badly, but, keeping me home 3 days a week, almost every week, with no phone in the house, and neighbors who realized she was beat killing me, so they hardly reported to her when I would leave the house to go up to Bentham's gas station or over by Helen's. I have no real idea why she did this. Maybe I really was that bad a hellion.

i would draw, if you think you have seen my drawings as an adult and think they are anything, me as a child would have left you stunned. I was pumping out high quality art pieces that would make Marc Silvestri smile, this isn't arrogance, I was that good during those years. and she hated it. another thing to add to the list of things I got beaten for every week. No, I seriously got beaten for drawing every week. I refused to stop. It was my first cognizant rebellion. You can beat me, but I will not stop drawing. Up until the day she tried to break my right hand and had it swollen, I laughed as she beat me.

I didn't hate her, I mean I went on to win about 4 art competitions in school, and still, stupidly, I took home my prizes to show her, and she angrily accused me of stealing money and lying, then threw out my water colors, art pads, pens everything.

I cannot remember what caused me to run away to my dad's house that night I left, I remember her calling home and telling me "when I get home, you gine wish you were never born" and that was the last straw for me. The fear was so real. I packed my clothes, all i owned, my school books, and shoes and I ran.

From Blowers to Holetown, and up to Lower Carlton, looking back praying that the headlights weren't her and Rudolph coming for me. Crying that this time I was going to die.

nah, the abuse didn't stop there but for about a year of my life I was free of the fear of going home to her and I could actually have REAL friends

This is why I cannot stand her today, why I fight to forgive her now that she is trying to be a better human to my own child, see, the abuse isn't tied to her, it's tied to me. My mother don't know how to be anything but abusive to me, and I now understand, we cannot exist together.

I sent my daughter to live with her, after she volunteered to take her until i got back on my feet, knowing that WE would never be that happy mother and daughter I see everyone being, but I wanted to give her the chance to be that mother she dreamed she was before she lost herself as my nightmares.

Yesterday she called me and told me she cannot be in my child's life because MY attitude to her is harmful, lol, to both her and MY child, I told her great job, have no future contact with either of us, just make sure I get my child's documents...

Now I wait.

7 Absurd Stereotypes West Indians Have Had It With

By now, everyone has discovered this tiny corner of the world, where time stops, rum is a staple, condiments come with disclaimers and interrupting a stranger's thoughts to announce the time of day is normal.

The warm, sunny, post card perfect Caribbean, incorrectly titled as the (West) Indies when some bumbling Italian guy named Chris or something, stumbled into them, and swore that they were islands off the coast of India, and low, we were born.

Let's start on this list of atroci- okay, I'm dramatic, it's in my blood.

7. All West Indians Speak The Same Patois. 

This is how a Bajan says 'I Love You'... Honestly. 

Chances are, you have heard popular international personalities who have their 'navel strings' buried in this region and can recognize the distinct twangs laced in their vernacular, at least enough to recognize that there's an accent in the speech pattern.

You know, that distinctive lilt Rihanna carries when she gets too excited? 

What about Wylef Jean's? 

You MUST have heard Usain Bolt in at least one interview?

Yeah, about that, we are several countries and cultures in this little pot. 

A 'Bulla' to a Bajan, is not the same thing as a 'bulla' to a Jamaican. Kinda like how a 'fag' is obscenely innocent to an Aussie or Brit, but not so innocent to an American or West Indian. 

The contrasts in our command of language is as stark as our food culture. You might want to remember that when you engage a Vinci (native of St. Vincent) with a friendly greeting of "Wha' gine on, famuhlees?" ("What's up, my man?", but in Bajan)

6. All West Indians Know Their Respective Celebrities Intimately.

International star and Grammy Winner, Shaggy, stood at this
bus stop with me once.

I am a Bajan, a native to Barbados, that little 'Gem Of The Caribbean Sea' where Rihanna comes from. I have actually been within breathing distance of her cologne long before she actually had her name and face on her own perfume packaging. However, I have never had a conversation with her beyond "Excuse me," in order to pass around her. 

Now of course, we are great story tellers, and I can certainly tell you stories of how cool she was back when she had just been discovered, along with taking you on an all inclusive tour of her previous haunts and home neighborhood, but, I cannot tell you any stories of her running around barefooted and scruffy headed as a teen. 

It's even worse for Jamaicans. I'm most despondent to announce your Jamaican workmate's parents who grew up in Portmore, St. Catherine's, Jamaica, probably did not smoke a bong with Bob Marley before he stepped on stage to discuss his sheriff shooting habits. 

