Lost

It still felt like the middle of the night when Mike whispered, “Baby,” in her ear, his palm sliding from her breast to her belly.

He hugged her close. Gave her a kiss on the shoulder. Inhaled deeply at her neck. In a dream-like state, his loving felt as easy and sweet as a heavy blanket. She wasn’t awake enough to think of morning breath, or the way her pillow left red lines in her skin, or to worry about the musk of sex coating her from head to toe. Sometimes she knew he left the house with the scent of everything they’d done the night before on his hands and face, and blushed pink, grew wet, thinking about it. He said it made him calm when he had to deal with idiots.

His hand lowered, and her legs parted on instinct when his warm palm cupped her pussy. She was sensitive, swollen, slick with him and her mixed together. He dipped a finger in like taking a dollop of frosting off of a cupcake, then brought it up to her mouth. “Open.”

She opened her mouth. Accepted the finger. Licked and sucked like it was a sweet treat she loved, the rich erotic aroma of their coupling filled up her head like a drug—waking her just enough to make her want again.

Katie was always hungry for this man. Would take him however she could get him. Ready to accept anything he wanted, because everything ended up making her life feel incandescently beautiful. She never wanted to miss a single opportunity to be claimed by him.

He added another finger. Pressed both of them deep, toward the back of her throat, insistent. It was just on the edge of too much before he said, “Get them wet.”

She nodded and tried to obey. A little dehydrated, it took effort. He pumped his fingers back and forth in her mouth, stimulating her saliva glands with hungry memories of the weight of his cock between her lips.

“Good, that’s good.”

Mouth full, she tried to nod. Whining when his thrusts into her mouth grew hard and firm.

“Nice and wet,” he said, his voice graveled with the night.

She opened her mouth and relaxed into his demand as her eyes teared up with the intensity. She didn’t like his fingers, not really. But the act did the job, made her think of what she did like, what she did want, until drool spilled down her chin.

Removing his hand, he put his fingers between her legs, adding slick to what was there, teasing with a wide circle and perfect pressure exactly where she needed it. She drifted into the pleasure like the rising sun—sparking bright and needy

“Beautiful. So fucking beautiful.” The words fell against her ears as if they could sink into her skin and live there. Like they were true.

He circled until her hips moved with him, until she was fully awake, completely alive, one hand clawing at the sheets.

The alarm went off. He stopped. Shut it off. “Fuck. Got to get up. Early day.” He kissed her cheek, pulled his hand away, and got up, leaving her on the brink. “Gotta shower. Will you start the coffee?”

A bit stunned, still on the edge of ecstasy, she felt him leave the bed.

“Gonna turn on the light. Watch your eyes.”

Making a noise of protest, she flung an arm over her eyes. The light switched on. She heard his dresser drawer squeak open. “Gonna shower. Get up, lazy bones, make me coffee.”

She didn’t want to move. It would just take a minute to finish what he’d started. Maybe three. But she wasn’t supposed to touch herself without permission, and he was already turning the shower on. Rolling out of bed, she found her favorite cotton dress and pulled it over her head. She hated walking around naked, as if the threat of some stranger looking in windows and knocking on their front door at five o’clock in the morning were a thing that happened frequently. Once had been enough.

Wet, needy, and still groggy from lack of sleep, she started the coffee, then pulled out eggs, green peppers, onions, cheese and bacon for breakfast. If he didn’t have time to eat, she’d just roll it up in a warm tortilla and call it good.

Still cracking eggs, she heard the creaking sound of the overheated coffee pot. What? No water? His morning stimulation had gone to her head and left her in a distracted state; she started the coffee pot without fresh water. “Shit,” she murmured to herself, turning on the faucet and filling the pot to remedy the issue.

Bacon sizzling, her phone rang. She checked the clock and name. 5:30. Her mother. There was a time zone difference, and no matter how many times she explained that to her mother, the older woman never managed to remember it.

