Thanks for the Love and the Food

Lady luck has smiled on me. Throughout life, I have been fortunate enough to get involved with women who cook. It’s not like I planned it. On the Match site, I never said I was looking for a “chef.” It just happens. It seems to be one of my special talents. I can parallel park with an inch to spare and attract women who love to cook.

What can I say? Cooking is sexy; the smells, the tastes, the textures. She licks the sauce off her finger sucking on it a bit too long. I swoon.

I give thanks for the women who have always been the purveyors of hope for me. Giving thanks makes sense to me. This holiday of Thanksgiving, where the new settlers had a feast and survived largely in thanks to the Indians, only to steal their land from them and slaughter them later on. So, for Thanksgiving, I am focusing on thanking the women who always make life worth living with their smiles, their sweetness and their intelligence.

It’s funny, but years after a relationship is over, I may forget the scent she wore or what day her birthday falls on, but I always remember that one dish she made that I still crave. I have tried to find recipes to reproduce many of the dishes after the relationship falls apart. Call me sentimental. Who says love and food don’t go together?

My girlfriend from Maine was into seafood. My girlfriend from Charleston made the best seafood creole in the world. My current sweetie does something wonderfully creative with veggie lasagna. Just thinking about the savory feast makes me crazy with yearning.

So thanks to the women that make life worth living.


The Ups and Downs of My Lesbian Libido

I like the word libido for a number of reasons. I also like the word mojo. Both of these words bring a smile to my face for several reasons. Not only do they both have an interesting sound that makes the words sing in my ears like a nursery rhyme, but these words also conjure up memories of sleepless nights wrapped in curves so soft that I never wanted to leave the bed.

There were moans and whispers complete with shadows in candlelit rooms, where arms and legs embraced a warmth so primal, so instinctive, that I lost myself for hours and days in what I am certain is my truest purpose on earth, to love and be loved, in the flesh, in the mess, with hair flying and hot lips eagerly searching for acceptance in a world gone mad most of the time.

I am happy to announce that after a long drought of about two years, my libido has finally returned, roaring back to life. Who knew I would ever lose it. I would have never guessed it could happen to me. As it turns out, I think it drowned in sadness for awhile, got lost in despair over a terrible breakup.

I allowed my libido to be defeated by what seemed like a failure to me. How many more times could I trot it out, expecting the best, undressing myself, taking off all my armor for another woman, only to have them laugh at me, or worse, ignore me for some complicated reason I never fully understood. Her life’s disappointments became my life’s disappointments, until finally, I had to leave.

A voice in my head started as a whisper…”Save yourself. You’ve tried for seven years. You’ve tried everything. Save yourself.” The whisper grew louder and louder, until, one day after she screamed at me, “Get out,” I gave myself permission to leave. The facts are blurry. Rage affects me that way. Adrenaline takes over and I begin packing, or mostly not packing, deciding to leave most remnants from “our” life together where they are, with her, like the evidence in a crime scene.

When her sadness infects you and you care too much, your libido starts dying, gasping for breath. When you can no longer write it off as “her” problem because the kisses stopped and the sex became a passionless chore that no one wanted to sign up for like doing the laundry or cleaning out the litter box, your libido most certainly gets the message. The extraordinary deteriorates into the ordinary and finally into an obligation to be suffered through on Valentine’s Day, anniversaries and birthdays.

In spite of the lighthearted rhyme inherent in the word libido, I guess a person’s libido is a sensitive and fleeting component of a person’s psyche. No, I’m not a therapist. Although, I have paid a few for guidance. I always learn everything through experience. While this type of learning is painful, it does prove to make the lessons stick. What I learned through my last breakup is that when another person that I truly love crushes my spirit, my libido takes a leave of absence.

I have good news though. It is awake once again. As it turns out, I can’t kill my libido. It is a resilient part of my soul that seems to eventually resurface when I’ve finally cleared the way for new thinking and new people and new experiences. If I had to guess, I would say that my libido could be my compass, leading me away from the past, when the past threatens to suffocate me and no longer serves a purpose.

I am certain that lesbians will read this and disagree. As lesbians do, my friends have all weighed in, recommending therapy and to stick it out. I get it. We all long for “happily ever after,” with one perfect partner. That’s okay. I’m sure it is even possible. But, this is my truth. Maybe my “happily ever after” involves trying again instead of living in despair for another minute. I know now that my libido is smarter and more intuitive than what passes for my basic intelligence. Go figure. Carpe your libido.

Carpe the “Sign” When It Finally Comes

I started a new job recently so I have been doing technical writing instead of blogging here. This type of writing is preferable to me. Creative writing is so much fun that I am struggling with my 9 to 5 job of legal writing, which gives me a headache, but pays the bills.

I am in a corporate setting, which is always a challenge for me. I tend to keep a low profile in offices. Since I am single, it is easy for me to opt out of conversations about spouses and family. I don’t know these people very well yet, and I may never feel comfortable blurting out the fact that I am a lesbian. While I believe it would make little difference to anyone, it seems like such a personal admission to make to strangers. I imagine them immediately shifting their thoughts to me in a compromising position with a female when I finally do share this tidbit of information. Maybe that is why it feels so awkward to me. Perhaps I will just tell them I am asexual instead. I wonder what image that would provoke? pathetic or interesting? Who knows?

I went out for a glass of wine with a few people from work one day as my way of trying to be “one of the gang,” and found myself keeping my mouth shut and listening, which is easier for me than one might think, given my propensity to write so much. I swore to myself that I would never be “in the closet again.” So, I can’t figure out why I don’t simply ‘fess up when the subject of family or dating arises.