5. We All Have Carnival, And It's All About Bikini Costumes, Gyrating Body Parts And Calypso Music. 

Stop it. Immediately. 

I cannot stress enough how insulting and frustrating it is, to have to sit through endless recollections of how a tourist enjoyed "Carnival" in Grenada, or how they're going to "Carnival" In Barbados. 

Annual Air-obics brought to you by BajanTube.
(No bumpers or acrobats were injured, just mash up).

Now this may be a pet peeve, okay, upon introspection it most definitely is a pet peeve but this needs to be said: 

Like our language, music, and food, our festivals are each special to us. Trinidad for example, they have a five day festival, after two months of 'fetes' that culminates in their 'Pretty Mas', you know what? Have a link:

 All yuh click dis 'ere.  (not that I'm lazy or anything, but, these guys covered everything you need to know.)

See? It is steeped in culture, it's more than just tossing on beads and a swimsuit and 'chippin dung de road'.

In Barbados we have our own, it is Crop Over, which runs approximately twelve weeks, and ends in August with our Kadooment Day festivities. This festival is historic, and very precious to us, in fact, I once wagered that Bajans are nicer during that season than any other time of year, including Christmas (we are a mostly Christian society), because it is only during Crop Over that you can walk door to door at 6:00am imploring on the kindness of strangers to afford you a canned food item and not get a good hot pot of stale piss thrown on you AND still get fed, (oh and in the name of research I have done this, with friends, while walking home from 'fetes')

4. Everybody In The West Indies Smokes Pot. 

Nope. 

In fact, according to a study performed by the United Nations Office On Drugs And Crime, there are an estimated 39.17 million human beings living in the Caribbean, and approximately 2 million of us have toked up. That's not even a decent 5%. Marijuana is still largely viewed as the devil's lettuce to our older generations, and it is NOT legal in any island except Jamaica. 

The law doesn't care if you forgot that one joint in your luggage crossing borders. You get caught, that is a charge, including hefty fines, deportation and incarceration. How's that for an episode of Locked Up Abroad (Our prison doesn't have hot water just in case you think it's not so bad.) 

I swear!! 

3. You Can Tell Someone Is From An Island By Looks. 

Well, let's look at this pragmatically. 

39.17 million human beings. 

African, European and Asian diaspora. Natives/Indigenous people, external cultural influences. Come into ANY country in this region and you will be left flabbergasted at the rainbow of features, textures, shades, tones and all forms of diversity thrown at you without restraint. 

Sadly, we're not quite out of the woods with petty little things like nepotism, or colorism. For bonus points, hit twitter and follow up the YouSoCaribbean hashtag. 

2. West Indians Are Always Easy Going. 

You probably haven't met my mother. You lucky bastards! 

Every West Indian Aunty... Ever.
Ask them!

There is such a thing as "Island time". It is VERY real!

That being said, understand that we function on a perpetual wheel of anxiety that we're late for everything, ranging from work to our own funerals. That makes us constantly on edge and ridiculously high strung. Getting 'Shell down tuh de ground' is a normal and very casual thing, it doesn't mean we hate you, just means we gonna cuss you out. Quickly, and then it's over in most cases. We will cuss you for crossing the road too slowly, we will cuss you for walking across the road too quickly with attitude. We will cuss you for walking in the room and not greeting, and then cuss you for walking in the room and disturbing everyone when you greet, but above all, our passion is the thing we are honest about, and we are loved for it. 

1. West Indian Women Are Overtly Sexual. 

You've seen how we dance, the way we move our hips, the way we chew our bottom lip and throw our hair over our shoulders as we 'wukkup' or 'wine' (not 'whine' common mistake, but nuh body ent complainin' he'e). 

Yeah, I see that sweaty lecherous look as you imagine it. 

Stop that. Come on. You're better than that. Tuck that thing away. Damn. 

To explain this is without coming off as completely contradictory is the most difficult part of this entire thing. 

Caribbean women grow up in a culture that tells us to dance, music is infused in our bones. Now, being honest, there are instances when we are being intentionally sexual in our dance culture (Jamaican Dancehall scenes should be popping into mind, along with images of Alison Hinds telling boys to come up to her bumpa and Aye Aye Aye) but when we're just out, moving with the music, in that fever that is ours, and only ours. The fury of our ancestors translated into the passion of the moment, we move everything between neck and knees, while scantily clad, with not as much as a second thought about it. 

