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.

The Legend of Sleepy Whore Hollow

It no secret, Sally Sunshine has been severely impoverished in the casual sex department lately. Friends are, understandably, confused. Miffed in the extreme, Sally’s girls are wondering, is Sally the same slut we knew months ago? Did our wayward diva completely fall of the Fucking Map? Or has she been slowly withering away in the midst of a Sahara desert dry spell?

Well, rest assured, dear ones, I've not. However, I have found, being "out of the closet" (i.e. identified) as a woman with a loose moral compass has not helped score any new ass. Old ass, conversely, has been very adamant in expressing their desire for second helpings. Ex-boyfriends/girlfriends, prior fuck buddies, and one-night oopsies have besieged Sally with requests for more, which is, naturally, flattering. At the same time, it's very difficult to conquer new territory while the same smelly old diaper of the past is wafting in the wind.

Still, there has been a few mounting prospects. Captain T of the United States Air Force and Mr. M&M, who is twenty some years older than yours truly, are currently in hot pursuit. Yet, I find myself oddly engrossed in the past. Killer K calls and I immediately drop the new one for the old one. The old one fits like a comfortable leather shoe, supportive and predictable. I know if KK drops by, the next morning bruises will form because my poor perineum will be slammed with incredible force. Sure, I'll have trouble walking the next day and possibly a little rectal bleeding, but hell, at least I know where we stand and there is no need to play the "pretend I'm a virgin game".

The problem is, over the last year or so, I've developed zero tolerance for the traditional mating tap dance. Instead, I am prone to hitting others hard & fast with my truth. For example, last weekend, a friend introduced me as, "Sally Sunshine, sex writer", while fascinated blubbering fool collected his thoughts. After composing himself, we continued on to "talk shop" as I launched into a rousing theatrical performance called "Cocks of the Zodiac." Thrilling as it was, Mr. B.F. was not impressed.

Or, in the words of a sweet-pie Libra boy I know, after I spit a mouthful of ice at an unruly buffoon, "You're kind of tough, aren't you?"

Perhaps.

Perhaps I have become, over the years, a hardened she-monster ravaging slut bitch seven-headed Medusa. I have been told the way I pin the hair on the top of my head resembles horns and my eyes spew forth a destructive wish. Put succinctly, rage coats my aura and produces the unmistakable scent of "not one to fuck with."

Just call me Hillary Clinton.

Or not.

I can't stand her attitude. Although she carries herself with an air of absolute authority, if you look down far enough in her moldy Scorpio hole, she sees herself as a victim who's entitled. And, because of her suffering, she is entitled to the throne and the steam roller she uses to flatten opposition. This warrior stance, although a necessary evil in battle, is not entirely conducive to maintaining relationships in the civilized world.

Even so, admittedly, I am a big fan of breaking out the beast. Let's get primitive and plunge a sharpened claw into some virgin skin, now. It is at this point, I strongly identify with the plight of the caveman, or, just your average beastly upright man. Unsurprisingly, women and young female children/adolescents are strictly socialized and monitored to weed out any traces of a base animal behavior. We are taught to feel shame about our basic bodily functions, and, during puberty, our sexual proclivities. Young women are forced to enter the world of social niceties, manicures, and Pampered Chef Parties. Young men, on the other hand, at least get to wrestle around in mud for a few more years before they become "respectable" citizens.

Thus, when Sally Sunshine, mud-dwelling monster, is confronted with fake perfumed hypocritical shit- in female OR male form, it's nearly impossible to wipe the sneer from my contorted Medusa face. The fact is, although it's becoming increasingly difficult to find men who are open to truth and a deep willingness to explore, I haven't given up faith. I know there are some brave souls out there who get it. And, I know there are some standing at the cliff who are ready to jump off and get it.

In the meantime, please hurry. My bed is oh-so very lonely.

Yours in total whoriffic commitment,

Sally Sun

Sex, Drugs, and….. Performance?

If we could sniff or swallow something that would, for five or six hours each day, abolish our solitude as individuals, atone us with our fellows in a glowing exaltation of affection and make life in all its aspects seem not only worth living, but divinely beautiful and significant, and if this heavenly, world-transfiguring drug were of such a kind that we could wake up next morning with a clear head and an undamaged constitution-then, it seems to me, all our problems (and not merely the one small problem of discovering a novel pleasure) would be wholly solved and earth would become paradise."
-ALDOUS HUXLEY

When I was a teenager, I would stuff anything up my nose, smoke, inhale, absorb, or drink anything I could get my hands on. For example, in 8th grade, I would sit in the bathroom stalls inhaling shoe polish between 1st and 2nd period and then after lunch return to my favorite stall. In ninth grade, at my private catholic high school it was worse.

Whether I was smoking dope behind the school yard fence or attending mid-day mass tripping on acid, I wasn't sober very often.

