Lesbians Who Fuck Men

“Cause nothing stands between us here
And I won't be denied” ~ Possession, Sarah McLachlan


Dear Sally Sunshine,

You are crazy.

Ok readers, I will refrain from addressing myself in the process of addressing you. It just adds extra layers to the crazy. I will, however, admit my lizard brain has been on a long sojourn, i.e. the creative force has not been with me. You’ll have to excuse me, removing the moldy structure at the crux of my existence was more difficult than anticipated.

After having my sexuality snacked on like a bag of Doritos, today, humbly I walk toward you with only one candle left burning- an empty vessel, formless but on the verge of a discovery. Lovers who’ve basked in my sexual duality (bisexuality) beware. I am wandering into the oblivion. I’m all up in your face and fucking up the game.

When I came out to my family and friends in 2002, I came out as a lesbian. I had a serious girlfriend, I was active in the LGBT community, I had been to Gay Pride and the Gay Church, I took communion with other queers, and I had gay books, movies, and crushes. I was eager to move from my hometown to step further, publicly, into my sexual identity without the threat of being “outed” professionally. I could not foresee myself being deeply in love with a man in the future.

There were some men who I slept with in the spirit of charity. I remember driving to meet Mercy Fuck Mark who was nursing some raw wounds surrounding a brutal break-up with his lady love. I took up a Venus mantle and touched him (read: screwed him) with tenderness in an attempt to release him from his tortured thoughts. My good deeds did not go unnoticed. A cute little blonde thing flirted her way right into my arms the night before I left Mercy Fuck Mark in the fetal position sucking his thumb.

If there were men, then, I did have the unfortunate habit of falling for their lady friends. Maybe it was the hug that lasted a little too long or a flushed-faced conversation that pushed me over the edge. This is not to say I haven’t enjoyed certain men and their cocks and/or companionship at different intervals in my life. Over the last few years, I have mainly been involved with men, but that wasn’t a conscious choice I made. There just simply weren’t any women in my area code that I had more than a passing interest in.

Overtime, I took to calling myself a bisexual- it seemed like the most ambiguous label given the cold stark reality of who I was fucking (both men and women). This theory of defining one’s sexual identity by gender preference at a given moment is misleading. The truth of our sexual identity is far more complex than who we go to bed with.

Within our erotic identities, we also contain emotional identities and transpersonal/political identities. There are infinite possibilities. Coincidentally, during the time of my feminist “coming of age”, my sexual desire for the same-sex intensified. Now, this is not a defense of “political” lesbians (i.e. women who only have relationships (sexual or otherwise) with other women as a form of protest against the patriarchy), but, it is an acknowledgement of the subtle nuances between the personal and the political. It might be fair to say, my politics (women’s rights) was working in tandem with my desire. Yes, one could exist without the other, but they blended quite well in the same vein. Lest we forget, still, beyond all the intellectualization, I wanted to eat pussy.

Since there are plenty of lesbians who are not feminists and have no interest in “woymn’s lib” and there are plenty of straight girls who are feminists, political lesbianism has been dubbed a thing of the past. Yet, the label still has societal relevance. When a lesbian is told by parents she must be a lesbian because she was molested by some family pervert (even if this is not true) or she has a huge load of resentment toward men in general they are invoking the old “the personal is political” view as an explanation for their daughter’s same-sex attraction. This is offensive for a number of reasons. The parents are basically not acknowledging their child’s identity. They are inferring that the child’s an eternal victim, unable to sort out their own desires or identity. This is an effective way to devalue a child’s sense of self, unless, of course, she is willing to call bullshit and has the language available to express it.

In a sense, all labels are ludicrous attempts to contain the very complex structure of personality. Because, all identities have a certain finality associated with them, we become prisoners of the stamp. The term “bisexuality” represents a valiant effort define the indefinable- a free-flowing sexuality with a willingness to experience deep feelings of love and desire for either gender.

Sally Sunshine, alone on your own little journey, who do you love? That is the question of the hour. Or, more precisely, who will you fuck?