Lewis Hamilton is such a nice fella, here he is, helping Rihanna
not fall off the truck..

This isn't proof that any woman, born into the rich cultural pot that is the Caribbean, is any more or less sexual, modest or morally inclined than any woman from any other part of the world. 

Our cultures are ripe for exploration, and yes we love that you want to share them with us, so, please, keep that in mind before you commit to any outdated cliched stereotypes about us. 

Shout wunna laters. 

Being A Black Woman

Being a black woman is easy.

Be Sexy Dammit!! 

I gotta be sexy but lowkey, smart just not smarter than anyone who isn't a black woman, strong just the kinda strength that's really weak, black but not too black, but like ultra black, have a straight nose, and smaller lips than a Jenner, but not wrinkled like a Jolie, have straight edges and waist length naturally wavy, not straight, but not nappy, kinky nigga pepper lose hair, it can be loc'd but they gotta be that fancy look, like someone from another ethnicity chose them and I just wore them.

I gotta smell like vanilla and taste like caramel popcorn, and able to take insults but never ever able to insult, unless it's a white man who finds me attractive, I have to be ready to denounce the white devils, and be willing to be submissive to a Real Black King, but, gotta be single mom, just like his, until he comes to take on my kid, which I must be grateful for because I'm more a charity case for appreciation than deserving of respect, cuz I owe a strong black man the chance to show me how wrong I been doing things by myself even though I should know how to do everything by myself by now.

No Smart-Assery, No matter how smart you are!!

Oh, and not be smart mouthed, gotta know when to shut up, cuz I can't be making him feel unimportant or less intelligent because nobody needs to feel like I feel I'm smarter than them and I can only be sexy Muslim type sexy, you know all the shape and figure shown, no hair, no skin except my flawlessly gorgeous face that's naturally got contoured to death cheeks, gold shaded yet naturally tinted eyelids over Asian slanted grey, green or light brown eyes.

My booty gotta show thru with the ferocity of a mad Rihanna fan who got skipped over in the front row for that backstage moment for the white Beyonce fan, but it can't have any cellulite, cuz that's basic, and I gotta learn to cook like that same black king's mother, but for free because I'm supposed to have my own and don't no man need no woman he gotta provide food for while he's fucking her, that's basic.

I still gotta know how to eat and act in a restaurant that he'll forever post that annoying pic of the girl on her phone at, even though I'll never go there because I'm supposed to be busy working my 2 jobs to prove how resilient and unbreakable I am, to save money for OUR future, and I'll be tired but still have energy fuck him like he thinks Amber Rose chunky ass was fucking Wiz skinny ass, while reciting the Psalms of Solomon but denouncing the white supremacy, and being Mother Superior to all his trust fuck bastards because he's not ready to get married to my whoring ass since I let him knock me up before we got married and his mother thinks he can do better.

Easiest shit in the world eh? 

So I gotta go to school but like I said it gotta be still within the realm of stupid, gotta be on my religion and love God, like a decent Black Christian Girl but enlightened to ancient Egypt, and I've got to have my children's hair looking on point while balancing my job, school and babysitting these overgrown man children that need strong, smart, stupid, soft, hard black women, while at the same time remaining smiling and untainted by the fuckery going on around me, that no matter what happens, it follows me because my skin is either too black or not quite black enough to match a) my level of intelligence or b) my level of intolerance to fuckery (also known as my ghetto reaction when I start cussing wunna right the fuck out)

Yeah.

Being a black woman, it's easy.

Is That We're Too Sexy, Or That We're too close To Y'all?

There remains a certain dissonance caused by the idea of a woman claiming her sexuality without interference or consultation of her male counterparts.

Sorry, I see where I went wrong, I started that entirely too, decent.

What I really meant to say was,

Certain of wunna rasshole men like to sit the fuck down and believe that a woman is to be sexy just fuh rasshole wunna. If she doesn't consider yall feelings about her sexiness and when, where and how it is displayed, she is suddenly not a "good woman". Suddenly she should be aware of the image she projects because what she putting out is what she will get back.

... Let's rewind the clock by 24 hours, a certain image of a certain woman is posted on a certain website, about 75 comments in and the men are in the majority, by a landslide

"I would wife dat"

"she could have my children"

"i would give up all the rest"

"looking like a goddess"

At first this reads that men only value their fantasies once it's not a reflection of the level of domestication or lack thereof, and their inability to domesticate the most relevant female in their mundane and ego depraved existence, their homebody female.