Naturally, during my quest for peak experiences during my wonder years, I spiced up my sexual encounters with drugs. Some drugs blend well with sex , others are not as user-friendly , while combinations of different drugs and/or alcohol may produce mixed results.

For instance, after a long night of dancing and debauchery, my boyfriend and I, both in an altered state, returned to my place for some after-hours fun. He tore his shirt off quickly as I carefully climbed on top of him and started bouncing up and down on his cock. His eyes rolled back into his head as he clutched my hips, and even though I felt numb, I was having the time of my life. It wasn’t until the bed (and his cock!) started to vanish from under me that I began to panic. Only the air between my legs supported me as I turned around to look back at the dark corner in my bedroom. Then, from of the floor boards, he rose. His green eyes flickered in the black corner while his gaze narrowed down the barrel of gun pointed straight at my head. I screamed, “No, don’t!”, before I rolled off the bed and back into reality.

It was then I discovered, hallucinogens and sex don’t mix.

Bad girl, no cookie.

So, when I stood in the middle of a crowd in my leather pants on Saturday night submerged in the neon lights, and someone offered me the poison pill, surprisingly, I almost swallowed it. I found my thoughts racing back and forth between the pros and cons of ingesting it. And honestly, my first thought was, "mmmmm, yummy, sex on drugs with a hot girl", as caught my lover's gaze from across the room.

The pill was not a hallucinogen like the one I took on Gun Night, but I have an over active imagination and it probably would’ve induced the some hallucinatory effects anyway. So, I politely declined.

Granted, Gun Night is a pretty extreme example of how drugs can negatively impact one’s sexual life. But, what about the positive examples, there has to be some, right? We all know alcohol lowers our inhibitions, but if we are in a safe environment with a partner we trust, what’s the problem? I can‘t count the number of times a partner has told me, “Gee, Sally S, I’d love to do “xyz” with you, but I’ll need a couple drinks first.”

Well ok.

I’ll pour the wine if you get the glasses.

It’d be dandy if we were brave enough to follow our heart’s desire without the aid of substances, pills, and/or powders. Because that, readers, would be damn close to the “earthy paradise” Aldous Huxley aspired to--- minus the drugs, of course.

Sleeping Beauty

"Pretending to be unconscious while he fucks me……"


I

have

lived in a cloud

with the fog and humidity

packed inside my brain.

And when I try to think clearly

all I get is more density

A Letter to Paul

"She is standing on my eyelids
And her hair is wound in mine,
She has the form of my hands,
She has the color of my eyes,
She is swallowed by my shadow
Like a stone against the sky."
– The Beloved, Paul Eluard, co-founder of the surrealist movement

Oh, Paul. How romantic you must’ve been. When you fell for the charming bewitching Gala you fell into her web ever so deeply. And later, when you were disillusioned by the loss of your love to painter Salvador Dali, you left the surrealist movement and aligned with a Stalin- esque philosophy. Melancholy aside, you were instrumental in spreading the word. Surrealism as movement or as a revolutionary way of viewing the world through the artist’s eye flourished during your time. Sure there were others like Andre Breton and Louis Aragon, but you, you were a romantic fellow, tortured but inspired by the gaze of a beautiful muse. And I can appreciate that. The fantasy leaves one suspended in a state of wonder. I could spend my entire life there except at some point I may need to come up for air.

So breathe.

Surrealism week continues with a collection of modern day surrealists:

Cynthia Tom

Finding your Voice


The reluctance to reveal is tempered with defiance.

Conscious contact with the ground


I often dream of black and white checkered floors in vast long halls with the pattern repeating. This one resonates. It’s my favorite here.

Pauline Jones

Dream Parking Spot


Ah.. the human inclination toward incubation

Noriko Ohashi

Three Sisters

Here is the connection, now find your way out of it. Separation is never easy.

Poseidon


Slipping from his wet hands…

LLUIS

Don’t Mess with the Dead


Death.. that old ball n’ chain, can’t quite escape now can we

Dina Lenkovic

The Burning City


morbid truth disguised as art

I like it raw

"I could feel what he was feeling
Lines like these have got to be
An architect's dream
It's always the same
Whenever he works on a pavement
It starts to rain
And all the time
The light is changing”- An Architect’s Deam- Kate Bush

When I first lay my eyes on something, whether it’s a person, place, or thing I automatically have strong positive or negative feelings about him/her/it. Generally, there are no in betweens. It either is, or it isn’t. Although this take it or leave it attitude has produced some unfortunate lapses in judgment, I still defer to my first initial impression. Intuition, as it were, is far more accurate than not.

In viewing a particular person, piece of art, or even a home, often the spirit of the object in question comes across fairly easily due to the permeability of the unconscious. This, of course, is not a new concept. Artists, writers, actors, psychologists (Freud, Jung) ect.. have been accessing information at this level since the dawn of time. The content of the unconscious, usually seen as vast vessel of seemingly untouchable info, suddenly becomes available. Thankfully, small doses of unreality can be used to our benefit for a little creative release.