At some level, I believe I am not ready to invite my new coworkers into “my world” yet. I am content to live on the outside of this circle and be the mysterious one who appears to be mute. I am typically rewarded for being such a good listener, so I am fine with that role for now. Over the years, I have learned that people are desperate to be heard, and I am willing to do that for other people.

Besides, I have not really started dating yet. I think about it, then I get cold feet. It is truly weird, because I have always been good at dating. Even though I can be shy at times, I have learned over the years how to talk to anyone. I also love to kiss and hold hands, so I am a great date by most women’s standards, or so I’ve been told. But who knows. I am a sucker for flattery. I know I am bragging. I guess I have been watching too much of Donald Trump lately and his bold arrogance has ignited something insane inside of me. That guy really pushes all of my buttons, but that is another blog post.

I guess the fact is that I am still recovering from my last relationship and that is how I am explaining a lack of action on my part for the moment. But I hate the idea of fall passing me by without an exciting kiss from a new love interest. Fall is definitely my favorite season. I expect that I will eventually recover from my temporary reluctance to participate in the exciting world of dating. Since this hesitancy is a new phenomenon for me, I am going with it, indulging this unusual urge of mine to withdraw for a bit. I did ask a woman to dinner, but she was leaving on a trip out of town and so that first step of mine was a false start and has been postponed for now.

I am certain that all it will take is one sultry look or one wet kiss to revive me from the sleep walking I am currently involved in, as I pass through my life like an outsider who is only vaguely interested in what is going on. I have immersed myself in books and am enjoying a connection with writers’ words that often make me swoon, leaving me expecting too much from the real characters in my life who seem a bit lifeless and in need of more interesting dialogue.

Don’t spank me. This blog says more about me than anybody else. Right now, I am the boring one. I hope that will change soon, and I suspect it will.

Carpe the “sign” when it arrives.


Missing Xena

The mention of the name Xena brings me back to a simpler time, before mass shootings and terrorism were a way of life in this country. Granted, I knew bad things happened in faraway places before 9/11. I had the decency to recognize that fact and feel terrible about it, without the horror of it staying in my head all the time like some barely audible electronic hum that continues to irritate you for years with no relief in sight.

Our culture seems more focused on the horror of these things than on contemplating the cause and admitting our own hand in those broken relationships that breed such contempt and violence. If peace and love beget peace and love, then we must decide where the breakdown is and own our part in it, taking steps to build bridges instead of walls. I know…I have turned to clichés for my argument. But, in my defense, sometimes clichés hold nuggets of truth. Please, somebody stop me before I get stuck in this mode.

What was exciting about Xena Warrior Princess and her world was that the good guys and bad guys were so recognizable. These days I feel like life has become so gray that I believe that people in this country are having a difficult time distinguishing the good guys from the bad guys. As I watch the presidential election and see Trump running as President, I have to wonder if a large segment of our society has truly lost their mind.

Hillary does not make me feel much better. While I generally give women more of my attention, expecting them to be the voice of compassion and practicality, I am left distrusting her. With Clinton’s obvious connections to Wall Street and her absolute arrogance as it relates to her irresponsible handling of emails and her lack of passion to make any real change, I don’t view Hillary as one of the good guys either. I see her as the lesser of two evils, but a sellout just the same.

The problem is, I grew up watching TV and going to the movies as my favorite way to unwind and escape. As a lesbian, it is probably no surprise to anyone, that Xena stood out as my favorite “all-time” fighter of evil. I miss that clarity. Label me nostalgic, but I long for a hero or heroine that stands  outside of the political fray brandishing a sword, or maybe a book to take down the evil doers. (I know – nerd alert)

Xena and Gabrielle live large in my mind as what I like best about women and life in general. We all need a complement, to soften us or toughen us up as we move about in the world. Depending on the day, I can fall on either side of that equation. I have been lucky enough to spend time with a few Xenas and Gabrielle-types myself. The best women I know embody strength and sweetness wrapped up in stylish thick glasses and intellectual wit.

I know I have wandered all over the place in this blog. Thank God nobody is grading me on sticking with my title or supporting my arguments with clear statements to back up my suppositions. It is no surprise that I love poetry too. The less structure the better. Academics beware.

I’ll stop whining now like an old geezer who wants easier choices. Can’t we simply ask the good guys to wear white and the bad guys to wear black so we know what to expect. It would be so helpful.

Carpe the next Xena when she shows up in your life.

Wordy Grl

Why Her

As I try to decide on the type of woman I want to spend my life with, it seems that words fail me as I consider the women from my past who have taken up residence in my heart. Oddly enough, they were all so different that I am left clueless about how to describe the common denominator present in my chosen love interests. Why am I surprised? Falling in love isn’t like ordering a woman from the catalog. While the dating sites do make me feel like that at times, chemistry is certainly an elusive concept.

There is a basic sense of decency in a woman, a sweetness, that always captures my heart. While women my age are hardly innocent anymore, I enjoy women who laugh easily and still have a sense of wonder and excitement about the world. I rejoice in that type of joy.

As obvious as this may sound, I like women who are confident sexually without being slutty. Believe me, I know how that last sentence sounds, and expect to get some smart remarks about double standards, etc… I am always amazed by how political correctness has seeped into something as primal as our personal taste, often rendering us guilty about primal urges.

Let’s face it, the ultimate aphrodisiac is always a woman’s interest in what I have to say. Don’t get me wrong, I am a good listener. I equally enjoy listening to what she has to say too, especially when she’s talking about her passion in life.

Carpe the sweet ones, the smart girls who grace you with their enthusiasm for life and listen to what you have to say like they truly care.

A Wordy Grl