in flagrante

Dear Internet,

For nearly a year now, I’ve had a PLAN. The plan is an over haul of my person: mind, body, soul. Truthfully, there has been some form of the plan in existence for so long, I’ve lost count of the years. It’s always resolved around: lose weight, fix the brain, be a better person. To be the best Lisa that I can be.

Sounds like a thing for a person of reasonable intelligence to strive for. Enlightenment of the self. A soul not in torment. A mind not turboized. A body, at any weight and shape, I could feel comfortable in.

Saturday night, I had the most vivid sexy times dream. I cannot remember the last time I had a sexy dream; I’ve had a lover for over a year, I was with TEH for six years before that — it didn’t seem necessary when someone’s cock, tongue, and hands were at the ready for my pleasure to self-pleasure except when my lover and I were in flagrante.

I’ve shied away from my own sexual pleasures for fuck knows how long, that even with my lover I struggled to tell them what I wanted. A stark contrast to my youth where everything turned me on and I had no problems announcing what I wanted; fuck you if you couldn’t please me. I once joked I could flirt with a flower and get aroused. There is something to be had for enjoying the sensuality of the material world and of your own (and lover’s) body.

(I told my lover we were destined to be together because they’ve been the only person to ever manually get me off. Twenty odd years of being sexually active and only one who knew how to take me to my knees.)

But things change, as they often do. What used to turn me on, not so much anymore. What I found attractive seemed like I was supposed to be attracted to that thing rather than actually desire it. When TheExHusband and I lived at Throbbing Manor, I would silently cry when watching passion on the screen: I never thought that could ever happen to me. Again. A 1000 times. A million ways. It was/is frustrating when you know that you CAN do and be that person, but you’re paralyzed by what exactly? Sometimes I have all the answers and others, no.

I’m straying from the point.

So sexy dream. It was so intense I woke up, thoughts of my lover in my head as I remembered everything about them from the breadth of their shoulders, the feel of their hair beneath my touch, the grip of their hands on me. Their scent holding me close.

So I would do what any reasonable person would do: I masturbated.

The orgasm was quick and powerful, after all I had created a dream scenario with my lover in my head of such extreme, it was hard not to touch myself. It was hard to not want to feel their phantom body over mine. I caught my breath.

Then I rolled over and went to sleep. (What did you expect? I was alone.)

(I loved the part this morning when I got up and there was my cum all over my panties still. It verified I can be a sexual being when I was alone and not a dried husk.)

I cannot say that I felt like my sins being washed away via masturbation, but I can say something resonated in me, alone and fingers engaged, for the very first time in a long time. My body reacted to someone I did want, that I did desire. It reacted to me desiring me.

Something buried so deep began to breathe, little by little.

I was told recently I am extraordinarily beautiful. I rolled my eyes. In the not too distant past, I was told my body was so primed for my lover’s, they could get an erection sleeping next to me. “Just look at your beautiful body!,” husky words pushing me closer to them so I could indeed feel their physical truth. (We always slept naked. We would joke as we got ready for bed about our 2AM meetings as one or both of us would reach for the other in our sleep at that time every night. It didn’t matter how much sex we had before bed.) Yet another person unrelated to my sex life told me I was classically beautiful. Another eye rolling.

(I’ve also been told I have amazing skin for touch. At least I have that going for me.)

Is it my self-esteem that doubts these words? Yes. There is the confidence that for a fat girl, I can get much desire from many. On the flip, it was always down to, “But WHY do they want me? What could possibly make them want to fuck me, let alone hold my hand?

Silently, over the years the self-doubt grows. I’m too fat for clothes. My bras are beginning to strain. My flexibility is lessening. My hair is getting too grey. My skin is getting blotchy thanks to too much dairy eating, early life sun damage, and age. I worry that as I grow older, I will never feel body love, that if I end up truly single, finding a stable relationship would be near impossible and I would just have a rotating cast of lovers over the years of half-hearted satiation. You can always find someone to fuck, but real body love? Rarely.

I worry the AARP is going to be knocking down my door.

I live too much in the past, I live too much in a future that has yet to happen.  I need to live in the present.

I worry about losing the now fragile desire of me.

After that erotic break, back to the plan. The image above is of the notes I took this evening after I meditated. It was typical the plan would live in bullet pointed Times New Roman, 12pt; but I wanted to engrave it on the memory rather than type it out and have it in purgatory on my hard drive.

So I wrote it out, making notes a long the way. Some of it is platitudes, others are sketches. No step by step, just be. Here are the things I want to do. In pen. More has come since I snapped that pic, the red brick covering what is not for public consumption.

