So this is how it ends

I suppose it’s time to write about it.
We broke up with Cherish a bit over a month ago. On Saturday 2 June, to be exact. It was hard. It was definitely harder on Cherish and Jared than it was on me but it was the right thing to do for a number of reasons:
  1. She has/had anxiety issues and depression and the complicatedness of what we were doing was making her unstable. We were actually worried for her mental health and her personal wellbeing. I’d been telling her for weeks to see someone (a therapist) and I think she finally was able to have her first appointment on Tuesday
  2. My personal reason, aside from her mental health, was that she wasn’t the right fit for me. I was never going to get the mental connection I needed from her, whether it was the age difference or just a mis-match in personalities, I just couldn’t gel with her. I felt like her mum or her big sister, not her girlfriend. I had hoped that the connection would come with time but now I don’t really believe that. I think you either click or you don’t and, while we did in some ways, it wasn’t enough or it wasn’t the right kind of connection for me to continue the relationship
  3. Jared’s reasons – I have a rough idea what they are but I won’t speak for him aside to say that it wasn’t just my decision. We both agreed that it wasn’t working and, when we spoke to Cherish about how much the relationship was stressing her out, she agreed, as much as it hurt her to admit it.
So that happened. We told her on the Saturday night and made her stay over with us because we were worried what she might do to herself if she was alone. Jared then had family stuff to do the next morning so her and I had a bath and talked and then watched
The Handmaid’s Tale (nice light viewing, I know). She started to pack up her things and got upset again. Eventually, she had a nap. Jared had made plans for us to do dinner with some friends but she didn’t want to go so we went and, while we were gone, she went home.
We all work together so we saw her that week at work, which was tough. We already had tickets to go to a masquerade ball on the Thursday after we broke up, which we all still went to. We all got pretty wasted and Cherish ended up screaming at me on a main road for being ‘cold to her at work’, amongst other things, which was not fun. The night deteriorated from there really although we did end up on decent enough terms for her to end up back at our place (with other friends) until about 5am.
We were then all meant to go on holiday together to Hobart the following week. Cherish decided it probably wasn’t a good idea for her to come (a good decision in the end, I think). It was sad waking up without her on that first morning, realising she wasn’t going to be with us anymore.
But, if I’m honest, for me the overwhelming feeling has been of relief. I know that perhaps makes me a cold hearted bitch but, if I can’t be honest here, where can I be. I wanted a girlfriend, a partner, but I felt like I’d adopted a child (and I do not like children). I wanted to be with someone confident, someone who knew who they were and would contribute to our relationship, rather than just ‘be in it’. I felt like she was a passenger more than anything else, when what I wanted was a co-pilot. It just wasn’t right and, yes, I do feel bad for breaking it off but I honestly don’t feel like we treated her like a second class citizen or a secondary partner, it just wasn’t working because we weren’t the right fit for each other.
The whole thing lasted just over 3 months and, while there were some amazing times, there were also some very tough ones. It made me question myself so much. At times, I felt pushed so far beyond my boundaries, mainly because in many ways I felt like the outsider. I felt like her and Jared had this amazing connection and I didn’t and it upset me because I was the one that wanted that kind of relationship with another woman but wasn’t getting it. Of course, there was some jealousy. As much as I want to deny that, I can’t. There was some but mostly it was a feeling of being left out. As it turns out, Jared wasn’t having the idyllic experience I thought he was but, regardless, his was closer to a real relationship than mine was. But let’s not make it a competition, shall we?
Towards the end, the hardest thing was the sex. Jared would always come with Cherish. He would always reach for her first. He would always make an effort to make me come (or she would) but they would always finish together. I think maybe two times he came with me and that was only because she didn’t want to participate. For me, the most intimate part of sex is coming together or having Jared come in me and, for three months, I didn’t get that although I watched him have it with her. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt so badly about it if the two of us (Jared and me) were having sex but we weren’t (for various reasons).
I actually cried after the first time we had sex after the break up because I’d missed that connection so much. For so long, I’d felt like I was on the outside, always a participant or an observer, but always excluded from that final, most intimate of moments. I also acknowledge that the the whole sex thing put a lot of strain on Jared because he knew how I was feeling and had this pressure on him to make us both come. I can come reasonably easily but I wanted him to come with me every now and again. Cherish could only come from anal sex so I couldn’t make her come so it was really all on him and he wasn’t happy unless we were both happy. I get it, it wasn’t easy on him either and I guess that’s another reason it all fell apart.
So now it’s over and we’re left with the aftermath. We all work together and are civil and can talk to one another. Cherish is (currently) planning on coming to a concert with us that we’d all bought tickets to before we broke up. That’s in August so a fair bit off yet. She’s taking care of herself and seems to be more mentally stable and is much happier.
To me, the real damage seems to lie with me and Jared and, whether it’s due to the break up or just us, I don’t know but we’re not the same. We barely talk. We don’t fuck. We spoke about it in Hobart, that we can acknowledge that it’s just a hard time and try not to put too much pressure on one another while we work it out. But how long does that last for? We’re both so busy with work and, with Jared maybe opening a new venue this year, I don’t see that getting any easier. How do we find ‘us’ again after everything that’s happened?
And there’s more I should tell you, I suppose. More personal things that affect only me and Jared and have nothing to do with Cherish but those are things for another post. For now, this is enough. It has to be.

