Secret Garden


I invite you in to discover

Treasures held undercover


Slip away my myriad layers

Head to bosom, hear my prayers


Passion that runs miles deep

Desires that restlessly sleep


Unveiled by deserving lover’s touch

Valleys of heated flesh you clutch


Bury yourself in my secret garden

The angels will sing our pardon


*tumblr image, source unknown

Message in a Bottle #2 (Guest Post)

I have fought the darkness in the recesses of my mind and come out the other side. The loneliness was almost too much to bear and hope became a vapor, an essence, something rare.

I clawed my way, knees bloodied, heart shattered. Only grasping that somehow, some way…I mattered.

In the end it made me stronger. When the light did shine upon my frazzled alter. I realized that I did not falter.

Head held high I step each day knowing that life will give and take.

 **This message was beautifully penned by Lisa Ojanpera.  Her awesome talent and inspirational journey can be savored at her blog, Underground Energy.  Thank you, Lisa, for allowing me post your words here.  I encourage everyone to visit her blog and enjoy more of her works.


Finding Answers

His frustration continued to grow.  So many miles between them, but yet her pain was palpably close.  He read her words. He swore he could hear her voice. But that was not a luxury he would be afforded this night.  He reread the words again.  Knowing her, he would find a message within.  But with all he still did not know about her, how could he be certain he’d get it right?

He walked out into the dark mountain night.  He inhaled the air so pure that always made him feel most alive. It was not lost on him that it was the tang of salt air that brought her to life.  His hands in the earth centered him.  The crash of ocean waves gave her necessary peace.  He chuckled, though he felt no joy.  He felt a sense of loss.  He was losing this woman.  Or at least that was his belief.

He looked to the heaven’s stars for guidance. They glittered silently at him, not providing insight or even light in his darkened state of mind.  He was an intelligent man. Why was it so hard to accept that only she held the answers he sought? Only she could tell him the secrets she held so close. He just had to be patient and give her that chance.

Message in a Bottle #1

Message in a Bottle #1

I’m lost, but not on a deserted island.  I’m lost among those that believe they know me, but haven’t a clue who I am. I’m lost in a life of my choosing, but it no longer feels familiar.  I wish to be rescued but do not believe in fairy tales.

If you do not understand, then please put my message back in the bottle and throw it back out to sea. Perhaps a Siren will put me out of my misery.  If you are a kindred spirit, then write your own message and send it back to me.

message bottle sea

*tumblr image, source unknown

Priorities, Submissive traits, Internal battles and Random thoughts

Since I posted The Conversation this morning, I have given a lot of thought to several related topics and contemplated several of the comments that piece generated.  This is a rare post in that I am not typing it in Word and I doubt I will be editing before posting.  This is more like a stream of consciousness reaction to my earlier post.  So forgive me for typos, for any rambling or for abrupt endings.

I was inspired to write The Conversation based on several dreams/thoughts I had last night/early this morning.  Whenever I am under any type of emotional strain, my sleep is negatively affected. But rarely do I experience the type of dreams I had last night.  I knew when I got up this morning that I needed to write The Conversation — but after posting, I also knew that I had filtered my thoughts considerably and that I did not delve deep enough into some of my feelings behind the post.  Some of your comments spurred me to think more about these feelings and try to give my “true” voice to the thoughts.

I’m going to be honest.  I don’t know what it feels like to be someone’s priority — other than that of my parents before I turned eighteen.  Being an only child, I cannot deny that I was quite spoiled as a child/teenager.  But I was also very independent and self-reliant long before I became an adult.  I have always taken great pride in my ability to take care of myself — financially, socially, physically and especially emotionally.  There is no denying that I am very opinionated and outspoken — in a sassy, sarcastic, assertive way.  But over time, as I have become increasingly responsible for the well-being of my husband and my children, I have observed the exhausting effects of being the caretaker for everyone.  Being an only child, I have also been the one that helps my parents with their increasing needs as they age.  As the stay-at-home Mom among my friends, I am the one that gets asked to volunteer for various projects since I have the time.  As the stay-at-home Mom, my husband feels it is my “job” to single-handedly take care of all of our children’s needs (as well as his own).  I also am expected to make sure the oil is changed in my car regularly and I am the one that must purchase materials needed for house repairs or routine maintenance.  I handle all family finances. I make all shopping (grocery, appliance, sporting goods, clothing, etc) decisions.  I make all health decisions and appointments for the entire family.  Since I don’t work, I am the one that stays up with a sick child without any questions asked.  I am the one that is expected to handle all social and family obligations and planning.  If there is a vacation to be taken, I must make all the plans.  Every day, I make a hundred decisions from the mundane “what’s for dinner” to the life-impacting “should my child be held back a year in school” by myself. I know … it sounds like I’m complaining, even possibly whining.  And I probably am, in a way.  I understand I chose this life — I made every decision that has led me to this point, at this moment in time.  But somewhere along my way, I forgot to make decisions for and about ME.  I forgot what makes me happy.  I forgot what I need.  Hell, I don’t even know how to determine needs from wants — at least not mine.  Ask me about  my husband, my parents or my children (or my circle of friends) and I can separate everything into perfect lists.  But I don’t know who I am when I’m not a mother, a wife, a daughter, a friend, a school volunteer, a baseball cheerleader, an aunt.

But over the course of having this blog, I realized that there is a woman buried there — somewhere.  One that has a lot of passion, a well of emotions, an adventurous spirit, a restless spirit, a dark side, a soft side, and quite possibly a submissive side.  Of course, whenever I give thought to exploring who I might be and what I might want out of life outside of my “responsibilities”, I feel guilt … tremendous guilt over being selfish.  Especially when I realize that my needs/wants are so severely different than those of my husband. At times, I’ve thought it best just to ignore all the sides I mentioned above — but many of you have inspired me NOT to give up on myself.  But that leaves me in the quandary …. what do I do then?  Some of you have been blessed with spouses that have listened to your discoveries and have opted to change your lifestyle with you … for you.  I am not in that situation.  I have attempted to ask my husband some hard questions and believe me, his responses ultimately lead me to give up.  He is completely against indulging any of my explorations … in or outside of the bedroom.  He believes I can choose to be happy the way things are now — or I can choose not to be.

I think that is where my deep-rooted need to be a “priority” comes from.  I may be strong enough to carry the burden for all of those around me — but it’s not what is best for me, at least not one hundred percent of the time.  I need moments where I can let go of everything … all the worries, the stress, the decisions, the responsibilities and just be.  I don’t know what sub-space is — I’ve never been close and possibly never will be.  But I imagine being cocooned in trust and security and my mind being a blank slate to enjoy whatever sensation my lover feels compelled to introduce me to.  I may have to beg and plead for release or for a spanking — but I will know that is no longer in my control.  That the begging and pleading is just part of the process, but that it is not based on my “decision”.  I want time when someone else puts what I need first.  I want them to know what I want without spelling it out to them three hundred different ways and they still not get it right.  But even more basic than that — I want someone to take time to be with me. Give me time to unwind.  Take the time to touch me, soothe me, calm me.  I want the ability to relax without drinking a bottle of wine first or taking a pill (that ultimately makes me not give a shit).  I want to feel like I matter.

In The Conversation, Dave told me I had to make myself a priority.  I’m not sure if the message of what *I* meant by that came through clearly.  It doesn’t mean that I schedule time for someone to spend with me.  It doesn’t mean that I go to the spa and make myself feel beautiful and pampered.  It means that I have to start making interpersonal decisions that reflect that I am putting myself first.  It comes down to using the word “No” when I need to.  It means that I set limits for myself and decide on my own life goals … and then follow-through.  It means that if I choose to stay the course I’m on, then be prepared NOT to be a priority to anyone else.

As far as the submissive part of your responses — that was a real eye-opener as I never really thought about what a submissive’s needs might be.  Although I have considered that if given the right relationship, I would discover that I probably am submissive. Although, I do worry that I might be a difficult submissive.  LOL

This past week has also made me consider that I truly need to determine what I want as far as my writing is concerned.  I do have time and freedom to write.  But I need to decide what my priorities and goals are there — do I want to continue my novel? Do I want to dedicate myself to becoming a poet?  Do I want to consider self-publishing short stories?  I feel adrift in my writing at the moment and feel I need direction there — but again, it means making more decisions.  Sigh.  I cannot get away from them.