In the words of Lisa Loeb*, “Do you fuck girls anymore? Do you fall gracefully into bed with the same sex? I don’t know and I don’t care.”

Well, maybe, that wasn’t her exact phraseology, but, world, listen up, I’m still a lesbian.

Your faithful hermit/servant,

SallyS



*Lyrics: Do You Sleep? : Lisa Loeb

Ummm...

shhhhhhhhh.................

Ocean City

Here’s the whole bloody story with its guts emptied out.

Venus goes diving.



Love,

The girl on the hill with the grass growing around her eyes.

Sex in the Soil

Autumn in Moldova

“When it’s missing then you want it more
It isn’t right
Turning out the door
And back to this
Leave it like it was before
And let me out”
-Warrior: Yeah Yeah Yeahs

We've all been subjected to abuse in some way, shape, or form. Whether it's a broken heart, a parent's abandonment, death, disease, poverty of the soul, or poverty of the mind- it's all there. We've walked down our quiet roads of desperation, swallowing anger, resentment, guilt, and toxic shame. And mostly, the grief is contained in our own private hell. It is in this hell, that we divide from other people and dive deep into our own cosmic experience.

There is an inner division too. Splits occur. Fragmentation sets in. We cannot see the truth in someone else’s experience because we are locked down in our own pain. We cannot gain any benefits from their experience because of our stubborn refusal to examine another’s journey outside of ours. We need open recognition of what our wounds are and the wounds of those around us, before we can embrace an enemy with compassion, or hell, even ourselves.

To make matters more difficult, we forget, the Earth is our greatest healer. We spend an obscene amount of time chasing plastic, only to forget the dirt under our feet and what it feels like. We disconnect and then make excuses for our collective sickness.

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord”

I am not a devoted religious scholar, or even a “believer” in the fucked up sense believing entails in modern day society. However, this old hymn runs through my brain every time I ponder the meaning of healing through the Earth. After we come to terms with our own wounds, and can clearly see and put into perspective the wounds of others, we may wonder how to proceed next with the process of, as one of my favorite writers would say, “Getting over thyself.”

Healing requires we get intimate with the Earth. Traveling, then, in a larger sense, represents a quest for release and the movement toward passion and love, as we acquaint ourselves with the Earth. For the thrill of letting go and for a sweet moment of peace, we move, with authority, out into the world.

When I started to realize what my eyes had seen, and how damaged my vision was (literally 2400/20, legally blind eyes!), I knew I had to learn to “see” differently, in order to heal. To see the world and myself differently, I flooded my psyche with imagery in brand new landscapes and sat with it. In essence, I went straight to the Earth for healing.

This naughty little sex writer, then, is taking a few moments from her ass-pounding, fist-fucking world to share, in orgasmic delight, my favorite places. These are the places I must go. I must see them with my eyes open so wide they pop from my head. I must sit on the Earth at each place and run my fingers over the soil and breathe. I must, belly to the ground, lay my ear down and listen.

Vintgar Gorge, Gorjie, Slovenia



Krka National Park, Croatia




Machu Picchu, Peru



The Blue Church- Chisinau, Moldova



Bran Castle, Romania




Lucerne, Switzerland



Travel it all away.

Love,

Sally.

Perverted Subconscious Space

“You come out at night
that's when the energy comes
when the dark side's light
and the vampires roam”
-Building a Mystery – Sarah McLachlan

Have you ever had a dream you were so ashamed of you wanted to crawl in a hole and hide? Then, did you punish yourself by playing the role of both victim and perpetrator? After all, it's your subconscious mind creating- not his, hers, or it. Shocking thoughts are like a whirlwind in our brains, taking root in the deepest corners of one’s psyche, pushing us to think twice about the direction of our life. Others might not be privy to it, but, make no mistake; a subconscious revolution is taking place.

Naturally, for Sally, the most shocking dreams have been deeply disturbing sexual dreams. Incestuous red-faced embarrassments tempered with uncomfortable silences color the dreamscape and demand I decipher their meaning.