“I want my mum”

“I want my mum” is something I say to myself when I’m feeling really low. Usually when I’m crying, often in the bathtub. Have I painted a sad enough picture for you yet? Yes? Ok good, let us continue.

I say it but it’s not a real statement for me. More just a general expression of sorrow, loneliness and despair. My mum hasn’t really been that person for me for a long time. She was when I was little but, from my teens onwards, not so much. When I was a teenager, my mum was addicted to marijuana and it would send her into a psychosis where I wouldn’t know whether I would get “normal” mum who would listen and be reasonable (the epitome of the “cool mum”) or “fire and brimstone” mum who would quote bible verses at me and just generally be weird and sometimes inappropriate. Talking-to-your-teenage-daughter-about-the-anal-sex-your-husband/her-step-father-tried-to-force-you-to-have-the-previous-night kind of weird. Yeah, not exactly standard dinner table stuff. Honestly, I think she was just lonely and didn’t have anyone else to talk to – but also, sometimes just plain crazy from all the weed she smoked.

Anyway, as I said, I say it but it’s not like I’d call her in times of distress. I don’t really know who that person is for me. For a long time, I just took care of myself. I didn’t like to ask for help. I didn’t want people to know if I was hurting or if they’d hurt me. I was my own tiny little fortress that no one got to know what went on inside. In some ways, I still am that little fortress and in other ways not.

I probably have one, maybe two friends that I discuss some things with. With Jared, we obviously discuss our things but, in many ways, I’m more free to talk to my girlfriends about these things because it’s not as personal with them. Sometimes these things are sensitive and they can make people defensive so it’s easier to talk to someone that it doesn’t affect directly, someone that isn’t going to feel criticised or attacked or inadequate (or any number of other negative adjectives/verbs/whatever – pick one, go for it).

And then there are other things that I absolutely cannot speak about to anyone. Or I haven’t yet anyway. Because to say these things would be to breathe life into them. No matter who I say them to, they’re then out there, floating around in the world, free from the prison of my mouth and real. Because you can’t take some things back. You can think them over and over and over again. Roll them around in your head the way you would a lollipop in your mouth. Tongue the idea, take your time to see if it has merit or if you’re just being stupid, emotional, low.

But you can’t say them. Maybe not ever but at least not until you’re one million percent sure because sometimes these things can be life changing and the minute they leave your mouth you might realise you were wrong but by then it’s too late. The damage is done. You can’t stuff the words back into your mouth and swallow them whole, choke yourself on your own idiocy. Sadly, no. This doesn’t work. I promise you this.

And so I think these thoughts. And I think of my mum, who I will never call (not for help in this regard anyway). And I don’t tell anyone because I know the story of Pandora and the box and I know it doesn’t end well (for anyone).

Yeah, yeah, I know it’s been ages

It’s apparently been five months since I’ve posted to this blog and – yep, it definitely feels like that long. A lot has happened, not gonna lie. I suppose I’ll have to work my way through it as time goes by. I keep telling myself ‘tonight’s the night I’m going to go back to writing’ and every night I just end up wrecked from work and crashed out on the couch watching TV or reading (I’m re-reading It at the moment). Energy levels have not been conducive to writing although the thought is there – not that that helps!

