The Young Man and the Older Woman


He is 23. She is 37. What a world we live in. I have been scouring the internet for an articulate gent in the literary sense, a writer, albeit a compatriot, to join me on a wonderful adventure of love and romance. All the while, the Literary was waiting in the wings, kind of like how a Lion waits on the hunt for his lioness. In my case, the Lion is casing out the Cougar.

I have been at the mercy of men for the past few months. Often times or not, they have come and go, left me in their wake and abandoned me. The Literary has been guilty of this too. Being a 23 year-old young man, he has his choice of any lady he chooses. Dashing with his New Zealand blonde hair, and sharp marksman eyes, he hides behind his glasses with a sexy demeanor that will have many young women soaking wet in their panties. And that’s just looks, let’s not even talk about his intellect.

Within his words, I absolutely melt. I have been a den of mystery lately, as I have been dancing around with other suitors, but The Literary is in a class all by himself. I wrote about him before in my previous blog, but I think attention must be paid to a master. He is a dominant figure, and where I laugh in the faces of most Dominants, (because I mean really, who the fuck do they think are kidding trying to get a woman like me to submit), but this Dominant pursued the ever living shit out of me.

I have had men pursue me in the past, but not with such virility and determination. Where I turned him down many times, he still came after me, dying to touch the treasure beneath my panties. I often question if it was just te sex that had this young man so crazy for me, but it was so much more than that, according to him. No woman has ever stood toe to toe with him before. No woman has ever turned down his advances or cease to succumb to his charms. No woman ever defied him in such a way. My defiance, my strength, the command in which I present myself, enraptured this young man, to the point to which he has fallen in love with me and wants to make me his wife.

Where did such a thing come from you ask? That would be my prayers. You see, with the loss of my job, I fell into a deep depression of low self-esteem. I was vulnerable, exposed, naked, out there on the internet. I wanted a writer to drown my sorrows with, and to tease my pussy in a way that would make me forget my problems. That’s where my latest suitor presented himself, and I found myself in a submissive position for the first time in my life. “The Quiet Man” was the one I have been writing about, that I have enjoyed amazing orgasms and conversations with over the past few days during my vulnerable stage. But I became his bitch. I would hang on his every word, where he would become disinterested and go off and do something else. I would wait and hang back, till he contacted me, sometimes with the open=ended text and no response to my statements. The sheer volume of his aloof attitude towards me is something I would never have put up with in the past. Why now did “The Quiet Man” come? Why now has the Literary come to show me how much of an asshole “The Quiet Man” really is?

This young man, The Literary, for his 23 years of age reminded me of my worth. He reminded me that I need not hang on the words of a lesser man to keep his attention. He reminded me that I am a strong confident woman who takes no bullshit from no man. Who the fuck does “The Quiet Man” think he is treating me like some bottom bitch that he can just roll all over? It took a  23-year-old Lion to remind this 37-year-old Cougar just how lethal and sexy she is.

So I am going to say a prayer tonight, for all my ladies that are in shitty relationships. Does your man not pay attention to you? Do your texts go unanswered? Is that dumb ass video game or football more important than spending time with you? Do you feel unfulfilled like you don’t matter as much to him because he has you? You Don’t Need It. You hear me? You are worth more than that shit. As a 37-year-old single woman, with friends that have babies and happy marriages, I know your plight. I know you feel that clock ticking, but is your happiness worth this pseudo-reality of the perfect version of The Waltons? Is Facebook making you jealous and unworthy? You Don’t Need It.

I am 37 years old and I am in love with a 23-year-old man. I am living the impossible dream. I have a man in my life that absolutely worships me. Yeah, there’s a chance he will get cold feet and ghost me, but it doesn’t even matter because he showed me my worth. My prayers were answered, I got my power back. I am me again, and fuck it feels good.

Let no one take your power, man or woman.

Know your worth and own it.
Stay tuned.

