I kneel before you, an idol worshiper 

Paying homage at your feet

Perhaps you yourself do not understand the extent of my idolatry

This is how it was meant to be

I was created solely for this purpose

My need is to please you

I seek to elevate you to a place of ecstasy

Once there, I allow your euphoric energy to rain down on me

Face tilted up, mouth open, I drink your essence

Pour yourself into me

I am at my most powerful when I submit to ​you



Burn me
Set me ablaze

Take everything from me and turn me into ash

I am drawn to you because you are fire

Your heat lures me, tendrils of flame beckoning me forward

Snapping and hissing, warning me of danger which I ignore

This is what I want 

I am transfixed by your beauty

Like a fire snake, you move around me, circling up my body, constricting

I’m gasping, can’t breathe, hot, burning flesh, dying

I explode into a million pieces

I am no more but a floor of molten ash


It has always been you.

The others are drafts.  Stories with no endings.  Crumpled pieces of paper.  Interims prior to your grand entrance.   

I have searched for you my whole life.   

Imposters tried to take your place, posing as you.

They could never replicate the masterpiece. 

They attempted to fill the void.

None succeeded.

Still I waited for you.

Knowing one day, you would appear. 

In the words of Juliet, you are the God of my idolatry.


I’m standing in front of the ocean, not sure how I even got here.   I must have driven on auto-pilot.  The sun is shining, making the water sparkle like millions of diamonds.  Its lure is powerful, addictive.  I can’t stay away.
I take off my shoes, loosen my dress, let it fall to the sand, and walk closer to the water. I allow my feet to touch the foam on the shoreline.   It plays with me, retracting and then returning.

Where have you been?
“It has been difficult to come to you these last few months”, I answer.
I’ve been calling you.
“I know, I have wanted nothing more than to be with you.”
Come closer.
I walk further into the cold water, letting it wrap around my ankles and gently caress my calves.
You should not stay away for so long.  It is not good for you.
“I’ve not been well at all without you.”  I move further in, enjoying the cold wetness circle around and run up my thighs.
You belong to me.  I am a part of you.
Tendrils stroke my nether lips.
Powerful waves take a hold of my hips and cup my ass, lifting my feet from the ground.
The water moves further, touching my stomach, back, and then my breasts, shocking the nipples, making them hard.
I am suspended, defying gravity, as waves push and pull me back and forth.
Why do you deny your destiny?
“I am not ready yet.”
It coils around my arms and shoulders.
Slowly it wraps itself around my neck, flicking cold water on my lips.
I watch in awe as massive waves rise and fall in the distance.
Its power is spellbinding.
Let me take you deeper.
“You will consume me.”
You want me to consume you.  You want to be engulfed.
“I am not ready.”
I begin to withdraw from its hold, paddling backwards with my arms.  My feet touch the ground.  I step back, edging closer to the shore.   The water moves down my body leaving its drops as a reminder of its presence, its ownership of me.
“I will be back.”
I know you will be.

Image source:
Joel Coleman Photography


For a mature audience

A girlfriend of mine whom I had not seen in a while contacted me and invited me to lunch.  After a lovely meal, she asked if I would accompany her to an art studio where she was picking up a painting.  Given that I am now trying to be more spontaneous, I agreed.  I relish days leisurely spent going about life without any scheduled plans.  It feels freeing to be open to any new events that pop up.

The owner of the studio greeted us at the door.  He was an older gentleman, but quite energetic and full of life.  Being a true artist, he welcomed us in and then was quickly distracted by something else.  He asked my girlfriend to show me around. The studio was incredibly large, with paintings on shelves from floor to ceiling.  His work was beautiful, a surrealistic style that celebrated the sensuality and beauty of a woman .  As we were perusing, my friend explained that the artist draws all the women nude on a blank white canvas.  Afterwards he determines what colors, theme, and clothing the models should have on.  He builds his art from ground up.  My friend turned to me and asked if I would ever pose nude for a painting. I said I had never done it before but could be open to it. She confided that she was contemplating yet was unsure. She admitted that she had asked me to come because the artist had suggested she model for him, yet she was hesitant.
My friend is gorgeous and successful. She has a strong personality, is no-nonsense, and has never been shy or indecisive. This was a side of her I had not seen.
She walked us to where the artist was immersed in his latest work and stated that I would model for him. That statement seemed to shake him out of his zone.  He looked up and asked enthusiastically how big my breasts, areolas, and nipples were. I answered all three questions. Then he asked to see them. That is when I blushed and said no. I thought I was ready, but apparently I was not as free-spirited as I thought.
I believe my interaction emboldened my friend, because she went to his bar, downed a shot of tequila, and undressed. I was surprised yet very proud of her. Her courage was admirable. The artist abandoned his work, and got a new large blank canvas.  He turned on the stereo to blues music and began prepping.  He instructed my friend to walk closer, turn her back, and look at him from the corner of her eyes with a coy smile.  She did as he requested and he began to create his art.  I watched transfixed this peaceful yet sensual scene before me.   There was such a pleasant energy exchange between the artist and his muse.  As I continued watching, I noticed a swing that hung behind where my friend stood posing.  I went over, got on it, and slowly pushed myself back and forth, enjoying the music and ambiance.  My action however stopped the artist in mid work.  He frowned and walked towards me.  I held my breath worrying that I interrupted his moment.   He took the swing seat in both hands and told me to undress.  I felt nervous yet his eyes calmed me.  I sensed something had inspired him further.  I cautiously took off my top, biting my lip.  He told me to continue and remove my skirt and panties.  I did with one hand as I held on to the rope with the other hand, never breaking eye contact with him.  When I was completely naked, he pulled the seat towards him while moving backwards and then he let go.

