Category Archives: Writing

Reading Update: Diane di Prima

My friend Sasha gave me her copy of Diane di Prima’s Memoirs of a Beatnik for my birthday. I think she bought it at a secondhand store during her freshman year in college. There are marks in the margins, which I completely adore, even though they’re not Sasha’s. She’s a relatively new friend who’s recently learned about my little writing projects and it touched me that she came up with, really, the perfect gift for me.

I’m sort of in love with di Prima, having read her poetry since I was very young. I’m not much for memoirs (now called blogs, by the way), as such, with exceptions being made for Katharine Hepburn and Boutros Boutros-Ghali, because duh, they didn’t have blogs and they actually had something interesting to say. And yes, a lifelong love affair with Spencer Tracy is interesting.

But seriously, stuff like A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers can kiss my ass. (ooh, snap.) Whatever; the kids seem to like it. Of course I like di Prima because she writes amazingly lyrical and lovely things (do your beat poet research), is smart and real and her attitudes about sex and love in this work have a very familiar ring.


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Filed under Art, Friends, New York, sex, Writing

If I Were a Cat I Would Totally Never Leave the House

At 3:43 AM I rolled across my bed and reached into the top drawer of my nightstand. I couldn’t not. It was dark, my bed was warm and I was, shall we say, randy.

It was not an extended or particularly acrobatic session; at 3:43 who wants acrobatics? Just me, my bullet and my Orchid G. My orgasm was long, shuddering and total–the Emily Rose kind that causes my back to bend and my body to contort. I fell back asleep afterwards, spooning a pillow.

At 6:45 I was out of bed and rousing children to dress for school. It was chilly and I’d tossed on my robe. Miles’ socks were in the dryer and I walked across the floor to the laundry closet.

Halfway there I stopped. Something had dripped onto my foot, just missing the floor. I turned and walked to the bathroom. By the time I got there the insides of my thighs were wet with the thin, glistening, milky liquid that had coated my fingers and vibrator earlier.

The liquid that smells so intoxicatingly good I think everyone around me can smell it as well as I can. The scent that, even when it is dried onto my underwear smells creamy and sweet and heady and girly.

Not strong, it’s a gentle scent, but totally recognizable. Sometimes my mouth waters when I recognize it.

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Filed under Quiet, Stories, Writing

How Do I Manage?

How do I manage to turn a relatively quiet writing workday into a three client, 90-minutes~60-minutes~90-minutes back to back massage fest?


Four hours may not seem like a lot, but trust me.

At least they’re all regulars, at least I’ll be getting kickass paid from two of them, and the third will do fucking awesome things to my hair on Monday.


When do I get to wank cook dinner organize my pantry?


Filed under Writing

What’s with the Blogging, and Why Pseudonymous is a Better Word.

So I’ve been thinking a lot lately about why people (especially sex bloggers–especially pseudonymous and anonymous* sex bloggers) blog. I know the reasons are different for different people, but I’m pretty sure there are some common ones.

I’m pretty sure we all like the attention, whether it’s to be lauded for our writing (To be fair, this should be taken with a huge chunk of extra coarse kosher salt, cos you know, consider the source of praise: Folks who spend lots of time reading smut on the internets are most likely not literary agents or publishers, and if you are, call me!), to be seen as experts on some aspect of sexuality, or purely to shock the hell out of our readers.

It’s nice to hear that people like us. Or respect what we write. Or are horrified by or envious of the things we do. It means we’re having an impact on people, however small. It means people are paying attention, and we’re pretty much attention whores.

Before I was a blogger, I was a writer. I recorded everything in my journals from grade school forward and I’ve saved every one. They’re boring, but they are my archives, half a diary dedicated to 12 year old angst over why Steve Baker liked Charlotte Spencer more than me. And why his friend Mike wouldn’t leave me alone, when I’d made it very clear I was not interested in him. That one still makes me laugh.

I wrote during my very tumultuous relationship with Craig, the undiagnosed bipolar meanie who insulted me to tears almost daily. Writing (yeah, okay, and therapy) cleared a path out. And now I can read those entries, see the one surviving photo of myself then–5’4″ and 100 pounds, all sunken cheeks and hollow eyes–and track my existence from that to this.