First, I must point out, this topic may be triggering for those who have been subjected to incestuous abuse. My intention is not to further enhance the pain many have experienced. Next, I should reiterate, I, personally, am not a victim of sexual abuse. However, I wouldn’t be paying proper respect to the topic if I didn’t mention that incestuous relationships are not entirely bound to the physical- psychological/emotional/psychic rape can be present with or without physical contact. Nor are all sexual relations between family members harmful to the people involved, obviously, it depends on the situation.

Being a human being, incidentally, is trait many of us share on this planet. But, as I am writing this, I cannot believe that I am. The old Sally never would’ve shared the intimate details of her subconscious with the general public. However, it is my hope, in the honesty I offer, others will be inspired to do the same. Even though different experiences shape our inner world and define us, we are all, as one of my favorite musician’s would say, “citizens of the womb before we divide into sexes and shades, this side or that side. “ Thus, it is in the spirit of shared awareness that I reveal the details of the dream.

The dream sequence starts in my dwelling during my teenage years. My dad, who I haven’t seen in years, suddenly appears with his new wife. She is not the monster I expected. She is a young woman with pretty ringlet curls and a soft round face. She smiles at me, radiating warmth and positive energy. I smile back, say a few words to her, and enter another room.

I wait in the room for my father. When he enters the room, I’m filled with anxiety. I ask, “Why are you here?” His message is complex and I am horrified. I know he’s angry because I don’t understand. He removes his clothing, lies down beside me, and announces he’s returned to perform an initiation. He is suspended above me, dick hard, and ready to penetrate. I want it, but I will not let him do it. I’m deeply immersed in pleasure, when suddenly I’m whipped back into a new reality loop with force.

As my alarm sounds, the sickness stays with me. I feel disgusted, angry, and violated. The feeling persists through the day as I’m unable to shake the dream sequence from my brain. I cannot quite escape the literalism of the dream, but I am not completely bound to it either. I begin the process of slowly sifting through the tangled layers of my friendships, romantic involvements, and family relationships to uncover any hidden pretenses and find peace with my discoveries.

What I find, however, is not strictly literal or metaphorical. It does, but also does not, have much to do with the actual relationship my dad and I shared. In my dream, I will not fuck my father. In fact, I am terrified of who he is and what he’s trying to do to me. I resist, even though, my body clearly desires otherwise.

Through analysis, I realize I've stumbled upon a deep resistance to masculine energy and influence. You may have noticed my relationship with the feminine figure in the dream. I was relatively comfortable with her, perceiving her as soft, sweet, and tender. The masculine figure, however, was speaking in complex riddles and performing uncomfortable initiations on unsuspecting virgins. Unsurprisingly, I find myself, staring back at myself, in both masculine/feminine dream figures.

Further, since Sally often refers to herself as an “initiator of the highest order”, being initiated (i.e. taken back to school- sexually or psychologically) is extremely painful for this whore. But this is where I stand before you today.

Pay attention to any dreamtime shock waves you may be flooded with lately. Dreams of this magnitude represent a turning point in our mentality at the apex of an important revelation. But, before we cross that bridge and consciously integrate this “new material” into our lives, we must dive down into the abyss and recover. Eventually, synchronicity steps in to remind us we’re on path, when we are ready to process and put to use, our individual lessons.

Pluto and Jupiter hit the Galactic Core today, hold on to your metaphysical asses, friends.

Love & light in your direction,
Sally.

**Album Cover: Fatherfucker
Artist: Peaches

Equality & Male Desire

Pigs and Science
by Mike Dubisch

Some men stand at the edge, look out over the horizon,
silently wish for more, but never go for it. By the
time they get to be adults the spirit of adventure and
curiosity from their youth has been eroded. These men
have repressed and trapped themselves in a life that’s
void of desire- a hole which could possibly take at
least two more lifetimes to work their way out of.

As a woman who’s stood at the end of the edge and
jumped, I find myself in the role of an initiator.
Men come to me because they need the animal within
them released. And, they need to replace shame and
guilt with a new model of acceptance.

