“That's the thing about girls. Every time they do something pretty, you fall in love with them, and then you never know where the hell you are."

Most men are not unlike J.D. Salinger's protagonist Holden Caulfield as he is quoted from the Catcher and the Rye above, that is to say, afraid to truly fall for a girl. These are the men who ask me whether I am "authentic," they exchange emails ad naseum, they repeatedly ask for my phone number. They fear the unknown, they fear giving in, they fear exactly what they desire the most.

A genuine connection. The energy created by the friction between bodies of passion. The synergy that can't be faked or contrived, rather, it flows organically when lovers collide and are open to come what may. 

Engaging with me is not for the faint of heart, for the frugal hobbyist, or for those in search of a predictable (bordering on robotic) encounter. There is nothing cookie-cutter about me. I understand completely if I simply am not your cup of tea.    

However, if you've made it this far perhaps you're one of the select few that make my match. A creative intellectual, an erotic explorer, an intrepid connoisseur of pleasure. A man, unlike Holden Caulfield, ready to bravely submit to the power of his lust. 


"We must find out for ourselves that inside us is a goddess in embryo that wants to be born so that we can express our divinity."

As a seasoned submissive I was hesitant to heed Deepak Chopra's words. But eventually the powerful desire to find my inner goddess became so compelling I needed to submit to it too. The goddess within demanded it.

First, a seduction establishing dominance, ritual. I command him to pour me a few fingers of scotch and a portion for himself too. I wanted his edges rounded out by the liquor, to soften his independence and coax him to give into me.

I sip while I savor the view of him undressing. When my drink is done and he's still not naked I grow impatient. I smack his hand away and finish the job myself.

I skim his skin with my lips, fingertips, my tongue. I order him to the St. Andrew's Cross so that I can strap him in, displayed, exposed, and vulnerable to my every desire. Before we begin in earnest I caress his cheek with the back of my hand, let it wander down to his nipple, grab it, twist, and whisper in his ear - savage but sweet - you're mine now... all mine.


"Sometimes she can’t believe what comes out of her mouth; not to mention what goes into it."

Even Margaret Atwood, the consummate feminist, can appreciate the pleasure of what plays on the mouth. I'm as much a connoisseur of dining as I am of dirty talk. When it comes to the use of my tongue, I'm a sucker for the succulent, the sensual delight of whatever rolls off my lips.

In a recent review one of suitors made a quip about how we both love to eat, but then, who doesn't? I've always been an eater. Even among my waif and model-aspiring friends, I've always been the one to savor in the luscious art of tasting and consuming everything in my midst.

If you know me, you know I love food. But it's not just the food I love. It's the shared experience of temptation, tease, and release. It's the way we steal glances at each other across the table and graze each other's limbs underneath. Perhaps you walk your your fingers up my skirt to explore the inside of my thighs as the waitress takes my order. Perhaps I lick them clean of juices in a final act of satisfaction.

Throughout it all we're lubricated with the intoxicant of each other, the envious gaze of our surroundings, and an overflowing supply of the spirit of our choosing. I get naughty when I imbibe. But then, you came prepared for that, didn't you?

This is all to say, I would love to join you for a meal, amuse bouche, or cocktails. Let's make a date to tantalize each other. And, as always, dessert is on me. 


“Please,' she said, 'You're so beautiful. You may eat me if you like. I'd rather be eaten by you than fed by anyone else.”

 I find it deliciously taboo how C.S. Lewis weaves sexual innuendo into his writing for children as he does in the quote above, from his Chronicles of Narnia series. Mingling youth and eroticism, submission and consent... It sets my nerve endings in all my intimate places afire. 

I'm exploring this more lately: age play and a fetish for control, the push and pull of submission and domination. It starts with a request from an irresistible friend, a dominatrix with a plan for how she wants me to serve her. It's an offer I can't refuse: come to the studio at said day and time prepared to submit to her lust. And, there's another twist, she will bring with her a male accomplice.

She ushers him up the stairs and orders him to the center of the room, then demands that I undress him. I'm hesitant, at first, it's too naughty. But she is firm and salaciously persuasive.

I obey. I obey when she commands that we stand face to face within an inch of each other. I can feel his breath while she works the rope between and around us until we are thoroughly bound to her will. I obey when she leads us both up to the bed, tells me to lay, and tells him to watch what she does to me from the cage at the foot of the bed. 

She holds me back from finishing, telling me there's still so much punishment she has in store for me. I'm a spoiled brat to her, my feminine muse, and I want her to devour me. I'd sooner be eaten by her than fed by anyone else.


"I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees."

In the chill of winter I love to curl up with Pablo Neruda and imagine the possibilities for transcending seasons through the sensual energy of romance and play. Neruda's poetry, the intimacy and beauty of it, might not lend itself to describing a gang bang. But I recently popped my femme gang bang cherry and it was these words from Neruda that came to mind and stayed with me ever since.

Let me be clear that I've been involved in a gang bang with me acting as the recipient of the desires from several men. It's a cherished past-time of mine, in fact. So when I got an email from one of my favorite femme domme friends, Violet, my automatic assumption was that I would be playing my usual submissive role and I agreed. I didn't see myself as a top. Not until I got my reply from Violet saying, great, I'll see you there and bring a strap-on :-)

Wait, a strap-on, you mean that thing that usually gets used on me? I really meant to reply to her email and bail. Tell her that I wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. I'm a GFE to my core. But there was a nagging curiosity that drew me to this new horizon and, besides, the email completely slipped my mind until it was too late to cancel.

I was nervous but the buzz of excitement from my fellow femmes was infectious. They picked out the sparkliest pink harness and irridescent purple dildo. What came next stays a pleasured privilege between those in the room but what I can share is that as my anxieties melted away with the explosively erotic and surprisingly fun proceedings, I gained a new kink, and I can't wait to share it with you. Why wait for springtime?