Posts by C.C. Havens

The G-word

Posted by on Jun 2, 2017

This isn’t a sexy post. It’s beautiful though. I wrote it for my family for our first Father’s Day without my dad.  He’s not here anyore but he is certainly not gone~   My craniosacral teacher used the G-word today. Until now, Thomas and all my other craniosacral teachers, have used spiritually neutral terms like potency, source, life force and energy to describe the realm of healing we are accessing with this light touch form of therapy. But it’s day one of a four-day training, the third one I have taken with a group of five students learning under the tutelage of Thomas and his wife Gale on a ranch perched above the Yampa River in Steamboat Springs, Colorado.  A tribe-like intimacy has developed between us this past year as we’ve studied and practiced the techniques on each other. So no one is surprised or spiritually offended when God showed up at the end of our morning lecture. As Thomas reviewed the principles of embryology, he reminded us that the human embryo is a sack of fluids and how the intelligence of those fluids forms the body in its perfection. “With these techniques, we are learning through the lightest touch possible, to connect to the subtle fluid body in our clients and when we tap into that intelligence we are accessing…” he hesitated for a moment as he searched for the right words before his arms extend out in a gesture of surrender, “…we are accessing God.” We are quieter and more reverent than usual as we move to the massage tables to practice on each other. For an instructional exercise involving the sacrum, I have paired up with Cheri who is a physical therapist, a horsewoman and the owner of this ranch.  Per the instruction, she slides her hand under my sacrum and cradles it. As she does, I hear in my head the last line of an Irish blessing that my father liked so much that it hangs on a plaque in the kitchen of our family home. May God hold you in the hollow of his hand. A wave of sadness that churns with the poignancy of life crests and floods my eyes  because I indeed feel held in such a way at this moment.  The emotion ripples through me as I’ve come to expect with this work.  My sacrum sinks into the massage table in a gentle release. After a few moments, Cheri’s intuition is spot on as she shifts her hands to my sternum, cradling the energetic center around the heart, the heart chakra, between her two hands.  She stills. My thoughts and emotions continue to flow. The second to the last line of that same blessing was the one my older sister Nancy chose to have engraved on my father’s gravestone. Until we meet again. I didn’t have to wait long for that. My torso sinks heavier into Cheri’s hands releasing some long- held tension in my left shoulder as I find myself remembering the final weeks of my father’s life when I told him the veil was the thinnest when I was alone at my cabin meditating and if there was any way, he should come visit me there. He looked at me, really looked at me, and despite the ravages of cancer, his blues eyes twinkled. “I will,” he said. A month after his death, on a Sunday in late July he did. The Colorado wildflower season was peaking around my cabin where I sat on the deck taking in the early evening. A ¾ moon hung like an ornament perfectly...

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Posted by on May 13, 2016

  Here’s some more sexy art from the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival…     I found myself captivated with the couple in this piece of art entitled ‘Woven’ by fine art photographer Craig Stocks. Here’s what I fictionalized about it: (After my version you’ll get the real story) When Hannah saw the flyer on the wall by the bathroom of her favorite coffee shop, she took a picture of it and texted it to her husband Hank with the caption: Let’s . And now they were at the photographer’s studio: an empty room with a spot lit black box in the middle. Another couple, young, inked and so obviously in love, emerged from the back corner of the studio looking like they had just pulled on their clothes on, which they had. They were giddy and glowing as they held hands and hurried out the studio door. The photographer was a man.  Why couldn’t it have been a woman Hannah thought as she fumbled with the top button of her blouse that she spent all week picking out which was so ridiculous, as her sister pointed out, since she and Hank were going  be photographed naked something she’d never done but wanted to do or so she had thought. She was so nervous she felt like she was going to throw up. The photographers name was Paul, like Paul Simon she thought.  He was short, soft voiced and unassuming as he extended his hand that was soft like a priest’s when she shook it “I’ve scheduled 15 minutes for each couple,” he said. “I work best with the clock ticking. Undress over there,” he pointed to the corner of the room . There was no dressing room, not even a curtain, just two metal chairs. Hank cleared his throat as they walked over.  “This excites you?” he said through a tight jaw. Hank was as nervous as she was but it was presenting itself, as most of his emotions did lately, as anger. “Not yet,” she said with a nervous laugh. She swallowed hard.  Her belly was churning with so many emotions but fear was the biggest and not just about the prospect of taking off her clothes and being photographed but for her marriage.  She had convinced herself that they needed something a little outrageous. They needed something. The couples therapy, the tepid date nights, the $200 lingerie…nothing so far was really helping. It was so fucking awkward as they slipped off their clothes. “I just want this to be over,” Hank said as he strode towards the box. The bigger implications of his statement hit her like a slap in the face.  Hannah crossed her arms over her breasts and followed.  Absurdly (her subconscious had a bizarre sense of humor) the song Fifty Ways To Leave Your Lover started playing in her head. Hop on the bus Gus. Paul Simon went behind his tripod and made some adjustments. “I want you to hold each other,” he said. They stood in front of the box and hugged like a couple of siblings who hadn’t worked through their rivalry. “Great,” Paul said not meaning it.  Click. “How long have you been married?” “Married ten. Together for twelve,” Hank said sighting their statistics like the accountant that he was. “How is it going?” Paul asked. “Being married for ten, together for twelve? Hank…It’s Hank right? Sit on the box.  Hannah circle him… find your place with him.” Hank cleared his throat, sat down, bent one leg to cover his cock and said nothing. No need to be coy Roy played on...

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Smell The Roses

Posted by on May 6, 2016

For your reading pleasure…the story that was accepted by the Literary Arts Division of the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival this year. Smell The Roses I’ve never been one for the romantic gesture of champagne and roses.  And dear lord don’t even think about it on Valentine’s Day when every other man is doing as Hallmark dictates.  Give me a handful of wildflowers, a hit of Jameson’s from your flask and lay me down in the sage and we can remind each other what it truly means to be free. But right now I’m rethinking all that because we are in the city and there isn’t a wildflower in sight. We need earth and sky like most need food and water, so we followed the asphalt from the doctor’s office to a park where the surrounding homes have these amazing gardens, the kind they pay other people, people like us, to maintain.  I had to stop, I’m smelling the roses Baby, and cup a rose, the color of a Popsicle that wasn’t quite sure if it was grape or cherry, to my face. The smell was so sweet I could have swallowed it whole so I guided the blossom to your goatee and you inhaled a deep belly breath like the Outlaw yogi that you are and sneezed five times in succession, loud and exuberant, making a little kid who was walking nearby grab the hand of his mother. Now we lie naked, face to face, against the fat pillows of our three- and- a-half-star hotel that we snagged on Priceline for the price of two. You dazzle me first with a champagne kiss, your perpetually chapped lips parting mine as you release all that effervescence, like an orgasm, into my mouth making me slurp and giggle.  And now, my bad boy of a man, you have that black cherry colored rose, that you must have snipped with your pocket knife behind my back and hid inside your black leather jacket. You trace the blossom around the cross tattooed on the back of my head, a mark my defiant, head- shaving, twenty-four year old self put on me, a mark that reappeared and asserted itself after the chemo. It’s barely visible now, tucked back under my peroxide pixie but we know it’s working, especially after today’s clean lab reports. Your green eyes hold mine captive as you reach around and run the rose down the knobby length of my spine. When you get to the trails end you just keep going, letting those silky petals tickle the cleft of my ass before plunging down until it’s going to be petals on petals. My dew drops just thinking about it and your smile stretches up against mine as you leave me to my imagination, and tease my inner thighs instead. You don’t give gifts often and never before a rose, so you take your time giving me this one. You pull out the scarves I bargained down from a street vendor, pretty long colorful things I bought for my sisters, and guide me flat on my back as you tether my wrists to the fancy wrought iron bedpost.  Not having control has been my cross to bear these past two years, the one you helped me carry.  Now you are showing me how it translates to pleasure. You kiss more champagne into my mouth and follow the spill of it down my neck. The rim of your glass tips and fills the hollow at my left collarbone until it overflows to the jagged tissue where my left breast used to be,...