“Hi, Mom.” She answered in a weary but amused tone.

“Katie! It’s snowing here. My tits are gonna freeze till Tuesday. Did you get the package I sent you?” Her mother was a bit of a character, more so as she had gotten older. The woman who had been spontaneous but restrained during Katie’s childhood had turned into an all-out nut in her elder years.

“Yes, but the big chipmunk glove things?”

“Not gloves. You put them on your feet for cleaning the floor. Isn’t that clever?”

“I couldn’t tell. All the writing was in Japanese.”

“Got them from the Daiso,” her mother said. Her mother went on to explain the joys of the Daiso for the third time that week. The floor-cleaning chipmunks hadn’t been the only thing she’d sent. The woman sent mail like every day was a holiday, and since Katie was her only child, she bore the brunt of the strange and unique giftings.

Her mom talked animatedly, and Katie flipped more bacon, smiling at Mike as he came around the hall corner. Fully dressed except for his bare feet, holding his socks, his hair combed, freshly shaved, he looked amazing.

Her insides clenched, the need he’d left her with waking up again at the sight of him. He smiled at her and went to pour coffee into the travel mug sitting next to the half-brewed pot.

“Your mom?” he asked. Katie nodded. Her mom didn’t know Katie was dating, and that dating had turned into a man who had his own drawers in her hand-me-down antique dresser, now living with Katie more than not.

Last month he’d insisted on paying half the rent, with a glint in his eye that warned her he would be staying and taking that over the same way he took her body over. It was hard to say no to a man who wanted to not only pay his share but take over some things so that she could worry less about finances and more about staying up late and staining her sheets. He was the reason she’d had to buy a new mattress cover.

“How you feelin’ this morning, Baby?” He didn’t lower his voice for the question. His eyes ate her up, touching her face, her chest, lower with a heated, possessive gaze that said he knew he’d left her needy and liked it. Liked that he could play her like his own personal guitar, pluck her strings and leave her vibrating for hours.

“What was that?” Katie’s mother stopped mid-sentence to ask. “I turned the TV. on.” Katie answered, motioning to her man with a finger at her lips. He grinned, sipped his coffee, set it down on the counter and crossed the room to her in long strides.

Reaching across the stove, he turned the knobs off.

Then his hands were on her hips, firm, certain, walking her backward two steps and spinning her until her back met the cool edge of the counter. The phone stayed pinned between her ear and shoulder; she couldn’t have dropped it if she had tried. He gave her a wicked smirk before sinking to his knees right there on the kitchen floor, eyes never leaving hers.

“—and don’t get me started on the tiny melon graters, Katie, they’re life-changing—” Katie heard her mother say.

Mike pushed her dress up to her waist in one slow drag. “Hold that for me.”

She took it with her free hand.

He lifted her leg up, hooking her heel on a drawer handle, so that her body was leaning backwards, one foot on the floor, her center exposed. The air felt cold for a second against her wet heat, then his hot mouth opened on her with deliberate, wicked intent. The first long lick stole every bit of air she had left.

Her mother’s voice kept chattering, bright and oblivious. Something about squid-shaped soy sauce bottles now. Gasps and whimpers escaped her. She tried to hold them back, but he acted like it was his mission to make her mad with pleasure.

He didn’t rush—never did when he wanted his taste. His tongue slid through her folds, with slow, greedy execution, licking her up like she had become the caffeine he needed to get through the day.

One broad hand splayed across her lower belly, holding her still; the other locked around her thigh, keeping her open for him. She couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh at the absurdity or fall apart from how perfect it felt. Her free hand fisted in his damp hair, not sure if she was trying to pull him closer or use him as her only anchor. He circled her clit with the flat of his tongue, then sucked gently— her legs trembled, knee threatening to to give as her hips jerked with a wanton acceptance of his carnality.

“Yes,” she whimpered.

“So, you want me to send the pickle box?” her mother asked.