So, what’s happened?

In chronological order:

  • I’ve developed a thing for latex. I bought a black latex pencil skirt before we went on holiday and I loved how it felt (and looked – my ass looks fucking incredible in it, not going to lie) so much, I bought another skirt the other week (a blue pencil one with a full length zip up the back) as well as a black lace up corset. I had plans to buy a full latex outfit – matching skirt and top – to wear at a NY party we were going to throw but we’ve canned that idea so I’m reconsidering buying the outfit (turns out latex isn’t cheap – but goddamn, it looks good)
  • We had a week-long fling with a friend we met up with in Barcelona. She’s in an open marriage, which adds an interesting element, but we haven’t seen her since we got back to Sydney (she travels a lot and lives on the South Coast). I think she’s the first person I’ve see Jared really quite like and develop a connection with so that has been interesting for me (and also for him, no doubt)
  • We had a foursome and a fivesome that both included other MEN (the foursome was two girls, two guys and the fivesome had an extra girl). Anyone who has been reading (or, more to the point, anyone who actually remembers what I used to write about) knows that our ‘arrangement’ was always open to other girls but never guys, as Jared wasn’t comfortable with me being with another man and isn’t actually into guys himself.

    Well. That has changed (not the into guys bit, sadly). We’d spoken about it a lot and I think the fact that our Barcelona fling is in an open marriage with someone he knows and respects gave him a bit of a different perspective on things. I think it definitely helped that the guys were of absolutely no ‘threat’ to him but still, it happened and there have been no negative consequences from it for us.

    For me, I wasn’t particularly attracted to either guy but was more interested in having the experience. Both to see how Jared would react seeing me with another guy and also my reaction – how would I feel during and after sleeping with another man? These being the first men that I’ve slept with, besides Jared, in nearly 12 years. If I’m perfectly honest (as I like to be here), the foursome was ok. The sex with the other guy was average but the group interaction was pretty hot. The fivesome – I was not into the guy at all. I didn’t feel pressured at the time but, after the fact, I have felt quite grossed out by it. Not that anything was actually gross about it – just that I don’t find him attractive and the thought of him touching me is highly repulsive. His girlfriend is super hot though and the sex Jared had with the other girl (the third girl) was pretty intense, if a bit distracting for us other participants (the girl was quite noisy – and a really aggressive kisser – but maybe that wouldn’t have bothered me so much if I was more into what I was doing).

    All in all, I think it was good to do but, if we ever do it again, I will definitely be demanding that the guy is someone I’m into otherwise it’s not on. I just can’t get into sex with someone I’m not attracted to – whether that’s physically or mentally, and in this case, I had neither

  • I bought a new sex toy, something that’s supposed to work for the g-spot (yes, I’m still chasing that elusive g-spot orgasm). I’ve only tried it once so far and it was fun but Jared was the “driver” and I think I need to spend some time alone with it so I don’t feel rushed or under pressure. When this is going to happen, I do not know as every time I think to use it, it’s run out of charge so I have to charge it but by the time it’s charged my playtime window has passed *sigh* First world problems
  • A girl we used to see back in the day (I’d have to go searching for her code name, I can’t remember it), and also 1/4 of the foursome we had, has since started working at one of Jared’s bars, which has lead to a flurry of fantasy activity on my part (you may or may not recall my very strong cuckquean tendencies). She has a boyfriend now (yes, the other 1/4 of the foursome) but regardless my mind does tend to wander with thoughts of secret trysts in bathrooms, basements and tiny management offices while I work diligently upstairs, totally unaware of what my husband and her are up to mere metres away. As I said, the flurry of fantasy activity is well underway.

That’s it for the moment. I will do my best to get back to a regular schedule. I really want to start my erotic fiction again. As a teaser, here’s something I wrote when I first started posting erotic stories on here back in 2015 (fuck, that sounds so long ago now!) and it just so happens in ties in relatively well with my ‘flurry of fantasies’ mentioned above. I present to you:

I haven’t written anything erotic for a long time but here goes…

I prefer the company of men

Ever since I hit my teens, I’ve found that I’ve gotten along better with guys than girls. I’m not talking sexually here (although I’ve had more experience with there them too) but purely on a friendship basis. I hung out with the boys a lot in school. I was a bit of a tomboy and a smart arse so I enjoyed the banter that existed in the groups of boys on the playground. My best friend in high school was a guy. As an adult, one of my oldest and best friends is a guy (he was also maid of honour at my wedding) and I generally get along better with and enjoy the (platonic) company of men more than women.