That's at first. Go deeper, you will find it's really not that complicated. It's a very blatant issue. Men find women in high quality pictures more attractive than the same women in low quality edits. The cleaner the image the sexier the woman!!

It is the only thing that makes sense about why they would consider a woman, that they do not know from a can of paint, more worth their flattery and admiration, than their own sexually attractive and comfortable friends and acquaintances.

Be real with me, it's because you can tell me what your mother thinks about women, vs telling that super sexy model what your mother thinks about women and not fear hearing "but who are you?" because you are insignificant.

It's because you feel you are entitled to own the movements and growth of the women near you, when you know you cannot own that fantasy chick, she is just another figure online, you're just a little nobody of the thousands of nobodies that constantly try to get at that woman and get her attention if only for one reply to your accolades and declarations of admiration and appreciation.

Oh. Sorry went off on that vibe again, let me adjust that.

" You women need to..."

Wunna like to decide wunna gine try to control de women wunna know because wunna know wunna aint shit outside wunna pool. No sexy stripper on IG aint paying wunna nuh fucking mind after she get 400 likes for showing she ass, but wunna friend Candacie who work with wunna last year, she might still give wunna crutch and lil title as she nearby, gotta mek sure when u get it she aint gine be advertising fuh de rest of fellas.

Y'all like to think you control the idea that different women "ARE ALLOWED" to be different levels of sexy. It seems to me that you are empowered by this, and seek to use it as footing to secure your place OVER women.

I am so sorry to say this in a manner that will come across to the idiots as me being degrading:

FUCK. RIGHT. OFF.

Y'all dont control shit on a woman. Her sexuality is not for you!

Stop thinking yall the only reason a woman is to find herself or be found sexy.

Cut out that rasshole bout "a good woman doesnt do certain tings like post all she sexy pics online"

"a good woman doah go out partying every night"

"a good woman has one man and worships him and ignores her own desires for him"

GTFO.

Anyhow, that's quite enough from me. Lol, I know half of you won't read all of this, but here are some pretty pictures just in case...

Principles Of Fucking- An Overview Of A Simple Thing.

MUAH!!!

So I had to sit and think to myself about the Principles of Fucking that I hold for myself and any partner I now am inclined to include along for my shenanigans.

• Talking dirty - must have. 
• Playing dirty - must have.
• Sensuality - absolutely MUST have. 
• Submission - must be wielded. 
• Domination - must be accepted.
• Consideration - must exist.
• Freedom - is non-negotiable. 
• Communication - ironic as it is, goes without saying. 
• Respect - above all. 

There is nothing like a man rolling you over and driving his shaft right up in you and whispering "Right... Up... In... There... That's where I want you to feel me."

Father lord when you start sucking his dick during the movie and you hear the music change to something that starting action going on and you go to raise your head and suddenly "Don't you DARE stop sucking that dick, woman!"

Wait, you think only men can dirty talk? No, no, women can drag about 4 generations in a load out of his nuts with a few choice words when we ready to. I get told I say the most obscene fuckery when my buttons get pushed  according to The Stig anyway:

He has no proof of said Swedish, I'd like to point out. 

The only way we play is dirty- mind you, him and I probably have the closest relationship I've had with a lover in all my life, this man can tell you where I'm at in my menstrual cycle by the taste of my cum alone, and he freely tastes that ish like a chef tastes stew. There is no modesty in our love, and there is no unnecessary complications in it either, we simply are, it is not a relationship where we feel obligated to each other, we exist as two adults who understand each other and our needs (including the slap on the ass as I get out the car, the bite on the ass as I get out the car, the trip and landing face first mouth open on his dick when getting into the car, the bend over cuz I kept dropping the stupid quarter in the shower when he was passing by the bathroom door, the accidental thumb in the butt before dragging away the pillows, pulling back on my shoulder and whispering "Ho-Tron Transform" in my ears KNOWING that the roommates are right outside watching some shit on Netflix and he about to drive his dick into my soul and beyond because I sassed him about some shit that doesn't even matter but just don't tear the skirt!!) and we accommodate each other without the other drama that comes when adults decide to fuck.


Sensuality is so strange, it was a long time since a man did something I consider sensual, being real, it's not that they don't WANT to be, it's just that many really aren't naturally so, and it's not something I can teach a man. Luckily I have a rostered team member who glides through a session with the slickness of a hot razor through a block of butter. Clarkson.