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A Tale of a Cyber Artist

cyber artist

Hot. Too hot for October. Where the hell was Fall in New England? Just another Friday afternoon. Click, click at the keyboard. A small glass of cool Honey Jack Daniels sits on the desk, begging her pillowlips for another taste. Writer’s Block. They are just words on the screen. Am I really here? The fact is I should be working, but that can go to hell right now.

Sitting here topless with just panties, I give a playful tug on my breasts. That as an amazing cyber sex session the other night. Vivid colors of imagination roll on the screen as “Only Forever” by Bing Crosby echoes in the background. Falling, falling deep, in his arms. My nipples harden with thoughts of him.

Unitarianism. A universal truth. Where as we discussed God in a universal sense, as opposed to the belief that God is all eternal being but more of just a creation of a great universe. Is God the universe? Or is the universe God? That question has been debated for centuries, but two chatters in different parts of the country are exploring those fantastic ideas in each other’s company.

I have written stories before, but on this hot October afternoon, I think attention should be paid to an eternal truth. Whether in art or music, the most fantastic ideas are formed in a creative mind. As I take a sip of my drink, I fall in a deep ocean of memory. My body, my canvas is blank, and I am just on the edge of creation.

Click, click on the keyboard, I watch this meaningless chat go by. Why do I even come here? Mindless chatter on the most asinine of topics. Joy and laughter found in nonsenical rantings. Really? *Beep* goes my phone. “What you doing, I’m bored,” I read on my phone screen. I suppose if I told him I would go over there and suck his dick to pass by the afternoon, he wouldn’t be so bored. My patience is running out. Click, click on the keyboard. A brilliant idea emerges.


Magic, as explained in story books, myths, and legends, has been dead for a long time. The whispering, pulsing energy so suffused with ancient power as to be power itself, has been dead for as long as human history has existed. The ghosts of its memory occasionally flickers across the collective human psyche, but they are but the last twitches of an extinct force. The Ley Lines are dark, have been for centuries, with only echoes for the mad hermit’s to talk to anymore. The Elves and Unicorns have wandered into the darkest forests and been reabsorbed into a reality that their impossible natures cannot support, the mermaids and sea serpents teeter on the brink of nonexistence, the trolls have turned to stone, and the dragons, the very embodiment of the wild relentless power of magic, have retreated into imagination.

And yet… things are stirring. The forests are still lack the laughter of the fae, the high mountains bereft the fire of dragons, but in deep alleys and forgotten server boxes, something seems to be growing. With the modern age of electronics and lines of cables spanning the globe, some core element of ancient power has found a new embodiment.

The digital age has sparked something, a more modern force that one might just consider calling magic. The Ley Lines lay dead, but the landlines practically thrum with the power of information. Graffiti takes on the strange script of the occult, stone has become silicon, forests of trees replaced with forests of steel and glass.

Something is trickling back into the world, and to those whose ancestors once danced around standing stones, the song of power is beginning to drum at the back of their skulls. This new world will need those who understand it, and those who can protect and channel it. For where there is power, there is inevitably those who would seek to abuse it.

The Abiders. A powerful hand in the government. They control everything, and want to keep that control. This new world order, in which magic is stirring is not going to benefit them. No, they will fight it by all costs, making sure those with the special gifts stay silent. If they gain a voice, the Abiders would lose all their power, for magic, of the old, of the ancient, is the most powerful force on Earth and could overthrow their reign. Especially her.

Right there, my character would come in of course. Yes, there is the beginning of magic. I sit back in my chair and play with my nipples. The beginnings of a novel, yes it will be wonderful. A magic night in which he parted my legs, and just….well, had me reeling in orgasmic bliss stay vivid in my memory.

Click, click of the keyboard, click-tock of the clock. The universal truths we hold to ourselves are abstract, like the fragments of this piece all put together in my mind. the workings of a novel, the chatter of a chatroom, Bing Crosby in the background, my nakedness and Honey Jack Daniels, all fuel to the fire.

Where do we go from here?

Hmm. Wouldn’t you like to know.