Arm sliding around her waist, he pulled her deeper onto his face, growling low against her wet flesh, the heat shooting straight through her core.

“Katie? You okay, honey? You went quiet. Is that a yes or a no. I might just keep this one for myself. Or maybe get two? They are so affordable!”

“I—uh—” Katie’s voice cracked. She bit her lip hard enough to hurt. “Sorry mom. Just… burning the bacon a little.”

Mike looked up at her then, mouth glistening, eyes dark and amused. He’d moved the bacon so it wouldn’t burn because he was considerate like that. Pressing a soft kiss to her inner thigh, then went right back to work—long, thorough licks, she felt his nose, his chin, like he was coating his face in her wet, glossy mess on purpose. Her scent on him.

She felt her climax building fast, rushing again to the same bright, terrifying edge where he’d left her on in bed. She knee buckled, the hand in his hair tightened. The phone slipped, and she pressed keys.

A low whine escaped before she could stop it.

“Katie? Katie? What’s that noise?”

“Y-yeah, Mom. Some commercial.”

“That car insurance commercial? I hate those.”

Mike chuckled, sucked harder, flicked faster, and the lie turned into a choked moan she barely muffled against her own arm. He didn’t stop until she came—shaking, breathless, flooding his tongue with the last of what he wanted. Only then did he ease back, press one last gentle kiss to her pulsing clit, help her bring her leg back to the floor and stand.

He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on hers. Leaned in close enough that only she could hear. “Now, that’s how I like to add cream to my coffee.”

Still in the aftermath, ready to fall on the floor, Katie burst out laughing.

He always told the worst dirty dad jokes.

Mike grabbed his travel mug, his keys, and walked out the door like he hadn’t just wrecked her entire morning. She sagged against the counter, phone still in her ear, legs unsteady, heart hammering so loud she almost missed her mother demanding to know what she was watching on the TV. so she could watch it too.

She didn’t catch her breath for a very long time.

Women want safety, but do men want to take the time needed to give it to her? Is safety for a woman just the absence of threat, a lack of danger, a partner who listens and waits for consent? 

What does a woman mean when she wants safety? What does a submissive or slave mean?

In every conversation about true connection between the masculine and the feminine, the word “safety” inevitably appears. It has become a sound bite, almost a meme. “Make her feel safe and she will give you everything.” As if safety is a button you push to unlock her darkest layers, her sexiest surrender, her complete trust in a man’s hands.

But we all know it doesn’t work that way. It takes time. It takes conversation after conversation as two people slowly move closer, until their energies touch and spark. It’s not an on button to female desire.

So what is safety, really?  A padded life without conflict. Easy agreement? Never crossing boundaries? Or is it something deeper than negotiations, something outside the chase, something that endures beyond the initial spark between masculine and feminine?

To me, safety is the consistent, predictable meeting of my energy to yours. You match me. I match you. That doesn’t mean you mirror my every mood—if I’m goofy and playful, you don’t have to fake lightness when you’re not feeling it. But it does mean you meet me there with presence. You see me. You respond to what I’m offering instead of withdrawing or dismissing it.

Because when you’re quiet, drained, or empty, you know I will meet you in that place too—creating peace, offering what you need without resentment.

Safety is knowing that what I give, I get back. It’s waking up beside you certain that the ground between us hasn’t shifted overnight because of a passing mood, a hidden trigger, or unspoken resentment. You don’t have to be perfect. You simply have to be steady in your presence.

Safety is more. It's the mutual agreement that nothing we say to each other will be held like a weapon. I can voice my fears, my insecurities, my wildest thoughts, and they won’t become ammunition in the next argument or conversation. So can you. 

Vulnerability and honesty shouldn’t cost safety.

It’s knowing that you trust me with your dark as I trust you with mine. There’s no judgment in the graphic raw of the dark.