I was flying nude.

He returned to his work, drawing furiously as I swung back and forth, head tilted back laughing while my friend stood near smiling at my childlike abandon.  We were kids again at the playground, free of our adult restrictions and boundaries.

Lost in Translation – Part I

For a Mature Audience

I had a date to a dance theater.  My gentleman caller had planned a romantic dinner at a lovely restaurant and purchased front row seats to a sold out show.  The performance was an urban contemporary dance with an international dance troupe.   I knew my date didn’t care for this type of art, but he was pulling out all the stops to impress me. It was our third date and so far, I was very impressed.  I appreciated the effort he had put forth.  I was attracted to him because he was educated, handsome, and quite advanced in his career.  He was under 40 and had accomplished a great amount from a young age.  We had amazing conversations, and could talk about anything from politics to philosophy to the various arts.  We had not been intimate yet, but I felt tonight was the night.

He led me down the dark corridor of the theater, touching the small of my back.  We took our seats and he placed his hand on my lap, taking my hand into his.   The gesture was sweet and comforting.   The curtain rose to a dark stage.  Music began to play as shadowed figures appeared.  Suddenly a beam of light flashed as more dancers came into view.   The tempo quickened, with various people moving across the floor. 

I was drawn to him the moment he stepped on stage.  Our eyes connected and my heart began to beat to the rhythm of the music.  I unconsciously squeezed my date’s hand.  He squeezed back, perhaps mistaking my action for me inquiring about his enjoyment of the show.  At that moment, I did not care.  I could not take my eyes off this dancer.  He was exotic, fluid motions, moving his body to the music like waves on the ocean.  It was perfection.   I was so taken by him that everything around us disappeared.  There were no other dancers, no stage, no audience, no date.  Just he and I.  And he was dancing for me. 

My breath quickened, my chest rising and falling to his beat.  I was completely entranced.  He looked straight at me as he moved, communicating with me through his body.   As if in a spell, I led my date’s hand to the hem of my dress and slowly pulled it up.  I guided his hand up further, to my lace panties, gently pushing his fingers towards my center, all the while never taking my eyes off the dancer.  I was sensually intoxicated. The intensity of various sensations was incredible. I was overwhelmed with sight, sound, and touch.  I never wanted this to end. 

Without warning, my date pulled his hand away, smearing my wetness on my thighs.  I heard the sound of clapping from afar.  Yet it was getting louder, as if I was in a dream and slowly waking up.  I realized the dance had ended.  The curtains had gone down.  “Weren’t we being naughty,” my date chuckled. “It is intermission, can I get you anything?” His voice startled me out of a fog.  I wanted more of my private dancer.  I wanted to still be ensconced in my sweet reverie. 

I had forgotten how to speak.  I licked my lips, swallowed, and told him I needed go to the ladies room. He escorted me there.  I went into a bathroom partition and took off my wet panties, bewildered at how excited I had become.  I placed my intimates in my purse and walked to the faucet to splash cold water on my face.   What was wrong with me? How did I get so worked up?

Once we were back in our seats, I felt somewhat calm again.  Yet the music started, and my heart began to pound.  The dancers returned to the stage performing various acrobatic moves.  I spotted my private dancer as he did back flips across the floor.  My breath caught watching his powerful yet lithe form.  He continued on with more flips in the air as he exited the stage. 

No! Don’t go!  It was torture to have only glimpses of him.  I needed him to dominate the show.  I needed all of him.    

Luckily, I sighted him standing in the backstage.  He was breathing heavily as he pulled up his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and neck.  Time stood still as I watched sweat drip down his perfectly sculpted torso.  I could feel every drop roll up and down each muscle on his washboard stomach.  I wanted to taste those droplets.  Even though the dancing continued, I was riveted by what was occurring behind the scenes.   He turned and our eyes connected.  I felt a jolt of electricity run through my body. 