In my richest fantasy, my lover and I would be like
sculptors, carving each other out of the stone,
working tirelessly and losing ourselves in the detail.
Standing naked together in the light, we’d examine our
bodies and take pleasure in each and every curve.

My Scorpio, however, got very uncomfortable when I
caressed his body the other night in this manner. When
my mouth lingered at his hips and I cupped his ass in
my hands, he sensed he was being seduced by his equal.
He knows it, and I know it. I touched him, not with
anger in hyper masculine form or in the softness of
the eternal feminine, but with the delicacy of an
equal, one human to another, appreciating and honoring
his body.

Although most would be hard pressed to admit it, men
need this healing touch, badly. To date, many men
have fallen down in front of the Temple of Sally to
touch my body like I was a Goddess- and it feels
fucking amazing. Why wouldn’t men need this too?

Men fear surrendering their masculinity. And, in
truth, I probably haven’t been completely honest about
my intentions either. I told bashful Leo my favorite
sound was his knees hitting the ground. Statements
like these make Sally sound like a real ball crusher
instead of a ball sucker. There is also an element of
trust involved, which, I assume will be a difficult
bridge for my Scorpio and I to cross. His jealously
is activated each time I even mention another man or
woman, so, emptying out the contents of his psyche in
front me really isn’t an option...yet.

Unfortunately, I’m not sure I have what it takes
to nurture the type of relationship his surrender
would demand. Scorpio boy and I, if given
enough time, trust, and confidence in one another
could definitely move mountains with our lust, but as
it stands now, there is no foundation. The only
comfortable energy between us is quick, hard, and
completely physical. No talking, no touching, only
fucking. Tell me, when will there be drinking?

~Sally S.

Mistress Power

Mistress Maybe: Clive James

“Is that your wife
your girlfriend
or just your main bitch?”*

Imagine a bunch of frat boys standing around high-fiving each other while they stroke egos. Visualize them recounting one of their random exploits. Then, witness as a witty member of their whore-hating posse declares with a clever smile, “Guys, you can’t turn a ho into a housewife" and the maniacal laughter that follows.

Their intelligent phraseology is meant to insult women of a morally bereft disposition while they wipe their ass clean of any responsibility for the encounter. But what these poor misguided frat boys don’t realize is most whores would rather choke on a fully erect cock than be their one and only, or hell, even just their “main bitch.” Erroneously, they assume every woman wishes to inhabit girlfriend/wife territory.

Well, gee girls, aren’t I a lucky duck? He picked me!

Unfortunately, now I’ve got another job (i.e. the care and feeding of a bottomless pit). Men have been programmed to expect the servant feminine because their mothers either engrained an attitude of entitlement in their psyches, or because of a lack of nourishment in their primary bond. Emotional vampirism runs at full throttle for those men who assign all of their emotional development to their partner. They want to be fed, nurtured, comforted, and consoled- constantly.

It’s not a surprise, then, why one would gladly pawn off this responsibility on another woman. Who wants to (metaphorically) wash socks all day? As appealing as it sounds, some women instinctively understand this is not a position of power. Not only does one lose value sexually, the interest factor is reduced considerably. Nobody wants to bang the maid, although, modern day Cinderella stories would like to convince us (women) otherwise. Realistic sluts, on the other hand, understand the maid/servant is the most unnoticed, under-appreciated, powerless woman in the tribe. So, she would rather slip into the less demanding of the two roles- the mistress.

There are people in the world, like mistresses, who defy tradition. They challenge society’s notions about love, sex, and relating. Mistresses embrace another brand of “being”. However, it wasn’t always so. Mistresses of the past were used as concubines, still dependent on the support of their lover. The unspoken agreement was, “I’ve got my normal life/wife, but she bores me and I’d like to fuck you.” The mistress accepted the offer under the conditions that financial support would be provided, but no emotional support. Unfortunately, the mistress’s survival was still hinged upon the male dollar (power).