It’s knowing your self-control won’t shatter with emotion or desire. Anger doesn’t turn into cruelty. Lust doesn’t turn into pressure or withdrawal. You remain a man who chooses integrity even when it’s inconvenient.

It’s understanding that if I fall—emotionally, spiritually, even practically—you won’t just step back or walk away. You reach for me. You catch me. You redirect me with truth, not judgment. You hold the line without compromise, because real love isn’t permissive; it’s protective of what matters.

Safety is the absence of gaslighting. When I bring you my honesty, you don’t twist it, minimize it, or tell me I’m crazy for feeling it. You meet it. You might disagree. You might challenge me. But you never make me question my own reality.

Safety is security.

Safety is constant, continual connection and reconnection—after fights, after distance, after sex and new experiences, daily soul touches during the ordinary grind of life. It’s the quiet repair, the “I see you” in the middle of the day, the choice to turn toward each other again and again.

Safety is knowing that your desire is connected to my heart and soul, not just my body or my performance. It’s a burning flame that doesn’t flicker out when I’m not the fantasy version of me. Your wanting remains rooted.

Conditional desire feels like walking on a trapdoor. True desire feels like solid ground.

And safety is responsibility—yours and mine. You own your actions, your words, your triggers. You expect the same from me. We intentionally choose accountability because the relationship is more important than being right.

If you can’t offer a woman safety, what exactly are you offering? Excitement? Chemistry? The thrill of the chase? Hit and run sex?

Without safety, everything else eventually feels like a transaction or a gamble. Without safety we are just wasting each other’s time.

Women have spent decades being told we want freedom, autonomy, passion without strings. Some of us chased that and found it lonely. Others stayed in “safe” but passionless dynamics and felt half-dead.

The truth is more nuanced: we want the kind of safety that makes real freedom and real passion possible. The safety that lets us fully open—sexually, emotionally, spiritually—because we know we won’t be dropped. This isn’t about being coddled or mothered. It’s not code for “never challenge me.” Healthy women don’t want a doormat or a savior. We want a man who is strong enough to be steady. Intentional enough to be present. Committed enough to not get distracted by the things life throws at him.

Safety isn’t weakness. It’s the ultimate masculine offering in a chaotic world. It’s the quiet power of being the rock she can crash against and still feel held.

Women, if we’re honest: we have to bring our own safety too. Our clarity. Our self-responsibility. Our willingness to give of ourselves and to protect, to guard what is his. Safety is a dance, not a one-way demand.

At the end of the day, the question remains: What does a woman want?
She wants to feel safe enough to let go. Safe enough to burn brightly beside her man, her dominant, her leader, instead of protecting herself from him. Everything else—passion, depth, longevity—flows from there.

I need him
Like I need music, like I need song, like I need movement every day so that I don't turn to stone.
I need him
His kiss to breathe, his lips to know, an addiction in my blood.
I need his hand to hold, his touch to lead, his voice to calm my soul.
But he isn't here.
And there is no promise that makes his moon able to touch my sun --
Leaving me waiting, crusting, cresting
Unable to breathe, unable to move, unable to see.

This is one of the most profoundly uncomfortable and painful things I've Iver had to walk through. 

I will be traveling in a day. In hours. Going back to Texas.

My first D/s relationship began in 2020 and lasted online, for about a year, until he found someone vanilla that suited him better. I was devastated.

I had given up everything, including my will. But it was not enough. He will tell you that it had nothing to do with that, but, I can’t let it go. I can’t submit how I feel about it.

He tried to be there for me in the aftermath of my destruction, calling often.

I always answered the phone.

I still answer the phone for him, will choose him over others, not because I still love him, not because he earned it, but because the need to respect him has never faded.

A lot felt wrong after he chose another and I took a path that would consume me.

The next person I met also ended up choosing another. (And no, I don’t blame you or hold that against you. It was right for you at the time and I was in such a rush to cover my bleeding wounds with something, anything. That’s not your fault.)