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Internally, How Do You Find Peace?

inner pace

Peace, love and harmony. We all want it, we all seek it. Whether it’s from a new love, a new job, or just the feeling within your own heart. How do you find peace within yourself? Why is the answer so elusive? You pose the question, you wait, and then hopefully you have an answer. Life is not a mathematical problem, but damn, sometimes I wish it was. I wish that when two times two we get four, not two times two we get a wacky number like 3.14159265359, which just blows your mind up and your head starts to hurt.

My life took a hard turn. I had to leave my job, which for a bipolar person who is struggling deeply with their illness, is really hard to deal with. I was proud of myself for even having a job. I have been on disability for 10 years, and I have had jobs during this time. I even was brave enough to take on a job where I used up all my Ticket to Work program hours. (For those of you that don’t know, Ticket To Work is where you get to keep your disability no matter how much you make for a certain amount of months. What they don’t tell you is, you will NEVER get another 9 month work trial. What this means is, if you go back to work and you fail, you lose your disability and you’re out of chances). Great system right?

Anyway, with this latest job loss, I learned that I could push myself. Even though I feel like a big fat failure now, I know I did my best and gave it my all. The problem is, at 37 years old, I can’t do a 20 year old’s job. I am not fast enough, and I am not good enough. I was working for a small business, which means you have to work your ass off, and that I did. But still, it wasn’t good enough. Also, what I realized is, that deep in my old age, I developed a lot of pride in myself. Some jobs are just beneath me, so when I am told to wipe tables, stack boxes and take care of filing, I take it as an insult. I single-handedly took apart an entire spreadsheet export system and improved job efficiency at one of the top Ivy League schools in the country. Yeah, so demoting me to filing and cleaning is an insult.

So where am I now? In deep shit. I have no peace within my heart, and I am deeply troubled. In the face of all the tragedy in America at this point, I feel selfish in my little bubble. When I pray, I feel nothing, almost as if I have lost all touch with my spirituality. I know the meds are doing that to me. Not only have the meds numbed my spirit, they have numbed my soul too. I would give anything to FEEL again. So what did I do? Drown myself in alcohol, which made me feel ten times worse than I normally do. Let’s face it, bipolar is so fucking hard sometimes. The crippling lows we feel, as well as the wide array of emotion, makes me wonder if we should just take our lives and just end it all. That’s why the statistics of suicides among the bipolar community is so high. It is so unbelievably hard to live with this illness. And the fact that it so ridiculously hot for the beginning of October doesn’t help. I absolutely LOVE Fall, and I feel I being robbed of it. I hate the Earth, I hate the weather, I hate living.

How could I possibly feel hope and peace in my heart when so much hate takes up all that space? I am having an internal battle in which my spirit is being torn apart. I want to be able to pray, surrender, and just cry, and I can’t even do that because these fucking pills numb me out. I can’t win. I am losing, and internally I am suffering deeply.

I failed at everything, and I just wish I was dead.

But with every dark cloud, there is some silver.

I feel joy in writing. I had an amazing cyber sex session with a nice gent who is a little rough around the edges. I find myself wanting to please him, and I feel like I am the only one keeping the conversation going sometimes. That’s what happens in online romances. You get the fire and spark, have amazing sex, and then everything else falls flat. I made a call out to the writing community on a roleplaying site, but I am a complete contradiction to myself. I want to find a writer to collaborate with, so when I made a plea out on an “ADULT” roleplaying site, I am shocked that the guy just wants to write about sex? Who the hell am I kidding?

What I have concluded is, I am my own definition of insanity. I do things over and over and expect a different result. I look for jobs with a low pay rate because I want to keep my disability, but I am appalled that they ask me to do demeaning work. It’s a low pay grade job, hello??? What do I expect? I look for writers on an adult roleplaying site, but I don’t want to write about sex. Hello, McFly??? Anyone home??? What do I really expect?

So, how do I find peace? In words. In language. I may want to die today, but tomorrow I may not feel the same. Living in my bipolar hell, just shows how strong I really am.

Will I ever find peace? I may never know.

Stay tuned.