“The show is almost over.  We should leave as soon as the applause end to avoid traffic.”  My date shook me out of my fantasy once again.  The show was almost over?  How was time passing so quickly?  Oh, if I had an entire night of watching my private dancer, it still would not be enough. 

The remainder of the performance past in a flash.  The dancers took their bows.  My dancer stood on the far corner.  I was so saddened by this finale.  I was not ready to leave him.  Unfortunately, I had to go. 

My date drove me home, in a good mood, chatting away.  I nodded as if listening, yet only my physical body was present.  Everything else of me was still in the theater.  Once we reached my house, he turned off his car, leaned over and kissed me on the lips.  I closed my eyes, and my private dancer’s face came alive.  I became extremely excited, kissing him back hungrily.  I moaned into his mouth, which woke me from my trance.  I opened my eyes, and realized it was still my date.   Like a true gentleman, he unlocked his door, walked over to my side, opened the car door, and walked me to my house.  I expected him to want to come in.  Yet, he just kissed my hand and wished me a good night.    


To be continued…

Love that Spans the Ages

I finished a good workout at the gym tonight.  It was much needed after a very long day at work.   Rewarding myself with a smoothie, I went in search of a seat to relax and watch people play basketball.  I spotted an empty area on the bleachers next to an older white gentleman.  I went over to sit down as he said hello.  I smiled and responded and asked if anyone was sitting next to him.  He said it was open for me. 

I settled in and observed the adults and children dribble balls across the court.  I could not detect an actual game, just basketballs flying around.   Yet I began to sense the older gentleman staring at me.   My guard slowly went up, the deep worries I have now a days rising. 

Why is he looking at me? 

Is it because he sees that I am a minority? 

Is he trying to match my features to an ethnicity?  

Does he want to know what country I am from? 

Is he wondering if I am a refugee?  

Is he concerned that I may be an illegal alien and is he anxious to call someone immediately?


 “Do you come here often?” he asked.  Ok, so the questions have begun.  Maybe he is in search of an accent?

“I try to make it to the gym a few times a week.  Though it can be difficult at times.”  I glanced at him, noting he looked to be in his 80s with silky white hair and nice greyish blue eyes.  

“Are you from around here?”  Well thank goodness he’s being subtle instead of shouting ‘FOREIGNER’!

“Yes, I live nearby.”  I kept my responses short, and did not ask anything in return, not knowing where this was going. 

He volunteered his location.  A conservative rural area.

My heart started to beat faster.  I readied myself for a possible political debate, scanning my lethargic brain for rebuttals.  And here I was expecting a relaxing night.

“What do you do?”  Oh my, does he think I am unemployed and on welfare, abusing the system?  Does he want proof of my citizenship?  Who even carries that information on them?

I answered him.  He immediately followed up with how long I had been with my employer.

Is this what interrogation is?  Or is this the softer version of it?   

I responded and he came back with more questions. 

“Are you married?  Any children?”

My paranoia was running out ideas of what he could be thinking.  I answered both questions but had no clue how it would be perceived.    I braced myself for more probing.  I wish he would just come out and say what he truly wanted to say. 

Deep breath.  Be strong.  Stand your ground.  You can handle anything he has to say.    

“I was married to my wife for 60 years.”

Huh!?!  I didn’t expect this. 

“She was a wonderful woman.  I lost her a year ago.   We had a great marriage and two sons.”

Oh my God, I am going to cry.  This man was not interrogating me.  He was just being friendly, looking for someone to chat with.  I completely misjudged the situation, letting my fears run amok.

I turned to him and said, “I am so sorry for your loss.  How incredible that you had a 60 year love.  That type of devotion is rare.” 

“It took commitment and communication.  We both had to compromise for one another.  But it was worth it.”  I could sense the sadness in his words.       

“Do you live alone now or with family?”  I asked, hoping he had a support system around him. 

“I actually have a new lady friend,” he said with a bit of pride in his voice. 

I chuckled in surprise, “well good for you!  I am glad you have found someone that cares and is there for you.”

“But we do not live together.  We both have our own homes.  She sometimes comes over and I cook and I sometimes go over and she cooks. She wants to marry, but I am not ready yet.” 

His comment made me laugh. 

“Yes, we ladies, regardless of our age, do seem to want marriage.” 

He let me know that he and his lady friend video chat on their phones often when they are apart and that she is pressing for a June wedding.   

The surprises were endless tonight.  This older gentleman went from being a suspected foe to an actual friend.  A technologically-advanced Romeo no less, who is apparently enjoying his new found bachelorhood.   

Our encounter was heartening.  Two people of different generations, different ethnicities, different lives, different religions, different genders, sat together, smiled, laughed, and enjoyed each other’s company without the prejudice and bias that surrounds us.  Tonight we were just two friends.