This is the guy who plays before he slays, I mean sure he can throw you over the back of the couch and yank your panties to a side and bury his face in you from behind, but then, you don't get to see him relishing it.

This is a man who will hug you so lovingly you believe you've found Prince Fucking Charming (that exact title, ma'am) before gently placing a hand on your breast to push you backward, and proceed with the proceedings, mainly, slaughtering your pussy with his tongue. There is no mercy in his attack when he wants it to be remembered, all you can do is melt into his will.

Sensuality as a woman, well, as the woman I am, is not difficult, it takes minimum effort, quiet moment when he's focused on the screen and shift your body, while wearing only his shirt, so that your ass is half exposed while on your side. Look over your shoulder at him, trust me, once you move and that ass cheek pops up, all eyes on you, even the one in that fucking pants right now struggling with the two in his skull to focus on that mound of flesh calling for his touch instead of a fucking screen. Give a guy a lapdance just because you can, the dick is yours ain't it? Well, act like it. Grab that lil fucker and put him right between your ass cheeks and learn to dance on him without actually penetrating.

Yall think sex is only ever about the bang bang lulu pace, or slow sexy omg it's a movie pace, there are so many areas between there that can be used to seduce a lover, use them!

What? We play hard sometimes... 

Now I often reference submission and domination in my sexual conversations. Lemme clear this now, I am currently in a vanilla relationship, a long distance relationship, and I have 2 other NOT vanilla relationships. One I'm a sub in, the other a switch.

We all know our roles, and we all understand the power distribution and how it works best, this is something for us to work on with each other, like it would be something for you to work on with each other, I can offer no advice on how to do it.

I am free to do whatever the fuck I want, with consideration to my lovers. I never disrespect them or insult them as my lovers, they never have to feel as though I am pitting them against each other, we are honest about our feelings, relying on trust and open communication to relay our emotions to each other without hesitation. It's easy with The Stig and Clarkson because we have been linked as lovers much longer than May, Few other men in present society understand what freedom is, much less what it is for me. I glow when I am free. No judgment, no restraint. I glow when I am allowed to be myself without apology and without fear of exaggerated reaction to me saying "I keep thinking what it would be like to invite my girlfriend to watch us, you up for it?" They are free to do what pleases them as long as no harm comes to me or them, I didn't go through all the shit I have been through in life, just for anyone to come damage me now. I spent years rebuilding my being. I'll be a motherfucking munkey's uncle before I let anyone destroy my psyche or physical.

Without Respect we cannot go nowhere. I am fucking telling you. You could have the juiciest chunk of man meat between your legs, if you don't respect me, or I can't respect you, off is the general direction in which you can fuck. Real quick.


Respect is the one thing that makes all of this work you know, don't think just because I got 4 boyfriends means that I can ever disrespect any one of them. These men KNOW what they want in life, where they came from and what they will stand for, there is NO  substitution for RESPECT. 

No, we don't all live in one house, taking turns with who's bed I'd sleep in. No, I don't answer a phone and announce "Well, I just got off a dick, lemme call you back after I clean up." To them. (except maybe Stig because he's my favorite degenerate and he really does not care anyway, we cannot offend each other, simply cannot, too much groundwork was laid when we decided to finally get together, I could tell him I'm blowing the Pope and he would tell me hurry the fuck up he want's to go to dinner, that is US. I however would never make any kind of comment insulting his manhood, his being, in presence of any other man, and he would NEVER seek to insult my sexual appetite or degrade me for being who I am) We extend and receive respect, nothing less. Oh sure we make the most obscene jokes about each other, but, the lines have been drawn and have not be crossed, nor do we intend to.

We work on these principles, things that I have noticed are severely lacking from most monogamous relationships these days, people more concerned about the public's input in their shit than actually working on it.

I gave up on having public relationships because the public don't do one fuck for you when you need that real support. Public has opinions but they don't even know how to master their own shit.

That being said:

All of that shit I mentioned there is why I simply cannot be bothered to find new boyfriends, I got what I need.

When you get down to it, sex could never be about just shoving a cock in a crotch and going in and out. Could never be.

There has to be more for it to be truly an experience.

Find your own principles luvs.

I hunted for a good few years before I learned what mine were, even though, I still have more to learn. Life is not a stone, it is a river, and it flows until it stops. You take the trickle, the flow and the roar, each one teaching you something new.