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Where Dreams Go To Die, A La La Land in New York

la la land

I always get emotional when it comes to powerful movies with a message. Tonight’s gem was La La Land. But it was more than that. It was what my life has become, just a desolate wasteland of broken dreams. As my latest online beau left me in mid-conversation to troll for booty in the Adult Chat, I was left with a sinking feeling in my chest. Where are all the good men? I mean seriously?

I know of two, and they are both really close to me. So what is it that I am looking for? One thing that the love of my life doesn’t have is passion. Passion for art, or passion for sex, two things that I immerse myself in and am very passionate about. I watched the movie La La land, and I was humbled. A person’s dream dies because they conform, because they don’t go after their heart’s desire and settle. They settle for a mate, settle for a job, settle for things that don’t make them happy. How do people live their whole lives this way?

I am tears tonight, and I don’t even know why. It is my second night staying up way too late, and I have to get my ass up for my job on Tuesday, so I need to fix this sleep schedule by Monday. I slept till 5pm today. The Seroquel really knocked me out. My doctor upped my medication because I have so much trouble getting to sleep. Now I am getting knocked out and waking up in a hangover every morning. I swear nothing helps.

I wish I had talent. I wish I could create something wonderful. I wish I had a gift. But I have nothing. Fat and alone and on the wrong side of 37 years old. What do I have to show for myself? I am bipolar. That’s the only thing that came out of my entire life. My imagination, my dreams, my skill, all died the day I was put on medication. I used to see the world in so much color, now all I see is black and white with so much grey between the lines.

I want hope.

I want love.

I want to imagine.

So tonight, (or this morning), I will cry myself to sleep. I live in a world of broken dreams. Nothing is as it was when the world was full of opportunity for me. Now all I see are dead-ends and broken hearts. When will it be my turn? When will my dreams come true?

I may never know.

Stay tuned.


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A Writer’s Plight Among the Storms

writing in the storm

So everyone is talking about it. Hurricanes. That’s the big thing on everyone’s mind. But what about your own personal hurricane? The turmoil and destructive force that is your heart and soul combined?

I have ventured into writing again, and I have to say I am very disappointed. Men focus way too much on sex, even in their writing. I understand that when you sign up on an “Adult” roleplaying site, you are going to get that. But why do I get the feeling that I am just in the company of a bunch of horny millennials living their lives vicariously through their avatars and fantasies? Like Danny Glover said, “I am too old for this shit.”

In writing essentially “his” story, I was feeling so stifled. I felt like I was constrained to a novice partner. I will admit there was a talented writer on that site that got my attention, but he ignored my message so he can fuck off. Is it so hard to find a talented writer to work with out there? Where things just flow and make sense? It seems really difficult to find.

So the storms. With the aftermath of Harvey and Irma, we are now looking at Maria and what she has done to Puerto Rico. Jose just finished battering our NYC coastline, bringing with him lots of humid weather and rain. My personal hurricane is a bit more destructive, I feel. I am tired, beaten down by life, and my bipolar is just kicking my ass today. I am so tired again, and this is just from staying up too late. I would LOVE a nap, but I know that is quite impossible, if I want to fix my sleep patterns. Why the hell can’t I get a good night’s rest? Why won’t my body shut down and sleep, get what it needs and let me wake up feeling rested? How come I am forced out of my bed at 10am when I fell asleep at 5am? This battle with sleep is getting tired and getting old, and my frustration is mounting.

And now I am suffering in my writing plight. How do you tell a writer that he sucks? I suppose I should give it a chance and have more of a think about it. He said he was only expecting a few posts a week, and being incredibly impatient and bipolary, I am jumping way ahead of the game. I need to take it easy and just calm down. But how do I do that? How do I shut off this racing mind of mind? Churning, turning, like the bands of a hurricane, the eye in the middle being calm. Where is my “eye?” Where can I find my calm? Even a hurricane has moments of intense clarity and peace among all the destruction. Why can’t I?

I need hope. I need direction. I need to keep my damn eyes open! Bipolar life is hard. How am I ever going to work full-time again? I am so scared. So scared of what life is going to do to me. Scared at how it may chew me up and spit me out. I need to refocus. Gather my strength, hone my craft, and of course try my best.