The raw contents of our unconscious minds are confusing and strewn with mythological references. So, we have to sift through this pile of seemingly useless ruble to draw out our inner genius. And when I say genius, I mean in a mad-scientist’s laboratory kind of way where we are creating in layers and uncovering new ideas in the fold. What I’m talking about is the process or creativity in action.

Even as a wee lil’ one, I was bombarded with images, alternate realities, and experiences of a different variety. I was a quiet child, silent, yet taking in everything sometimes twice over. I had a hard time communicating what I was seeing or feeling with adults, but, nonetheless, it was there. Even my dreams were, and still are, strange, prolific, and detailed. A lot of writing on this blog is from different dream sequences passed along to you as reality, or some semblance of. Hey, peeps, it’s gotta come from somewhere.

Turns out, all along I’ve been a surrealist. I wish I would’ve understood that as a child/teenager, as it would’ve made those long drawn-out drugged-out trips into the unconscious a lot more comfortable. Plus, I could’ve saved some brain cells in the process. Heh. Well, anyway, what’s done is done.

But, in the interest of promoting art and beauty in a sick and ugly world, I’m declaring it Surrealism Week on Sally’s blog. After all, the sun has ingressed into Taurus now, releasing us from that impetuous fightin’ Aries energy. Let’s all take a deep breath and enjoy the silence along with the art, the beauty, the music, the passion, the lovemaking (with others or self), and in general, warm fuzzy excess. I’ll be posting art, music lyrics, and links about the surrealist movement throughout the week for ya.

Let’s start with surrealist artist Salvador Dali, a fellow Taurean…. god I love this man.


One Second Before Awakening from a Dream Caused by the
Flight of a Bee Around a Pomegranate, 1944



The Burning Giraffe, 1937



The Dream Places a Hand on a Man's Shoulder, 1936



Swans Reflecting Elephants, 1937



Perspectives, 1937



The Hallucinogenic Toreador, 1970

Spaced-Out Dreamy Nonsensical Noise

The pope and his folks got us under a scope
But for unknown reasons cuz we don’t sell dope
That you distribute, we don’t contribute, to your clandestine
activity, my soliloquy, may be hard for some to swallow

-Wheelz of Steel, ATLiens, 1996

For all of you former midnight tokers out there, do you ever have an overwhelming urge to smoke again?

Spring Equinox always fills me with the desire to pack my bags and head to the Hills for a serious smoke fest with friends. I remember when I was in college, sitting on my favorite rock by my hidden little waterfall while the sun warmed my face. High as a kite, I sat for hours and watched the clouds.

Or, when my best friend and I parked my 1988 Monte Carlo on a gravel road, rolled the windows up, and smoked our brains out. The windows were tinted a black/blue hue, and they shook and rattled while we listened to my new Outkast CD. “Touched by the wheels of steel, now show me how you feel…” echoed in background over their spacey new age-ey hip-hop beats.

Last night I was thinking about altered states and the “body buzz”. For me it was the euphoria, a feeling of being weightless and without conscious ego that really floored me. When my boundaries dissolved and I was absorbed into/and with nature it felt like unity was possible.

Divine union with others (sex), ourselves (masturbation), god (nature worship, for some), is what it’s all about. I think all human beings (even the most callous) have a need for reunion with The Source, and we all use various methods (and yes, sometimes addictions) when we reach for it.

It was so easy to “get there” as child. In those days, I would lie in the grass and walk through my grandmother’s garden and get lost for hours. I literally felt as though I was being absorbed into the landscape. It wasn’t hard to forge a connection between myself and the Earth then because it was there already, vibrating with me.

In adulthood, the methods aren’t as natural, and the consequences are potentially destructive. In attempting to fill the bottomless pit of “need” and “union”, many will allow the protective veil of fantasy to dominate their lives through addictions. And since addictions represent the ultimate denial of reality coupled with a refusal to participate in life, addicts, in their empty shells, desperately cling to the void of nothingness.

But the problem is, Joy, or Union with the Divine, cannot be held in the palm of our hands, at least not for any great length of time. This is, in fact, an Earthly incarnation. Eventually, we must all return from the garden, come back to reality, and face the inevitable. This requires a certain amount of trust in life (to every season, there is a turn, turn, turn), because we all face the same anxiety about life and our place here.

If I could re-do the D.A.R.E. speech I gave in 5th grade, I would’ve included some of things above. And I would’ve ended with, “Fellow classmates, some of us will experiment, some of us will become addicts, and some of us will never touch a drug in during our life span, but all of us, at some point, will experience the need to reunite with the divine, let’s not fuck it up by forgetting where we came from.”