There were a couple of little online things, that burned hot and left scars.

And then there was the first man who was all in – he wanted to be with me, and would make sacrifices, face hardship, cross the country, to make it happen.

And That was all I saw.

He was married, but poly. She was okay with me. We talked. I made sure. I warned them both that I wasn’t really poly, but I would try.

I did try. But not, quite what they were both hoping for, because from the first I wanted my territory separate from her territory and I would not, could not budge. I suck at sharing. I really do. And I’m also highly competitive when it comes to attention.

I want it all.

And I was broken. Such a mess. Still in this state of crying every other week about my first love, disgusted with myself that I had tried to rush into something right after, and hating myself for how weak and biddable I had become with men I had never seen.

That first relationship opened me up and left me open. I still haven’t managed to close the doors and windows my first online Dominant created in my psyche, how he took a need to please authority and amplified it, how he took desire and …freed it.

See- five years later and I still feel him.

But then there was the four years with Sir, and his wife.

The four years that dug into my soul and crossed some of my most sacred boundaries. NOT boundaries that have anything to do with kink. No these were life choice boundaries that involved my history, my possessions, my property, my family and my finances.

And yet, I obeyed.

Not only that, I had my Sir’s back. I stood firm, I found ways to keep going, I got work, I scraped the bottom of the barrel for needs and wants. I was there for him in a way no one in his life was.

Until I was drowning and realized that not only would that situation never change, but other promises would never be fulfilled. The final blow landed in May of 2025.

I cried.

And then I made choices.

Our lives were entirely entangled, and I had let him into everything. I loved him. At one time, I had made the choice to trust him.

I chose trust. I allowed love. I learned… much.

When I met him I thought I didn’t need…emotional support, strength, another’s will or order to keep me going. I was a service submissive; I was an honorable obedient slave. I was a sex addict. He provided ease for the last and I provided the attitude for the first two.

It pissed him off that I didn’t need him, crave his emotional reassurance, and his physical presence the way he craved mine.  He didn’t want me to work. Didn’t want me to leave the house. Invaded my space whenever I tried to set a schedule and work on a project. Used my services to help his wife and his sons when he needed time to work on his projects.

But he loved me. With words and with body and with small actions that spoke massive volumes. He appreciated everything I did and often argued with me about doing too much.

He didn’t want me to work. But no one else could get or hold a job. So I worked.

But things got bad. I couldn’t keep up.

I worked a full day. Sometimes two jobs. And sucked his cock and fucked him almost every night he spent with me, and often in between.

We had an arrangement. It was every other night with me. He took turns between beds.

I don’t know what he was doing with his wife. I do know we had sex like a new couple, and I wanted, needed that physical touch, because this was where I was fed. This was my emotional need. To touch him. To be with him. To feel skin.

I have now learned that the more he loved me the less sex he had with his wife, that she had become submissive to the point of being unresponsive and he had lost all desire for those types of encounters.

So, when I never intended to, I also hurt their marriage.

They have been together 30 years, but there are things there that I should not say. I’ve already said too much.

I love him.

I submitted to him.

I let him bankrupt me.

He apologized. This man sees what he has done. He has always been an amazing communicator, who admits when he is wrong, admits when he has anxiety and confronts me with my own issues when the time is right.

We have talked about how because of certain mental issues that his view of what is the truth and what is reality are two very different things. And yes. I realized this, guessed this early but I was covering bleeding wounds and also on a self destructive bent of “kill the stupid sub bitch inside of me that got me into this mess.”

Sometimes. Often. I still want that stupid bitch dead. I hate her. As if she were an alien seed in my gut I can not eradicate, as if she takes over, her need roaring to life, and burning everything that matters, like fucking self-control and honor, in her need to get a hard dick inside her mouth, pussy or ass.

All this to tell you, this man, who I left in August, is now very sick.