Fast forward a few hundred years, and now, women are beginning to recognize the Cinderella story is a big fucking lie. Additionally, there is no need to barter our security for sex anymore, if you’ve got a little ambition and aren’t afraid of some hard work. However, there is a particular Brand of Pathetic out there who falls into the mistress role expecting her fellow will eventually ditch the old model and upgrade. But this, my friends, is a gross misuse of mistress power.

“Tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies.”

Mistresses who embrace power know they have it when the illusion is sparkly. When the glitter fades they are nothing more than a girlfriend in waiting. And, since “girlfriend in waiting” is almost as desperate as a “bride in waiting”, one needs to guard against the onset of reality.

Mistresses are able to maintain their air of mystery and intrigue precisely because they have no desire for love in the mundane. They allow their lover to escape from the heaviness of their primary bond to a “wonderful land of make believe.” The mistress guides her lover into a new state of fluidity. Lovers lose themselves in a sea of passion and release, while idealistic fantasies about fusion and unconditional love are exchanged without expectations.

Any savvy mistress knows, internally, she has the upper hand. He will return to his regular life craving her body, her scent, and her lips. He will dream of her, unable to capture the beauty of the bond during normal waking hours. But, who will wash the floors? Who will scrub the dishes clean? Who will care for the children? And, most importantly, who will deal with his moods, temper, smelly feet, and long-winded repetitive speeches about nothing? She will!

The mistress is not expected to assist with maintaining a functional reality, and really, why would she want to? Reality is a cruel taskmaster and isn’t compatible with beautiful visions of adoration. As long as the mistress harbors no illusions about the bond, she is able to freely fuck as she chooses.

Fuck me, put your pants back on and kindly leave, sir.

As most of you are aware, Sally is one bitch who enjoys a good power play. Thus, the mistress role fits like glove. Even if the dude has no other woman he’s fucking, living with, or married to, one can still create the dynamics of a naughty mistress-like tryst. It’s not terribly hard to do. Men have Prince Charming fantasies of their own and will eagerly fall off the edge of the Earth with you for a few hours. It’s very important, however, to quickly pull back afterwards. A smart mistress understands human reflexology and uses it to her advantage. Leave him with a wistful feeling, like he almost had it, but it slipped right from his fingers.

Whimper.
Feed.
Release.

It is the pattern we adhere to.

And so it goes.....SS

*Lyrics: Rollout: Ludacris

Masturbation, Self Love, and Relationships

Nu Allonge by Jean Berque

There’s no limit to my love.

Last week, The Green Man elevated our discussion about jealousy to another level when he revealed his feelings about compersion (compassion for another’s pleasure).

Compersion is the opposite of jealousy, or the soothing balm one can apply to confront and heal jealousy. The root of a compersive relationship with another is self love. Self love is a term that is thrown around in psychiatric communities and within “new age” movements and spiritual practices. Yet, when we attempt to move beyond the clichéd expressions, we are at a loss

We've all heard saying, "You cannot love anyone else until you love yourself." And even if we intellectually agree with it, we see people (and maybe ourselves!) who don't have a healthy concept of self love moving from one relationship to another in serial monogamy type secession. Many of these people are so wounded and vulnerable; they throw the entirety of their broken selves into relationships, which, in the end, becomes a collision of dysfunction. And so it is, without self love we constantly submerge ourselves in one unhealthy fixation after another.

An Infantile State of Dependency

Yesterday, I babysat my niece while my sister was out. And since she was a little fussy before mom left, we decided to do everything in our power to calm her down. We fed her, changed her diaper, gave her a small dose of children’s Tylenol (she’s teething) and rocked her for awhile. However, when mom left she still cried, wailed, in fact, while I looked at her with a desperate expression and mumbled out loud, “What do you want kid?”

Anybody who has children understands this situation perfectly. The child wants something, they are obviously suffering, but what do they want? Unfortunately, even with parents who are incredibly nurturing and positive, there will be times when the needs of the infant/young child are not met. This, of course, doesn’t account for toxic environments where physical, emotional, spiritual, or sexual abuse is present. Also, there are varying degrees of need. Some children require a lot of tender loving care and some require less. We’ve all heard stories about babies who are “good sleepers” while other are “excessively fussy” or colicky.