Jared often says I should have more female friends or develop closer female relationships but I’m not sure I agree. I do have close friendships with women – I have a few women that I would consider very close to me and I have other female friendships that are maybe not so close but that also exist on a one-on-one basis (as someone that considers themselves an introvert, one on one friendships are the most valuable to me). But overall, I click more easily with guys. It’s the easy going, constantly-giving-one-another-shit nature, the lack of drama, the ‘got your back-ness’ of the mateship you see between men that appeals to me.

Or perhaps this says more about the types of friendships I’ve had with women. Lord knows I’ve known a lot of unstable women yet I’m sure there are just as many men cutting around who are shit friends. The thing is I know there are rock solid female friendships out there, I even have a few of my own but they exist as anomalies for me. I feel that the women that are close to me are that close because they’re not your typical women (or not what I consider typical for a female friendship). That’s why we get along so well. I’m not a girly girl and I find I have very little in common with the types of girls that are.

But it’s not even so much the friendship, it’s the company. If I’m in a room and there’s a group of girls and a group of guys, I’m going to gravitate to the guys, even if it gets me dirty looks from the women’s side of the room. A girls’ night out would have to be one of my worst nightmares. I think a lot of people are deeply suspicious of this kind of transgression of the perceived ‘friendship gender divide’. I’m sure many people have suspected me of being more than friends with many of my guy friends because, deep down, we think women should be friends with women and men with men. Why are they so damn close if they’re not fucking or working up to it (or at least one of them is)? We don’t think men and women can be friends without sex entering the picture at some point. Full disclosure, I did sleep with my high school best friend but frankly I just went along with it because to turn him down would’ve been too much trouble and doing it didn’t bother me that much.

For me, I take friendship as it comes. If I click with someone, I click with them and it doesn’t matter what gender they are. I’m fully aware that I’m a prickly enough person, a “tough nut” as a few of my bridal party mentioned in their speeches at our wedding, to not hit it off with all that many people so, when I do, I take notice. To be able to say I have super close friendships, to my mind, is the most important thing and it doesn’t matter to me whether they’re guys or girls. It matters that they’re real friends; the type of friends I can rely on to make me feel better after a shit day or have deep and pointless conversations with about everything and nothing. And if it’s a guy that’s on the other end of that text message instead of a girl, well so be it. I’m more than ok with it.

Sometimes I miss stripping

I’ve been quite nostalgic about stripping of late. It’s been eight or nine years since I stopped but somehow my sister’s convinced me to take a pole dancing class with her once a week. The classes make me feel terribly unfit and uncoordinated, mostly because I’m not half as strong, flexible or graceful as I used to be. Usually I wear gym gear but yesterday I felt inspired to get into costume. I dug out a pair of mesh, frilly panties, a sheer black top and my old pair of 7″ silver glitter stripper heels. Gosh, they must be at least 12 years old now. It’s a wonder they didn’t crumble into dust!

Clothed a bit more appropriately for the task at hand, I almost felt the part as I strutted my way into class. I wasn’t able to get totally back into character (Jay and Mia were my stripping alter egos, depending on which club I was at) but I definitely felt like I belonged on that pole a little bit more than when I was wearing a singlet, gym shorts and bare feet. The stripper shoes make all the difference, I’m telling you.

Then last night, I went down a rabbit hole watching the amazing pole goddess in the video below. There was another video on FB that was EPIC – find her, her name’s Daria Chebotova – but I couldn’t figure out how to get the link and it’s not on YouTube, as far as I can see. It was posted on Tuesday or Wednesday and features two girls in gold and black costumes. Holy fuck. Ah-mazing. Still this one is pretty awesome too and the song is perfect. Makes me miss being on stage and feeling at one with the music and sexy as fuck. Not that I was quite as spectacular as this woman but still… I’m a good dancer, if I’m allowed to say that. 🙂

Then the other week, I saw a photo from the theatre production of Closer and that took me back as well. In the photo, it’s the strip club scene where Alice/Jane is standing over Clive’s character (can’t remember his name). She’s facing away from the camera and all you see are the backs of her legs and him sprawled on the couch below her. The positioning of the actors and placement of the camera make Alice/Jane seem totally in control. You might be more familiar with the movie version with Natalie Portman and Clive Owen. I’ve included a still from the movie, couldn’t find one from the play.


I think many people think of stripping as something male driven. And in many ways it is. If men didn’t want to spend money watching naked women, the industry wouldn’t exist. If they didn’t want to spend it on you specifically, you wouldn’t make any money. But what a lot of people don’t realise is that it’s often the women that are the aggressors. They approach the man while on stage or while on the floor. They talk him into spending money he may not otherwise have spent. Yes, men will often approach you for a dance but a lot of the time it’s because of the connection you made him feel while you were dancing on stage.

Once you get in the private room, yes he’s paid for your time but it’s only the very rude men who try to tell you what to do. Most just watch in silence or chat with you but rarely will they make a specific request and, if they do, it’s usually done very politely. If he misbehaves, you can call security at any minute and have him unceremoniously ejected from the premises, never to return. Men know this. And they also know they’re not getting a refund. This has been my experience anyway.

There are many things I don’t miss about stripping: the late nights and unhealthy lifestyle, the financial instability, the incessant small talk with people I had nothing in common with. But there are other things I do miss: being on stage, essentially dancing and entertaining for a living, the costumes and outfits, the socialness of working (and playing) with all the girls and most of the customers, the money.

You might think I’m contradicting myself by mentioning the money and financial instability but I’m not. I made heaps of money, very easy money, but you were never guaranteed anything (some clubs gave you a retainer on certain nights but it wasn’t much). You had to work for every penny and, if you had an off night or it was quiet, you made nothing. That’s what I mean by money being a pro and a con. I always made enough but I was never sure I was going to – not like when you have a ‘real’ job that pays a set wage every week.

Also, the confidence. You feel like a fucking goddess while you strip and sadly life outside the club isn’t quite like that or, at least, not every day. 😉 I feel like a get a tiny whiff of that feeling during pole class sometimes when they’ll show us a move I already know or we’re doing floor work (I’m still kind of ok at that). But maybe it says more about me that that kind of confidence boost comes from having people watch me and desire me in such an blatantly sexual manner.

Maybe I’m ruined for real life, which is a problem because I’m going to a whole bunch of burlesque shows this month, including seeing Dita Von Teese which I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED ABOUT!!! However, this sexual entertainment overload means my nostalgia will be pretty much constant. Someone asked me if I wanted to topless waitress at their bar for some event they’re having and I actually considered it (am considering it). Maybe I’m just missing excitement in my life and, by ‘excitement’, I mean that feeling of being sexy and desired that stripping runs hand in hand with.

Well now, this isn’t quite where I thought this post would end up. Although, I kind of like it when this happens. It’s like writing/typing through my thoughts.

Image credit: Giphy

My life on drugs

So… I have not been all that successful in my quest to be drug free. My life is not suffering overly but I know it would be – I would be – a lot better if I could exert some willpower every now and again. It’s not even so much the drugs as it is the side/after-effects – the black outs, the mood swings, the lack of motivation and depression. These are the things I hate and wish I could avoid but sadly doing drugs just doesn’t work that way for me.

I had my second session with my therapist today. She seems to think I’m not at that critical point where I want to change. I’m not ruining my life. My job isn’t suffering (much). At this moment, the only person I’m hurting is me (and maybe Jared when he worries about me) but I seem to feel that the high is worth the hurt. So far. Why can’t I find a way to do drugs without all these terrible side effects? I’m sure every person who has ever done drugs/drunk alcohol and suffered a comedown/hangover has asked the same thing? Why can’t I do it in moderation? Again, drugs don’t work like that. At least, not for me.

I’ve always been around drugs. My mother has smoked weed for as long as I’ve known her. Many people think of weed as a harmless drug and, in moderation, I’d agree. But she didn’t smoke in moderation and, right around the time I hit my teens, she had what I like to think of as a schizophrenic break (because I’m a trained psychologist ;)). During this time, which lasted a few years, she varied between being my regular, awesome mum and a crazed religious fanatic who spouted Bible verses at everyone. Also, she barely ate and withered away into a skeleton because, when you smoke weed heavily for an extended period of time, it suppresses your appetite (so long, munchies). That’s what this story is about. For the record, she’s fine now (although she still smokes occasionally).

Still, I chose to do drugs. I smoked weed with my mum. I came to Australia and did speed and pills and coke. I ate my first line of speed because I was too scared to snort it (ahh, innocence). I was so high on MDMA that I don’t remember my first line of coke (given to me to ‘straighten’ me up). In the depths of my drug addiction, I partied three to four nights a week and was scared to fall asleep because of the terrible nightmares I had. When I was awake, I could barely eat because my stomach was so shrunken from my steady powder and pill diet. I lost my job as an escort because I did too many drugs and lost too much weight (I dropped down to 35 or 36kgs). I was nearly evicted from my first apartment because I chose to party before paying my rent. I woke up to realise that the people I thought were my friends were not my friends and I was alone and about to be homeless. I was 19 at the time and that was my wake up call to get my fucking shit together. And I did.

But what does ‘having your shit together’ really mean? I have never been totally drug free (as in for more than say a month at a time) and I’ve rarely been able to do them in moderation. Why is it becoming such an issue now? Is it that my brain is finally unable to produce enough chemicals to keep the highs and lows relatively in check? Is it an age thing? A long-term-recreational-user thing (scary thought). I’m older and supposedly wiser but still I do this ultimately because it’s still fun. I’m 33 now. When will it stop being fun? What will be my wake up call this time?


Well, as much as I was enjoying my nice little run of being ‘(mostly) drug-free and loving it’, I fell off the horse in spectacular fashion on Thursday night and have been beating myself up over it ever since.

Backstory: I went to dinner and a concert with a girlfriend. I had a cocktail and glass of wine over dinner while drinking plenty of sparkling water. I had a can of cider and a bottle of water during the concert. Then my girlfriend went home and I met up with another friend for his birthday. While walking over to meet the birthday crew, I promised myself that I would drink lots of water and go home once the bar they were at closed at 1am. Cue cocktails, drinks and me not wanting to go home. Also, cocaine. Then me getting home sometime after 5am. Goddammit.

The one upside is that I didn’t have to work on Friday but the downside is that I fucking broke my promise to myself and bailed on all the social activities I had planned for the weekend (including a friend’s bday party). Add to this the fact that Friday was spent unable to move from the couch due to extreme nausea (and one turbo-spew containing buffalo mozzarella and raspberries, sorry TMI). I haven’t felt that (physically) bad after a big night in years.

Once upon a time, I used to spend the whole next day vomiting into my friend the big, blue bucket, even if I had no more than one tiny bump of cocaine. Somehow my brain decided that the high of the drug was worth the extreme low of the comedown (go figure). I had a whole bunch of tests to try and figure out what it was when the solution was probably as simple as maybe just stop doing cocaine, as one doctor flat out said to me. Ha. And then, one day, the vomiting-post-coke magically disappeared and I took that as a green light from my body to do as I pleased. Until now.

Maybe this will wake me the fuck up. I HATE feeling nauseous and throwing up. It’s the WORST feeling. I could barely move without feeling sick. I couldn’t eat. I had to beg Jared to bring me some pho so I could sip the broth until my stomach got used to it and I felt brave enough to try solid food. And then of course there’s the crushing depression and disappointment with oneself, which is actually worse. I let people down. I let myself down. I wasted two perfectly good weekend days. Days when I could have been writing or working on my assignments. In fact, I wanted to write but just couldn’t motivate myself to do anything aside from feeling sorry for myself.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Maybe this extreme reaction is a good thing and now, when I think of doing coke, I’ll remember how shit I felt. But then of course there’s MDMA and I’m sure my brain will convince me that throwing up that time was just a one off. Hmmmm… No, I’m going to give myself the benefit of the doubt. I remember how good I felt all week when I wasn’t hungover or coming down and I remember this weekend and how that was exactly the opposite of what I want to feel. I’ll give myself a chance at redemption. Come on, Nat. You can do this.