Born with sars, badly abused by parents, teachers, a community, used in childhood experiments on medications for epilepsy, sharp shooter, fisherman, carpenter, creative, story teller, hunter, navy Seal, sniper, proud, stubborn, angry, full of life, passionate, sexy as hell, this man…is waiting for confirmation that he has ALS.

I promised him I would take him to the diagnosis appointment. I promised him I would go home to him, before he was in a state where he didn’t know I was there.

So. That’s what I’m doing.

Because I do what needs to be done.

When I wrote my first spicy romance novel, I stripped away things like religion and conventional propriety to create primal, raw characters driven by the instinct of their masculine and feminine archetypes. I wanted a world where people were unmasked, where they reveled in unrestrained animal magnetism, where they were gloriously whole and true to their character and nature in all things.

I wrote a dominant and submissive relationship because that was my genre, but also because that was my idealized image of connection and relationship. The man was a leader, teacher, protector, and the female was feminine, submissive, willing breeder and nurturing care giver.

I wrote kinky, raw, detailed sex that scorched the pages and created a fated mate bond that connected the characters on the most elemental, united level I could fantasize into existence.

Not once do my characters declare or rhapsodized their undying love and devotion. They don’t say it. They live it. He is her gravity, and she is his moon and stars, and they are united.

Words are so powerful. I used to have a pinned post on my X feed that said, “Words are my super power, I can turn things on with them, and I can turn things off.”

But some words, like love, have lost their power, and the only way to give it meaning is to strip it of all preconceived notions and turn it into an action.

“I love you,” means nothing if it doesn’t come with action. And so my characters never say it. They live it out. 

It’s just a little smut book, to some. Just some stupid lady porn. But to me, that novel was an expression of what a loving, connected relationship between a heterosexual man and a heterosexual woman could look like. Unashamed in their desires, accepted by their culture and community, raw, passionate and liquid with want.

And some of my readers get it. Some of them understood. Some of them found comfort, found understanding, found respite in the fantasy I wove for them.

And me? I wanted to live out that fantasy.

But somewhere along the line my wonderful intentions crumbled, and I turned the words into the porn I’d been accused of writing.

I turned my love as action into a song of pure carnality.

I don’t want to be that person. Just because I can, doesn’t mean I should.

I need to find my way back, my way home. I need to find the path to that place where I was writing to an audience begging to be noticed, to an audience with a dead bed, to an audience that had never been embraced with a love so strong that you could feel the other persons need as it flowed out of them and into you. A place where submission was a willing act of love, not some grand performance of pomp and circumstance. Where the submissive was a treasure, not a toy.

The path is dark. Twisted. Criss crossed with rabbit trails that confuse me.

But I have no other choice.

A love letter to a lonely stranger...

My Dearest,

I long to see you, love. To get close to you. To know you in the quiet where your breath catches, where your pulse can hum beneath my fingertips.

I know that I am no one to you, just a jumble of words we’ve exchanged, comments and posts on in the digital of the internet, but I feel your energy, your essence and I want so much just to touch you. Connect with your vibrant alive. I know that it’s bold, but I promise to leave no scar behind. I’ll be careful.

Is it so wrong to want to know you? Be close to you? I dream of the peace we could have as I sit at your feet while you work.

But right now, could you hold still for me, please darling, and allow me to learn you. I’ll take only one hand, just one. The hand that holds your coffee cup. The hand that cups a woman’s breast. The hand that folds and bends, daily, at every work task to earn the living wage, to do the things that must be done.

Maybe if you let me just touch your hand, I can discover you without trespassing in other ways. I can find out the quiet, constant thrum of your energy, the part of you that calls to a woman like me.  

I love a man’s hands. Wide and warm, they carry the weight of your days, the ache of your unspoken, unreached dreams. They hold all your desires, every lonely, ravenous day since you were young is there in those creases. Every time you touched yourself, sought relief, thought of a woman, is right there. Your hands connect me to every groan and every sigh you ever uttered, every wicked thing you watched or read at three a.m.