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With The Flow

Posted by on May 1, 2016

  The sexiest part of the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival for me was previewing photographs of the accepted art, writing about them and then reading for the Wanderlust literary art tour.   This piece of art, entitled With The Flow by photographer Lace Andersen  grabbed me by the throat and insisted I write about her first.  She lured me to five other photos and a linked narrative about mermaids and the eroticism of the sea. I absolutely love it when other artists’ work breathe life into mine. So for your reading pleasure, here is the first installment of the mermaid stories she inspired. (I’m working on getting artist’s permission for the other pieces. Thank you Lace Andersen for allowing me to share yours.) Their tongues tangled, salty and slippery, as their elbows searched for purchase on the surf board bobbing in the water between them. Merea inhaled and swallowed hard.  It was now or never. She traced her fingers across the surfer’s neoprene skull cap, held his head and bit hard on his chapped lower lip until she felt the flesh tear. He instinctively tried to pull away but she held him there as she sucked his blood, warm and metallic, into her mouth and swallowed. “Owwh!”  he said as he brought a hand to his lip. “What the fuck?” She felt his blood burn down her throat and the tip of her fin tingled. She’d heard that The Change would start within seconds of human blood getting into her system so she had to get to the beach fast. How crazy to think that she might not be able to swim, that she could actually drown. She felt a moment of panic, Holy Neptune what am I doing? but her home, the ocean, was in danger and she and two other members of her coven had been selected to infiltrate the humans and figure out how to stop it. So she held tight to her mission and tucked right up beside it was her long held fantasy of having two legs and the clamshell of soft tissues in between. She dove. She’s been warned that the pain would be excruciating for about ten seconds and as she floated upon a breaking wave close to shore, it hit.  Her whole body spasmed like a fish on a hook as a burning sensation moved raggedly up the center of her fin cleaving it in two. She screamed out like a gull as her gills turned inside out and started to cohere into lungs. The wave engulfed her, a farewell embrace from the sea, and churned her in the undertow, remixing her biochemistry like a cocktail. She must have blacked out from the pain because when she came to she was floating on her back above a knee deep sand bar near the beach. She let her fleshy hips settle on the sand, pushed her hair out of her face and when she looked down through the water, despite how much she wanted it, and had dreamed about it, she retched the sea water she had taken in when she saw the two long legs stretching out from her torso.  Two legs that could spread apart and feel the desire of another inside of her. She pushed them down and felt the sand between her toes.  Her toes!  She wiggled them with an astonished laugh and then slowly placed a hand between her legs searching for the soft folds and fabled canal. She explored slowly at first and then more eagerly until she found the small bud of tissues that made her tremble...

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Sexy Shoes

Posted by on Apr 18, 2016

I aspire to constantly expand and improve upon the definition of sexy in this blog. That being said, if you were to ask me two weeks ago to show you my sexiest pair of shows I would have pulled out these black strappy beauties: Because these snowshoes up the ecstasy quotient in my life several times a week. When the snow is wind scoured or frozen and not good for skiing, they enable me to pack into my cabin. After I drop off my pack, I feel like I’m floating above the earth, which I am, as I stomp around the moonlike surface of our property under six feet of frozen snow. But as sexy as they are, they aren’t going to get me up on stage in Seattle for my book launch this weekend. And since I’ve had issues with that in the past, I decided, with some convincing from my sexy mentor (thank God for her), that it was time to invest in a pair of sexy shoes. Omigod. I had no idea. Women’s shoes are so damn sexy. I went a little crazy with the free shipping and returns at Zappos and Nordstrom’s and had four or five boxes come and go in the last week. I felt like Goldilocks. Too big. Too small. This pair was almost just right. They were sexy as hell with my sheer black dress but not so great with the manifest dress or the corral and sage lace pieces. And then I found these Freebirds, on sale, in downtown Steamboat. They fit like a pair of kid gloves, match my sexy cape and have Colorado Nature-Inspired Erotica Writer written all over them don’t you think? Looks like I’ll be wearing leather with my...

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