Nature-Inspired Sexy

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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Wild Irish Rose

Posted by on Jul 26, 2015

I had a lover in college who called me his Wild Irish Rose. He was even wilder and more Irish than me, so we never progressed beyond the fun sex and friendship. The woods around my cabin are laced with the pink blossoms of wild roses right now. As I hike among them, my thoughts keep drifting to that time of my budding sexuality. I was nineteen and hungry to explore my sexuality.  He was twenty-three, my Trustafarian roommate’s best friend, and happy to oblige. I remember how my body craved sex , like chocolate but 100 times stronger.  I remember calling him him at 10:00 on a Friday night and saying, Come over. A bootie call before the term was invented. He arrived and helped himself to a bottle of vintage red wine from the Trustafarian’s stash. When we were naked in bed, he purposefully spilled it all over my breasts and proceeded to kiss it off. My heart had no interest in love or a relationship.  My desire was purely carnal, driven by a lust to explore and learn more about all those wondrous sensations.  I was a bud craving just enough warmth to begin unfurling it’s petals. No more. And now all these years later I find myself working with a publishing house to bring my nature-inspired erotic essays to print.  Because eventually my bud started to crave a heat that could make the sex transcendent. And when I found that in the arms of a sexy raft guide, I had no choice but to write it all down. I’m not a young bud of sexual energy anymore.  But she is still in there, imprinted on my soul. My Wild Irish Rose is still driven by a lust to explore and learn, not just about sexuality anymore, but about love and spirituality and that heady, intensely sensual place where they all entangle. So I am opening myself up to the world, blossoming into this erotic memoirist. Sexy Prompt: Revisit your budding sexual self and tell me about her/him in the...

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Farewell Kiss

Posted by on May 19, 2015

I get off on winter. So last Sunday when I woke up at my cabin to four inches of fresh snow, I was outside in the gray dawn, arms flung open, spinning around like it was confetti.   Because metaphorically it is. Despite what my gardening friends would say, May snowstorms in Colorado are reason to celebrate. They translate to wildflowers in June; whitewater in July; and creeks that still dance in August.  They keep the aspens’ bark silver and their leaves shimmering gold in September. Snow in May means that the words drought and fire, words that are burning on the parched lips of Californians, are not ours to taste this year. But they were, early in the millennium when drought set the stage for the pine beetle epidemic that turned the evergreen beauty of Colorado’s lodge pole pines to rust. I build a fire in my woodstove with the beetle- kill pine we are still culling from our property; set my meditation cushion in front of the sliding glass door out to the deck ; and sit. I don’t even attempt to close my eyes to meditate because the sight of my sage and wildflower meadow tucked under a blanket of fresh snow is too beautiful to shut out.   I bow my head and offer up a little prayer that this storm drenched California before it came here. I send out gratitude that the snow is still coming down in what feels like a farewell kiss from winter. I slide the glass door open, lower my lips to the virgin snow and kiss her...

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Tasting Autumn

Posted by on Sep 10, 2014

The other day I was sitting in meditation on my deck and when I opened my eyes the meadow in front of me was so green that I felt like I’d been fast forwarded into spring. It’s been the most luscious summer I can remember here in the Rocky Mountains. Our big-snow winter morphed into a cool rainy spring that came and went all summer and never really left. As I flowed into my yoga practice under clouds heavy with rain, it seemed like the surrounding aspen leaves aren’t turning yellow this year. They are just begrudgingly giving up their green.       But there is no stopping Her. As as each day gets a little darker, the leaves get a little lighter,the yellow of the diminishing sun taking residence in the leaves. As I flowed into cobra pose and inhaled long and deep, the scent was mistakenly Autumn, so pungent and wet, like a woman at the height of arousal.  As warm raindrops landed on my yoga mat, I lifted my face to the sky and opened my mouth, eager to catch one on my tongue. Eager to taste her. Sexy Prod: What is your favorite way to taste autumn? Biting into a juicy Honeycrisp apple? Getting lost in  a corn maize with your lover? Rolling in a pile of raked leaves?  I really want to...

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Tree-ed

Posted by on Aug 1, 2014

I don’t know what it is with me and aspen trees. Wait, that’s not entirely true.  I’ve explored my fascination with them before in this post. But I thought my obsession was just a winter thing, when they are so stunningly stark, like those twenty-something women who are even more lovely if you get lucky enough to catch them without eye makeup. So I was a bit surprised when I found myself in the middle of July pulling out of an uphill climb on my mountain bike because I was rendered breathless by a stand of aspen.   I wonder sometimes if it’s just a game for them, seeing which humans they can seduce from the trail. All I know it that I’m a willing pawn. I pull off my one of my biking gloves and show my hand, placing it reverently on the closest trunk. As my breathing and heart rate slow, I feel my feet rooting into the earth and I have this epiphany that by touching one of these trees I am touching the entire clone since a stand of aspen is really one big organism. The dappled sunlight filtering through the leafy canopy pulses through my every cell and I have one of those full-body sensory orgasms that I write about in this blog and suddenly I can’t see the forest for I am the trees.          ...

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