When Robbie was here over Thanksgiving, he found a bottle of birch beer at a corner store near my house.  “Hey!” he called to me, holding it up.  “Look!  I’ve never had birch beer!”  His eyebrows did the hubba-hubba dance.

It wasn’t until a couple months later, long after he had left and abandoned the forgotten bottle of soda, that I, eager for something to soothe a stomach afflicted by flu, drank it down.  And that I realized why he had been so excited about it in the first place.

BIRCH beer.  Yeah, I get it now.


Excuse the delay in posting. I can–and will–explain.

Until then, I am doing something unprecedented–posting a piece of “new” media. I saw this on TV yesterday and my jaw dropped. Even my mother noticed something . . . odd . . . about it.


I’ve been putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) for going on three decades now. Like lots of bloggers, I write in “real life”; it’s a thing I do, for money, for kicks, and for my sanity. When I started writing here a few months back, I expected to have the kinds of profound, soul-searching feelings around writing I have always had, the angsty lows and giddy highs when contemplating what I was going to write or what I’d written.

Despite my New Age talk of making a “safe space” for myself, I didn’t particularly anticipate feeling any safer here than I do in my other writing. I figured it would be the same nerves in new bottles.

But writing like this has been gigantically freeing. I get to write things and hit “publish”. And–most unexpectedly–people stop by and read the things I write (or at least look at the pictures. Eye candy is my bribe).

Even more freeing–people respond, with kindness, and generosity. The comments I receive blow me away. I write something feeling like a complete mutant pervert from hell, engaging in the sort of relationship that only a self-loathing freak would engage in . . . and people cheer me on. Which is to say, it is really, really, really good having kinky friends and acquaintances.

(And it is fan-fucking-tastic to have a loving, kinky lover.)

Whether artistic, acrobatic, or arousing, daring dreams require some sense of safety, don’t they?

Images are from the wonderful “I dreamed I [blanked] in my Maidenform bra” ad campaign of the 60s and 70s–more of them here.