I don’t judge you. I won’t. And I’m not afraid of anything you might say or do. Please, could you just let me touch you?

Let me touch those lines in your palm as we breathe together. In, out. In, out. My concentrated touch learning your life, your ambitions, your need. Stroking the pathways to your fingers. I hope you don’t mind if I take my time and go slow. Slow.

This is where I would rub into your knuckles search out the pain you hide. Caress it, the bruises, the long workday, the endless dreary repetition, in your tendons, your muscles. Just let me rub, soothe, ease. Let me have that pain, take it into me, as we breathe together.

Our breath would mix. I inhale you. You inhale me.  Two strangers, yet in this moment, I think you might see my bare soul as I seek to see yours. I think you might know me better than I know myself as we exchange air, as the human energy in our existence hums around us. Yours is a sensual storm, I see your cock rise at my touch, but I want more. Can you give me more? Will you?  You can have a quick fuck with anyone, but if you relax and open to me, I imagine that I can give you something special, show you that you are not alone, that you are not worthless, that you and everything you create has value. That you are not unwanted. That the dreams you are working toward can become real.

Don’t move. Don’t touch me back. And No, I won’t touch your cock. Just your hand. Please?

I will follow each finger and stroke, before returning to the thick mounded pads at the base, where I rub, seeking the sore places, the hidden tensions, and I want nothing more than to unravel each of them, muscle by muscle, until you are soft and open under my touch.

Please. Could you, in the secret place of my words and your attention, could you open to me? Trust me.

To help, I’d reach for something comforting, almond oil, perhaps. Make my hands slick so that I can slide easily over your skin. Sweet, woody, slightly cherry, you will remember this scent, and maybe you will remember this innocent, charged moment.

It would be so good as I rub the oil into your skin, when I moan, helpless in my desire to know you. I bring your hand closer to my lips. Hover near your skin, not yet touching, but drinking you in.

Give it to me. Please, darling. I crave the difficult, the valuable—the intimacy of knowing you. It is a lot to ask a stranger, but I promise I won’t hurt you, I won’t trespass where I am unwanted.

We breathe together. In and out. In, out. I watch your throat move as you swallow, to see the flicker in your eyes when our gazes lock, to hear that wonderful sound when you trust me enough to let go, because that’s when the rainwater of your constant raging storm becomes warm, becomes something that sinks into me, connects with me, energizes me.

God, I want that. Just as your strength is in your hand, so is your vulnerable, your surrender. I know you never think to let go, to let anyone carry you, but you work so damn hard. I know you do. Could you let me do that? Pause and imagine it?

You are amazing. I want to map the contours of your being—your spine, your ankles, the curve of your wrist—until every inch of you knows my care. I don’t write this letter to you in an effort to take, but to give, to see you as you are: beautiful, raw, human.

It’s okay to feel the deep things with me.

Your presence is a gift, and I am greedy for it—not for your body, not your manhood, not this time, I want to connect with the soul that rages like a storm, trapped in a man shaped cell.

Still rubbing at each pad on your pam, I take your hand in both of mine, and use my thumbs to explore the rest of that hidden, ignored hurt. I am not afraid of what I see. You are safe here, with me. Let me touch you, learn you, love you in the quiet spaces where words falter and only breath remains. I am yours, in this slow unraveling, and I ask only that you let me see you—truly see you—before the world calls us back.

And then I’ll leave you, let you go having touched something wonderous, the hand of a man.

Yours,

Izzy

This is not my spirit animal however...

Pages from a grungy, aged altered book mixed media art journal. 

Since and amazing amount of people liked my art. Here's more  (two people.)

I am NOT a little. Coloring books do not calm me.

But if he makes me call him Daddy I'm going to lose brain cells, want bubble gum ice-cream, act playful, silly and absolutely ridiculous. 

Still. I am not a little or a princess.

Also, some of my art: