I’m reminded once again of how important it is to tell the truth.

And how easy it is to bend it.

I told a story, loosely based on an experience I had and although I told some of the truth, I left out key details that altered the tone of the story.

Big mistake!

Always tell the truth.

I will acknowledge that sometimes the truth is hard.

But didn’t Hemingway say, “Write hard and clear about what hurts”?

Well, I didn’t and it’s come back to bite me in the ass.

I’ve discovered I’m terrible at withholding information.

Information that changes the nature of my interactions.

I’m not clear whether it’s because I have a fear of confrontation or because I just don’t feel empowered to be open and honest.

Either way, I’m sitting here thinking about truth and honesty and how dangerous it is to skirt the slippery slope of non-fiction writing.

And although we’re almost halfway through this year, I’ve resolved to spend less time blogging what isn’t 100% true and more time blogging what is.

And of course, being more vocal about my own thoughts and feelings, in situ.

Because withheld information ALWAYS has a way of coming to the surface and it’s better to deliver the truth yourself than through a password-protected blog post.

Am I a writer?

Am I a writer?

That’s a good question.

I certainly sit at the computer and type words into sentences on the screen.

But does that make me a writer?

I have a friend who is a published poet.

She writes amazing things that make me catch my breath and pause a moment in awareness that she has struck some significant sympathetic chord in me.

What do I write?

Blurbs about my life, dating, and the adventures that my life brings to me.

Occasionally, I SHOUT.

I’ve never really thought of myself as a writer.

Except that I am.

There’s more truth on the pages of unblunder than there is in the pages of an encyclopedia.

And occasionally there’s more depth – as evidenced by me admitting to experimenting with fringe sexual practices and chronicling my (mis) adventures, especially in dating.

Someday I may write a book.

But right now, I’m going to focus on this blog which is a guilty pleasure for many.

I’m trying to make sense of this world and my place in it.

Heaven knows I don’t have all the answers.

Do you?


Facial Hair

beard1I am a big fan of facial hair on a man. There’s just something about a man with a beard that is…. Well… manly.

I love kissing a man with a beard or with a goatee. The tickle of his beard against my lips just turns me on.

Most of the men I’ve dated have had facial hair, and although I seem to wind up with men who are tattoo-free, I think the sexiest combination out there is bearded with tattoos.

Hemingway had a beard. So did Tom Selleck, at his sexiest.

Even bald men with beards are sexy.

A decent beard can transform a nerd into a rugged hunk.

I especially like gray beards. Nothing quite so sexy as a salt and pepper beard, hold the pepper.

Now mind you, I’m not talking Duck Dynasty beards. Those scraggly things should be banned.

I’m talking well-cared for, clean, and trimmed beards.

There’s just something so lumberjack-y about a nice beard. It just screams “I’ve been out chopping wood and now I’m going to fix your car before I make love to you ten times.”

beard4 beard3 beard2

The one where she confesses her fantasies to a man

So… based on feedback from this website, I worked up the courage to ask my sister if I could go out with Austin, her ex-lover from high school.

And she said sure… but be careful.  He’s a serial monogamist.

Hmmmm…. and what exactly am I, I wondered?

But no matter, I now have permission to do what I’ve been doing for the last week – which is SEXT WITH AUSTIN.

Now, I’ve been sexting long enough with Austin to know that there’s a problem.


And the problem with this is that I’m worried the fantasy of him in my mind might eclipse his reality.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to find out.

I think Austin’s sex appeal springs from a very real love of women.  Very few men truly love women, and Austin is one of them.  He seems to understand how our brains work on a fundamental level.

Austin is sexy because he knows how to get inside your head and turn you on from the brain down.  And I think that’s the best bedroom skill to have.  And the most enduring.

This one phrase I think totally sums up Austin’s sex appeal (apart from his absolutely sunning physique and handsome face).  Austin is a man who posses the physical skill to turn on your body and the intellectual capacity to set you on fire.

Some of the sexy things Austin has said to me (that can be shared):

“You realize you really can’t come near me unless I can have you now.”

“But… I don’t have to only give pleasure… or at least conventional forms of pleasure…”

“BTW – after yesterday’s sexting, I’m rocking some lovely fantasies about topping you.”

And he’s not the only one with fantasies.  I confessed a bunch of my own fantasies to him.  It was liberating to share them with another human being and have him say, “I can do that,” or “I like that,” or “that’s not too kinky.”

So what can I say about Austin?


The post about broken feet and bad dates

So I’m at DryWalk Blow Dry Bar getting my hair done for my date last night when I get a text message from my mom.

“Gavin hurt his foot.  He needs to be seen by a doctor.”

And just like that my dinner date evening in Los Gatos turned into an evening in the ER with my son, his broken foot and my ex husband.  Oh joy.


The ER however, was so fast that we were in and out with a splint and crutches (my son is THRILLED he’s on crutches) in about 2 hours, leaving me plenty of time for my date.

So I went out with Tony last night.  We went to the Jack Rose in Los Gatos for cocktails.  I had a Sazerac and Hemingway.  He had two gin and tonics.

But not even alcohol could save this date.  To begin with, Tony sweat profusely and used cocktail napkins to mop up the sweat which he then placed on the table by our food. Ew yuck.  He also burped all night long and announced about an hour into the date that, “The Hispanics are trying to take over our government….”

I should have ended the date right then and there.  I was getting tired and spending too much time stifling yawns to be a very good conversationalist, even if I’d wanted to.   I found myself daydreaming about Edward, another useless and painful pastime of mine.

I tortured myself with another hour of him asking me. “So what are your hobbies?  So what is another hobby of yours?  Tell me the last fun thing you did….” and so on.


He was so not my type I practically jumped out of the car when he brought me home.  Then I leaned back in, gave him a hug and said thank you and left for the comfort of my empty bed.

Oh ugh.  Have I mentioned how much I hate dating now.