THE CAREER WOMAN

I was asked to present a workshop today, to a 4th grade classroom, on writing first-person narratives. I created a PowerPoint and had a little thingy in my hand that changed the screen when I tapped it, keeping 56 9-year olds enraptured by my 5 Tips for Becoming a Better Writer. I had to refrain from spilling the fact that in addition to my monthly parenting column and spotty freelance work, I maintain a fascinating blog about my sex life.

For some of you, this is small potatoes. Kid stuff. Amateur. And I suppose it was. Hell, I was a reporter when we still printed out our stories, sent the paper through a glue machine and then used an exacto knife to cut and paste it onto a paper board. PowerPoint, from the perspective of someone who has been missing from the real workforce for 8 years, was revolutionary.

For me, this morning was thrilling -- and not just because of the technology.

Because I have a tendency toward being self-deprecating when it comes to my status in the working world, it was hard for me to agree to present today. Yes, I work, but it's not ever good enough - or the same -- or in the same ballpark -- as everyone else's job. Because ultimately my job is "mom" and all of my other jobs are secondary. This came sharply into focus over the weekend, when I hung with 8 women who identify themselves by their careers first.

So to have 56 little people ask me questions about what it means to be a writer, how I got this job, what I like to read. To have them ask ME about something other than how much weight I gained with my first pregnancy or if I can take little Johnny to preschool next Friday morning -- well, it made a small part of me come alive again.

Just like the sexual woman in me who made a long-overdue reappearance this year, the writer in me has been waiting for her chance to shine. And maybe today wasn't that day -- I don't think a Podunk Elementary School in a nameless city is really "the" forum I've been waiting for.

But it felt like a small step in a very big direction -- it is the writer's way out of hibernation.

And it's been a long time coming.

GIRL-ON-GIRL-ON-THE-BRAIN

I did my favorite thing this weekend -- I had a random getaway with strangers.

I was invited along on a 3-day trip with an acquaintance with whom I have always wanted to spend more time, to a house in the White Mountains with 6 other women who have been gathering for these weekend getaways for 14 years. I was the only newbie, though some of the women were only on their 3rd or 4th year.

There were cards, there was hiking, there was drunken debauchery and dry-humping for laughs. And there were lesbians, several of them, and they were fun and cute and lovely -- which had me on high-alert for a possibly orgy that I could be invited to join in on.

But ahhh, they are human and people just don't "DO" that -- at least not this year. I made sure to drop a couple hints about how lesbian orgies are a husband-approved weekend getaway activity for this girl. Maybe next time, that seed I planted will have grown into a lovely part of the weekend's festivities.

And I have to remind myself that just because someone is into girls doesn't mean that they are going to be attracted to me AND whorish enough to shag me within 12 hours of meeting me. I am going to have to work for those stolen kisses, earn those embraces. If I want to have a girl, I might have to have a girlfriend, and that will mean courting and conflict and intimate communication with another female and I am simply not inclined at this time for such things.

Which begs the question: are some things better left in fantasy form?

COME MONDAY IT'LL BE ALRIGHT

I am off for the weekend and am unlikely to be blogging, but I believe I am guest posting today at Barefoot Dreamer's blog unless there was a techno-malfunction, since i don't think the post is up yet....check her blog out anyways, she is rad.

Gotta run...

A DISSERTATION ON COWGIRL POSITION

Tomorrow, I will be waxing poetic on the missionary position over at Barefoot Dreamer's blog as part of her series of guest posts.

But right now I would like to highlight another favorite, cowgirl.

It is a favorite of mine on particular days (or nights, or mornings -- though rarely in the morning) when not only am I in the mood to be in control, but I am also feeling thin. Yes, fellas, I know you might be disappointed to learn that such frivolity factors into sexual play, but having a skinny day is the best aphrodisiac for this Goddess. I also have to be feeling good about my boobs -- maybe it would be a certain time in my cycle when they are fuller than others. Ahh, but men might have a hard time reading about the cold hard facts of a woman's complicated mind, so feel free to skip ahead.