Are there any good writers in the world left who want to write a story with me?

Where are you my prince with a pen?

Come find me, please.

Stay tuned.

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Writing as an Art, Because We Love It


Why do you write? Why do you blog? Is it to get thoughts out of your head, or do you just want to share your inner voice with others? Writing had taken a backseat amongst all my ventures, (even though I do keep up with this blog), but I haven’t really WRITTEN anything in a while. I attempted to hone my craft by joining a writing forum, (, I am not even going to link it because I don’t want you to waste your fucking time. What a joke that place is.

Look I understand as writers, we have to take criticism. Our writing is not perfect, and sometimes, as we are aspiring to be better, we want other’s opinions. But to sit on a site and “critique” as they call it, pick apart your work, and when you do make changes tell you, “well now your work has lost its imagery,” is like wtf? Why tell me to change anything then? It is so confusing, and so disheartening. I am just a humble beginner, just learning the process and I am being treated as an advanced poet. (By the way it was a poetic piece, and poetry is up to interpretation isn’t it? So why hate on me then?) My point is, people have way too much time on the internet, and I have got a hell of a lot of better things to do then let pseudo, wannabe “professional” writers tear me down.

Point taken. Rant over. Now, moving on.

I love writing. Nothing brings me more joy than getting my thoughts out and sharing them with the world. I also craft wonderful professional emails at work, which my boss continuously compliments me on. And I have also been known to put together a few good resumes. But I miss collaborating with someone. I wanted to try my hand at roleplaying again, but I have to find the right partner. I went back to (great roleplaying site), and sent a message to a nice gent who would be a good partner. (Mind you I am doing all of this in a very manic bipolar haze because it is 7am and I still haven’t slept from the night before).

Writing aside, I think my bipolar really helps me to be creative. My flute playing is beautiful when manic, and my paintings are so much more vibrant as well. Heightened creativity does come from mania, I don’t care what the doctors might tell you. Usually, they fear us losing control and going off the edge, but that’s what the cost is of riding the highs and lows.

Anyway, I am going to try to not sleep my Saturday away. I have a lot of writing to do tomorrow. I won’t let haters break me down, and you shouldn’t either. If you’re a blogger, I encourage you to write, and write and get all your feelings out. It is beyond therapeutic, even if you don’t have bipolar like me.

Till next time kiddies, and remember never put down that pen! (Or in our case keyboard).

Stay tuned.


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When Your Life Just Feels Blah, and You Are So Ready For Excitement


Ever wake up and feel “blah?” Just another workday, or just another day of doing absolutely nothing. I wonder, when you are not filling your life full of friends, work, significant others, where ARE you exactly? They say the key to happiness is living in the moment, but what if that moment just feels flat and dull, like the bad hair day that never ends?

I know there are tons of people with great advice out there. Get a hobby, go out to bookshops, meet new people, go to a park, paint something, watch something, play something, or write something. Which brings me to this post. Have you ever felt like you were on the edge of something, but you couldn’t put your finger on it? I have felt lost for a long time, and I thought that the way to fill my life with joy was to bring a man into it. Wrong. So wrong. No one can give to you what you can give to yourself. I mean we all want companionship right? But what if you finding yourself searching for something more than what you have?

That’s the problem with the human species. More. Always more. Acquiring, achieving, filling up, more, more and more. What will satisfy us? I will admit, life seems blah at the moment. I am so ready for some excitement in my life. Something new, something challenging. I often thought to myself that getting trapped in my own mind would be my downfall. How do people find joy In their lives? What makes them happy?

I see, all around me, a sea of people buried in their phones. Are they happy? A group of friends all sitting at a table, not talking, just clicking away on their phones. Are they happy?  Our dependence on technology is daunting and a little bit scary. Do we really need all this constant communication? Is it so hard to just sit with ourselves and turn the damn phone off. Eh, I don’t know it just leads back to the same question:

What brings you excitement when your whole world feels blah?

When I get the answer to that, I will surely let you know.

Stay tuned.

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