Maybe this time it will finally sink in. Maybe this time I can move forward past the pain, the guilt, the self-flagellation for my crimes.



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This Day in Lisa-Universe: 2010, 2003, 2001

she who gives

Dear Internet,

We’re rattling around the fancy house like ghosts with Restoration Hardware chains around our waists. We would give Miss Havisham a run for her money with our shenanigans.

On Monday, TheSoonToBeExHusband saw a nurse practitioner who put him on Wellbutrin, which seems to be working. He has an appointment in a few weeks to talk with his own shrink and to start making headway on working on the problems he needs to address. He has finally agreed that we need to be apart while he works on his problems and I work on mine; that the two of us together only hinder the other in our mutual goals of mental happiness. I am making no promises to him, which is why I don’t want to be only separated, I want to be divorced.

Because this is the core truth: Love often isn’t enough. It hurts. It breaks. It shatters, but it is truth.

I’m tired. A Lot.

My sleeping patterns have been fucked for a while because of the unmedicated mania, but now it’s worse. Thursday I napped for a few hours and dreamt I was walking around with lockjaw. No one in my dreams could understand what I was saying, which of course frustrated me even more. My mouth was aching when I woke up; thankfully none of my teeth were broken from the gnashing in my sleep.

On Friday, I posed the following to my Facebook wall,

PSA: Why you should masturbate on a regular basis:

If I had not attempted to masturbate this morning, I would not have found the lump in the left interior wall of my vagina, which turned out to be a filled Bartholin gland. If I had not taken myself to the ER this morning and gotten it checked, the gland could have gotten infected, which would have meant they would have gone in, drain the gland, and there was a mention of 4-6 week catheter and other fun stuff.

Instead, I take drugs, wear a maxi pad, and place a heating pad on my crotch to hope it drains by itself.

Masturbate! And often!

I have to spend a few hours a day with a heating pad on my crotch and take long baths. Good thing I like long baths.

So on top of it all, my vagina is now broken. I used to joke to the TheSoonToBeExHusband if he didn’t fuck me enough, I would get clogged.

And well, here we are.

Or it could be from my chronic masturbation the last few weeks of dreams and fantasies that I can now indulge in that I could not indulge before because it didn’t fit the parameters of my now dead marriage. Am I revealing too much? No, I think that was the problem to begin with: I was not revealing enough.

I have nothing left to lose here, in this world, and I don’t think many of you will understand the freedom that comes from this weight being lifted from my heart and soul. Things are clicking into place that were put on hold for a very long time, and as I reveal those plans slowly, some of you have expressed concern. I get it. I do. It all sounds stupidly overwhelming and incomprehensible. How do I know I’m not in mania right now?

Easy. Mania is about impulse. This is not impulse, this is about righting myself on the path I needed to be on so many years ago. If I was manic, I would be indulging in reckless behaviors and I’m not. It’s just that simple.

I am lucid, clear, and in control of myself.

What I hadn’t expected as the result of the fallout of my marriage? Things like this:


The creeper is a high school boyfriend who dumped me when I wouldn’t put out. I was 15 and still a virgin. He was also fairly instrumental in helping promote my reputation as the high school whore when the swim team attempted to gang rape me at a sleep-away event for our science classes. I escaped by climbing out of the bathroom window when my two female cabin mates couldn’t smash down the cabin door. Of course we never told the adult chaperones on that trip, because hey, I was the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Who’d believe me?

I found it intriguing he wanted to be FB BFFs a few years ago. Even more interesting was he never said a word to me until I did a beta readers request a few weeks ago about my new adventures in writing erotica. And then I became his unwilling mother confessor.

As I’ve been working on reclaiming my sensuality for the last couple of months, and have been more public about it. With the collapse of my marriage, he and numerous others have been circling like vultures because apparently being public about my masturbation habits and enjoying sex is an open invitation.

You know, because being blunt about sex means I’m just begging for it.

I started out this piece in a calm but sad space and became so fucking angry that I’m shaking. I have a lot of great support on both coasts, and instead of working with them to keep me in this nice sane place, I have to spend my extraneous energy fighting off sexual predators. Thanks. Much appreciated.

Thursday I’m flying out to the East coast for a much needed mini-break. I want to be somewhere where I won’t get yelled at. Or sued. Or harassed. I’ve got the best possible host lined up who is going to take very good care of me and I plan on being underground for a few days. There are those who know where I will be in case of emergencies but the rest of you? Bye. See you next Sunday afternoon.


This Day In Lisa Universe: 1999

weekenders on our own, it’s such fun

Dear Internet,

It wasn’t until the day was almost over that I realised today was a pretty perfect day.

I was intent on waking up early this morning, hopefully naturally, so I could spread out my day in larger chunks rather than waking up at noon, zombifying it around the house until I realize it’s almost 5PM and then it’s time to get ready for the week.  Nothing ever completed, nothing ever done, not even relaxation. The almost insurmountable stress of trying to do ALL THE THINGS in a short amount of time while feeling strangled with reproach.  There is always some residue guilt of not having done laundry, waxed my ‘stache, vacuumed the house, or the million of other chores. Somehow this week I wasn’t feeling that pressed to get much done chore wise other than swap the sheets on our bed and I felt totally okay with that.

I got my wish for an early rising when one of our smoke alarms started chirping it had a dead battery at 730AM. Not too ungodly early, it seemed, and instead of rolling over and hoping it would magically die on its own, I woke up and got ready for the day. And by getting ready for the day, I mean put on my glasses, yoga pants, and stealing one of TheHusband’s hoodies when I took the dog out for a walk in the drizzly mess outside and not taking it off when I came back into the house.

TheHusband, who was grumpily complaining he did not want to wake up at some inhumane hour while the alarm continued to annoyingly chirp, was fixing the broken alarm when I came back from the dog’s morning constitutional. We foraged for breakfast, which was simple since we had thrown boxes of Yummy Mummy and Count Chocula into our grocery basket last night. Coffee percolated, bossa nova on the home stereo, some kind of vanilla concoction candle lit, and I settled on the couch to read the New York Times.

Four hours of near vapid article reading later, coffee was consumed, toast nibbled, and paper tossed into the recycle bin, and it wasn’t even noon.

With my afternoon free, I opted to do some organizing on the site and work on some back-end work, which I did while catching up on podcasts. When was the last time I sat down and really listened to a podcast, more importantly, for longer than say 30 minutes? Months maybe, if not years. I was able to plow through five or six of the BBC History podcasts, putting me firmly now in July 2013.

I had no plan on mind rather thinking I’d start cleaning up some of the broken links, several consisting of near full nude of pics of me from the past when I was getting photographed for my earlier tattoo work and a NSFW pic of my very spanked behind. The images are not going to be easy to find — the content of the pages, tags or titles doesn’t lend itself to the images at hand. Consider them easter eggs linked somewhere in the nearly 700 pages on this site. Happy hunting.

(I remember the spank picture, hysterically so, for it was taken with an analog camera on a roll of film that had everything from pictures of flowers to sexy time pics. The boyfriend at the time was near lunatic thinking the processing place was going to turn in the images for their content or refuse to print them. Neither of course happened and I have both the images, complete with very vivid date stamp, and the negatives still on hand. Ah, the momentary discretions of youth.)

TheHusband had started slow roasting a roast beef dinner this morning (which ended with smashed sweet potato/squash and amazing green beans for sides), which was filling up the house with delicious smells. For the rest of the afternoon until dinner, I plugged away at cleaning up broken links, adding new to the site content, and whatever other miscellany the rabbit hole took me. Including a link to TheHusband’s 1997 Geocities site.

It is becoming increasingly clear I need to set up a plan of what work I’ve got up and how it is formatted as well as a more concrete path. I came across a folder today I had forgotten about, while cleaning the broken links, containing works written for the web but were not blog pieces but more prose and flash fiction. I ended up scrapping a few of these that were already up as blog entries, turning them into pages to make the work consistent, and viola! A new section, Ephemera was born. Stylized as the prose companion to The Lisa Chronicles, this contains pieces that were written as mainly non-fiction creative prose rather than a diary entry as well as some earlier flash fiction I had written for contests and the like. Most of this stuff hasn’t been up for a decade, and a list of the works added will be on this weeks Collectioun of Cunnynge Curioustes, so please do keep your eye there.

Dinner rolled around, which was delicious as almost always (the one incident of TheHusband adding corn to chili has kept me on guard on his cooking for the last few years), and by 6PM, I was back to finagling some more back-end work on the site and mulling over other ideas.

I did have plans on doing some fiction writing today, but I got so wrapped up on getting the site back-end cleaned,  but time just slipped by.  And for once I do not feel guilty about losing that time, for finding that trove of written work I had forgotten about was a brilliant replacement. Now the question is – what to do with it?

The day meandered slow and steady, there was no rush, no plan, no agenda. TheHusband and I, and of course the hate-pooping dog, just went our own ways, meeting up in the hallway or in one of our offices for stolen kisses. Neither of us bathed, brushed our teeth, and the bed was only made because I changed the sheets. My desire to treasure the day, even if the day glossed over with the seemingly mundane and the wink of a cliché, was a success.



This day in Lisa-Universe in: 2010, 2003, 2003