Being on top means I set the pace, the mood and the play. I can be forceful, I can climb up and grab a few kisses between the thighs and stay for as long as I please, or I can ride him gently and dip down for some tongue kissing. I can wrap my arms full around him and move together sweetly, or I can shove my tits into his mouth and make him beg for mercy. I can press my self against his chest and bite his ear, lick his neck or simply whisper dirty things. It's a beautiful thing.

I can choose to squat over him if I am in an athletic sort of mood, or I can rest on my knees, where I can choose to hook my feet under his knees and leave him gasping for air.

Of course, the reverse cowgirl variation holds a special place in my bedroom for the nights when two things could be happening:
* we might not be getting along splendidly, but we still have physical needs. In reverse cowgirl, there is no eye contact, just bodies, and sometimes -- though not so much lately -- this is just what the doctor ordered.
* Sometimes I am looking to have his finger up my ass while I receive such grand pleasure and this is a great way to give him full access.

Some of you out there, I am sure, like to have marathon love sessions where you move seamlessly from position to position. Zeus and I prefer to pick a position and go with it -- enjoying all of its variations and tones.

Riding it out, so to speak.

WHAT CRISIS?

Show me the boy at 7, and I will show you the man.
~British documentary 7-up

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At 7, I was loud, funny, and confident. I had huge blue eyes, long black eyelashes, a pretty face, a boyish gait and a very bad haircut. I was creative, active, slightly rebellious, passionate.

One thing I know is that I was unlikable to grown-ups, perhaps because of my need to please only myself. Teachers struggled with my indifference, friends' parents bit their lips at the sound of my voice, I felt this stinging judgment and taught myself not to care what anyone else thought.

My parents told me that my name meant "worthy of giving and receiving love," and as a middle child, I held onto these words and let them enter my heart, as though they gave me my name because they knew something special about me before I was born. That I was special.

Not quite an introvert yet certainly not an extrovert, never quite popular yet not entirely unliked by peers, I wrestled with my identity even then, sneaking quiet moments under pine trees, gravestones and the banks of rivers, a writing pad on my lap and a Hello Kitty pencil in my grip, smudging the lead as my left hand moved awkwardly across the page. Making up stories, or even reflecting honestly on what it was all about for me. A loner who craved interaction.

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Who were you at 7? I will show you the man.


edited to add: I think it bears mentioning that I was also a perverted child -- I used to draw all my female drawings with a full set of breasts/areolas/nipple -- as evidenced by 3 sets of parentheses . I also spent much time drawing what I imagined male genitalia to look like. I a glad my mother kept these drawings, in a weird way. It's amusing to see that I haven't really changed.

HIS ARMS

They offer comfort.

While his easy conversation and gentle questions lend clarity to my mind as we sit and talk under the full moon, the soft circles he makes on my back reach a deeper place, a place where I know I am loved.

His arms connect with mine, they offer me a cup of tea, a glass of wine, a small piece of chocolate. Something to soothe me, something we can share as we talk it through. Up and down, left to right and back again.

His arms pour, twist and move -- running me a hot bath. His arms reach around me with a soft towel, his kisses landing on my shoulders, his lips on my neck.

It is only when we find ourselves beneath the covers that his arms hold him up as we love each other, and it is him who weeps when it is said and done and he collapses next to me.

And now my arms circle him. A show of gratitude for all he shares with me, and all he lets me share with him. For these blessings, small and large, I am grateful.

CENSORSHIP

I have so much I want to write, so much to divulge. So much emotion and thought bleeding from me, but I hold myself back for fear that this will reach the wrong audience. I can't block people and I can't control who reads and comments here, and I will not delete comments -- they are part of my reality and I am not trying to change that.

But I will hold back, at least for now. I will force myself to write, even when I want to shut down. I will write about the weather, if I have nothing else to say. And I will hope to be back to my usual banter soon, feeling safe and less vulnerable.

More importantly, I will try to release this feeling of hatred. It's not good for me, it poisons all the beautiful things. It lies low, and deep. It doesn't know the way out, for it is a stranger in a strange land in me.

I will focus on replacing the hate, with love. The two can't exist together in my mind at the same time, so I will choose love. Yes, I can do this.

I can love.