I don’t want to forget what insignificance feels like. I want to remind myself and others that meaningful lives take up space. That’s why I write.

But before I could write, I spoke.

I am a talker. I’m not the most talkative person in the room, but given a person or group with little knowledge of or experience with something I know a lot about, I revel in the role of expert.

This is as true about potty training and removing chewing gum from hair as it is about kinky sex. But kinky sex is much more titillating than chewing gum and toilets.

Before I had a blog I would call my friends to tell them about the unbelievably hot sex I’d had the day before or was fixing to have later that evening. I enjoyed being open about my sex life, I enjoyed the admiration and envy of my less prolific girlfriends and I took just a little bit of satisfaction in knowing that it drove my guy friends crazy.

But I would end up telling the same story several times while also writing it in my journal. This was a big waste of time for me, especially once I became a parent, and a single one at that. That’s where the sex blogging comes in. When I discovered that I could record things once and let people read if they chose to, it freed me up tremendously.

A problem with having intimate details of one’s life published on the internet is that it’s in the public domain. And like it or not, there are people who don’t want to read about me sucking cock or sliding my finger into a girl’s wet pussy.

No, really. There are.

Enter pseudonyms and fictionalized locations. The intentional blurring of the edges which we bloggers do to varying degrees lets us be more frank in our discussions. We can feel fairly secure that our blog is not going to come up at the next PTA meeting. And if it does we have deniability.

I’m pseudonymous for now. If I didn’t have children I don’t think I would be. I’m not embarrassed or ashamed of my life. In fact, I think it’s pretty great. I do think of my parents and my children and wonder what would happen to them in their own circles if I was out.

This pisses me off because two weeks ago I was subjected to a half-hour discussion about my aunt Janice’s bleeding hemorrhoids (internal and external, thanks) and no one cared, but it would have shocked the table into silence had I detailed my orgasm from earlier that day.

Which is just stupid because they’re both about things in asses.

Ultimately, if it came to it, I don’t think the world would end if I went public. I’d like to think that people have better ways to spend their time than to worry who Madeline Glass really is.

But I would like to spend a little more time with my kids to cement healthy attitudes about sex and love and relationships into their churning little brains before explaining the difference between figging and teabagging.

*pseudonymous: Writing or written under a false name.
anonymous: Not identified by name; of unknown name; having no outstanding, individual or unusual features; unremarkable or impersonal.


Filed under Blogging, Parenting, Writing

Oh, So Pretty

Well, not exactly. I’m sick. So Feh.


My kids are overnight at my brother’s place, I’m under the duvet all cozy and looking tres francais in my Clapotis scarf, finished several weeks ago and now serving as my neckwarmer in all manner of situations.


Pretty, huh?

I’ve been productive today, despite the nagging cough and accompanying phlegm (I just like writing that–phlegm). Good things are happening to me.

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Filed under Knitting, Quiet, Writing

Think on These Things


  • Being awake at 5:30 AM when it’s way quiet.
  • Organic espresso at $7.99 a pound.
  • Drinking said espresso whilst eating chocolate cake at 5:30 AM when it’s way quiet.
  • Wearing the most comfortable Old Navy lounge pants during above food orgy (I love that they say “intimates,” because they are the closest things to my skin, not because I’ll ever use them to woo a consort.).
  • New baby nieces, yours and mine.
  • Friends who say “I love you.”


Filed under Quiet, Writing

Crawling Through

You know the feeling when you’re skin to skin with someone and you’re not close enough? The feeling that you want to forge your bodies together like steel, strong and impervious against the elements? You know that feeling?
I’m not talking about fucking.

I’m talking about lying together kissing, touching, hands traveling, breath catching, lips sucking, noses tracing making out. And you have this feeling that you want to be one person together. And you hold tightly to them and you will this thought–this wish–to be granted by the universe.

You can’t verbalize it. So you shut your eyes tightly and you wish it.

Sometimes you’re lucky. Sometimes you’re with that person and they’re making the same wish.

And sometimes you’re already the same person. You just inhabit two earthly bodies.

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Filed under Love, New York, Writing