Then, look at the flip side. Some parents are comfortable showering their children with love and affection while other parents may be cold and remote, much to the child’s dismay. The child’s needs may not match what the parent(s) are able to give/receive and vice versa. These mismatched patterns of relating lay the foundation for dysfunctional relationships later in life.

The Masses of Disillusioned Lovers

We remember, on a physical and soul level, our experiences as infants, both inside and outside of the womb. For some, the umbilical cord is tied tightly for their entire lives. They are mother-bound, unable to cut and heal the ties from their past, so they turn to romantic interests/partners to fill the gapping hole. “The gapping hole” in adult relationships sits wide open as we submerge and isolate ourselves desperately trying to fill it up (heal it up). We ask our partners anxiously, “What do you want?” and hope we can be everything they ever needed. Eventually, the bottom falls out. We discover our partners aren’t the evolved/loving/nurturing models of perfection we thought they were.

So, where does self love flourish and compersion begin after the disillusionment sets in? Is it in these needy black holes of emotional relating? Or, does it come from within ourselves, our connection to the divine? I remember awhile ago taking a survey and one of the questions’s asked, “Are your parents still together?” And my brain immediately fired back, “I am my parents.” This is the space we must occupy. We cannot expect as adults that lovers, friends, or family be “quasi-parents” by filling each passing need, sexually or otherwise. First, we must be a self-contained loving entity within our own right.

In other words, “I love myself, and want you to know it.”

Sexually, self love cannot be discussed without paying proper respect to masturbation. Masturbation, we are told, is now healthy. However, anybody who grew up in the Catholic Church may have been shamed into believing differently. I know a guy, who, at the age of thirty still experiences considerable agony and guilt after pleasuring himself and he isn’t even Catholic!

Personally, I’ve always been a chronic offender. I have many early memories (5-6 years old) of the extra long baths I would take with my legs propped up against the bath tub’s edge with my clit angled right under the water stream. Another friend explained how she got off on her “blankie” using the buttons on it as friction to rub one off around the same age. If we look far enough back into our histories, we can probably all find some evidence of these early experiences. One would assume, then, by the time we reach adulthood, we’d be relatively comfortable with masturbation, both on our own time and with partners. However, that may not be the case if we weren’t raised in a supportive environment and felt we had to “hide” it from others.

I remember the first time someone busted me masturbating. I was in 9th grade, and by then, I was a pro. I even had a little massager, which I used religiously, until the thing broke- probably from over use. Anyway, on this rare occasion, the small apartment I shared with my mom and sisters was empty after I returned home from school. It was warmer than average for April, so my sister had propped the window open, even though the blinds were drawn shut. I pulled off my pants quickly and grabbed my vibrating toy.

Now, my toy was not that loud, but evidently the fifteen year old neighbor boy walking by my window heard it. Oblivious, I continued to pleasure myself. Ten minutes later, I was on the way to my second orgasm when I heard the sound of hushed laughter and tapping outside my window. I threw my toy under my bed, put my pants back on, and ran outside to survey the damage.

It was bad.

A group of three teenage boys stood next to window pointing and laughing at me. The neighbor boy, upon hearing the dull buzz emanating from window, called over a few friends to witness the spectacle. Readers, I was horrified. Not only did I have to see these boys in the hallway of my apartment building regularly, but at school as well! They showed no mercy, and promptly spread the word to every available ear.

Today, I still sporadically see Mr. Peeping Tom and his cohorts around town, and each time I have the urge to disappear or die, which just goes to show how powerful and persistent these attitudes are.

Too often in our relationships self love takes a back seat to humiliation, shame, and abuse. Since self love is the cornerstone of compersion and non-jealous attachment, we need actively seek partners for whom self love is a priority. If mutual self-loathing and desperation are the only reason we find one another and stay together, I’d say we need a better map. And soon.

Stay tuned in for a rousing discussion about mutual masturbation in the near future.

Water from the Well

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