Thank you all for indulging me today.  But I worry that my Sea of Desire persona leads people astray (unintentionally) from the person I really am — so maybe, if nothing else, you got a better sense of ME today.


The Conversation I Can’t Have

(His brown eyes drink me in. His easy smile melts me.  He doesn’t allow me to embrace him as he knows I’ll never let him go again. But he does gift me with the simple touch of his hand on mine.  He understands that physical connection will be enough to keep me afloat and yet ground me at the same time.  He is exactly as I remember him from twenty-two years ago, but yet the love and appreciation in his gaze makes me forget all the grey, wrinkles and weight that I’ve gained during that same time.  At this moment, time is forgotten and only our connection is cherished.)

Talk to me, Whiskey Girl. No need for pretty words or your poetic prose.  It’s time to stop hiding behind cryptic images and put it all on the table. 

You know me better than that, Dave.  You have to ask the right questions or I will insist on giving bullshit answers. 

(His eyes, the color of Grandma Moses’ Molasses focus on mine.  I see a flash of amusement before his gravelly chuckle vibrates between us.)

Fine.  We’ll play it your way, but no charades today.  What is it YOU want, D?  I’m not asking about your family so don’t give me your Beauty Queen charm.  Tell me the one thing YOU want most. 

I want to be someone’s priority. 

(Silence descends between us as he allows me the time to process what I just said.  He, as always, knew the answer before asking the question.)

And what would that mean … exactly?  How would you know that you’re their priority?  What would it look like? How would it show? 

(I take a deep breath, because my first instinct is to bluff my way through.  I can feel the tension building around my heart and I know this will be hard.)

First of all, there would be this.  (I lift our hands slightly before settling them back on the table.)  There would be the understanding that I need to be touched — not always erotically or sensually (and I smile mischievously at him as he knows how much I love erotic touch), but tenderly and lovingly.  I need the hand-holding.  The strong, all-encompassing hugs.  I need the brush of a finger along my cheek.  I need the hand at the back of my neck, showing possession and giving support.  (I hesitate.  I feel the dam breaking and have the overwhelming compulsion to shut it down now.)

(Dave takes his other hand and puts his finger under my chin and directs my gaze back to his.  I feel his strength pour into me as he quietly reprimands me.)  You can do this.

(Another deep breath to regain my composure and train of thought as his touch easily undoes me.)

Damn it, Dave.  I feel like I’m asking for a fairy tale and you know how much I despise those.  I learned too early in life that there is no such thing as a Prince that rescues a Princess.  And even if there were, I wouldn’t want glass slippers or glittery gowns.  But yet, my wants/needs make me feel like a little girl daydreaming in a castle turret. 

Stop worrying about how it sounds.  Focus on what you WANT to feel.

(I let out a bitter laugh.)  I want the mind-reading.  The ability for someone to know me so well, I don’t have to struggle to be understood. ( I feel a gentle squeeze of my hand, so I stop speaking and look at my soul mate’s lips – knowing he has something to say.)

Why must he mind-read, D?  There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with your ability to speak.

(He only smiles at my glare.  I’ve never been able to intimidate him in any way.)

Because I’m stubborn and proud, Dave.  I hate asking anyone for anything … at least for myself.  I feel like if I have to ask for these things, then it becomes less of a choice and more of an obligation.  (I quickly wipe away a tear and spit out,) This is YOUR faultYou gave me these things at one time. You made me feel valuable.  You took the time to learn me.  You listened to everything I said and made me want to tell you things I hid from myself … like now.  You made me believe that this mythological relationship I seek was possible.  And now that you’re gone, I realize it’s not.  I no longer know if I’m reliving real memories or if I lived some kind of deranged fantasy.

(The tears culminate into hard sobs that I’ve refused myself the luxury of for many years.  I feel the protective arms wrap around my aching body, giving me the shelter I always crave.  My cheek is pressed against the chest that always brought me comfort in his steady heartbeat. )

It was real, D. And all this can be yours again, as soon as you make yourself a priority. 

(I swear I can feel his lips brush against my forehead, but know before I even open my eyes it is not possible.  As once again, I accept the fact that I am, indeed, alone.)