When Your Innocence Dies | 1995 series

Sunday May 3, 1995
2.15 P.M.
.
It’s probably a good thing, I waited until today to write. Just a few hours ago, I was still convinced I was going through a change of personality.
Feeling all feminine and flowery, and Laura Ashley-like to a degree that was entirely not me, but that I for some reason suddenly aspired to become.

And it wasn’t just because my former long-term lover Bear called me, although that certainly didn’t help.
I felt very relaxed talking to him, in my newly found toned- down, softened state.
As if I could finally compete with whomever it was I needed to compete with this time.
Because I had the feeling his monogamy is coming to an end, or has already been broken.

Technically, I don’t know the details now anymore than I have done in the 5 years we were “together”.
Aside from the few odd months when I didn’t see him, and suspected it was because he was monogamous.
It’s not that I don’t endorse that, it’s just that for me, it’s not very interesting.
I’d much rather have him not choosing me, when he’s single or if there are multiple women involved.
Sometimes I surprise myself, how competitive I am. Even when I m obviously losing because he broke up with me last December.
Aside from the very occasional phone call, or the even more infrequent time we see each other for a cup of coffee, there is barely any contact with me and Mr.Bear.

And yet, the moment I feel he’s coming from a place of strength, I can feel that old sexual tension flaring up between us.
The game of poker, where I – you know, I wanted to say “pretend”? Where I pretend to support him? But that’s not true at all. I actually do support him.
It’s just that supporting a monogamous relationship is not very exciting.
And I love it when I get the feeling he’s all tangled up in exciting things, because then at least there’s something to fight over. 

I remember his periods of monogamy, in however few words they were marked or mentioned, as a time-out.
Recovery time.
Someone taking himself out of the game.

But something about the way he called me last time, convinced me he was back into it.
And that the pieces had been moving on the board.
My instincts told me, he had introduced another piece on it, another woman.
Someone who wasn’t me, obviously.
I think I should have been furious, insecure or insulted. Having him break up with me in December, because he was going into a real and serious relationship where he felt a lot of responsibility, leaving me man-less, lover-less, sex-less;
Only to then choose someone else to break his monogamy with.  

Again, assuming I read between the lines correctly. He didn’t say anything.

But regardless of what he had or had not already done on the side, my dominant emotion was:
“Damn! You’re back on the board, aren’t you?”
Meaning:
A chance to be with man, not without.
With lover, not without.
With sex.
A chance to not “celebrate” my Year Without Sex, in July.

Yes…. it was a good day to feel all feminine and soft, when I picked up the phone.
That was something he could not prepare for. An energy I don’t usually have.
And although I ve now realized this entire Little Miss Cute charade, needs to go Pronto!, it was a nice thing to have, for a few days.

Because I tracked it this morning. When did it start? Was it when he called?
And I discovered it wasn’t.
A few hours before his call, I had been walking around the flea market, on Queens Day.
And I was browsing for movies on VHS.
And whether by chance or because I was feeling all Pretty in Pink already, I ended up buying movies particularly aimed at women.
I liked adding them to my collection, and yesterday I watched Dirty Dancing – more about that later.
But this afternoon, I knew:
No.
Gotta go.
Great thing, as a social experiment, to dabble with feeling feminine once in a while. And what a coincidence Bear called; That conversation was definitely won by me.
But – Don’t make a career out of it.
Don’t get used to it.
Don’t make any plans that involve:
“And then there was Lauren, who looked so sweet and kind, and she was such a good friend, loyal employee, warm and loving girlfriend.”
Fuck all that.

And I think the reason was, because that movie Dirty Dancing, describes exactly what happens to you, if you are a good girl.
One of the earlier scenes shows the girl carrying watermelons into a bar where everybody is dancing the twist, which was considered an erotic form of dancing in the 60s.
She’s not supposed to be there, nor to stay there after she’s made her delivery. But she does and when Patrick Swayze asks their mutual friend what “she” is doing here, she defends herself:
“I carried watermelons.”

That’s my future if I continue playing all innocent and sweet:
Feeling out of place, in a room full of people having fun.
And I m the one who doesn’t belong there.

I don’t care the girl gets the main prize; the man who dances so sexy, and who has a healthy dose of self-esteem, and takes good care of himself and will now take good care of her.

I can do without sex, without Bear, and without any man for the rest of my life, if it involves carrying watermelons, wearing pink, or dirty dancing.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living
.

Subscribe to 1995 

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When Your Innocence Dies  | “1995” 
is the second chapter to
1994 part 3: This Time I’m Staying 

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Twitter:

coming soon: new books

  1. ALL THE THINGS – unpublished work 2010 – 2020
  2. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The following English titles are also expected:
1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019

2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

New books will be added, as sites are being curated.

 

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‘Cause all these dreams are swept aside | 1995 series

Sunday morning April 26, 1995
9.45 A.M.
.
I know I shouldn’t be writing about my dream.
At the publisher’s, it’s one of the first things I have to send back to the author, in the unlikely event one of our novelists gets it into their head to use a dream as a way to tell the story.
I will defend myself, saying that it’s not a way to tell the story.
This is my actual dream.
This is my actual diary.
And therefor this is final.

I dreamed I was in a huge building, which was supposed to be buzzing with cultural activities, but now it was closed to the public.
I was on their top floor, which had like a triangular shaped roof or contained a lot of geometrical lines.
It was like an enormous tent; pitch black on one side, like the roof of a normal music venue, and bright glass on the other, like a museum.
But there was no one there, except me and two colleagues.
Both guys.
I don’t remember the exact dynamic, but we were all in different departments, neither one of us were directly working together.
But I forgot what my own profession was, and I also forgot what the profession was of the first guy.
There was a huge statue or object in the middle of the room, and I remember it as an enormous wooden boat; like one carved out of wood by indigenous tribes, but extremely large.
I had asked the first guy something, and he walked me in the direction of the statue, and told me the second guy would know.
The second guy was a DJ. He had been setting up his tables there, or had been rehearsing or practicing there.
It wasn’t for a show.
There would not be any shows for an indefinite period of time.
Yet he seemed happy, as if he had been doing something he liked and had achieved some sort of accomplishment. He was rolling up cables.
I think neither one of us were there doing our normal work (maybe the DJ was).
We all seemed to be trying to find something to do, despite the venue being closed.
In the dream I had a short conversation with the DJ, and then I had a final one with the first guy.
And then something strange happened.
I knew I was standing too close, and that I wasn’t supposed to. I excused myself and stepped back. He said something like “It doesn’t matter” or something. There had not been any sexual tension between us, it (coming closer) had just happened naturally because of the conversation we were having, or because of the topic. Or because I was illustrating something with my body or so.
I wasn’t deliberately coming close for personal reasons.
It’s just that I lived in a time when there was a disease and standing close to each other was enough to catch it.

I woke up and stayed in bed longer than usual, thinking about what it meant.
I have an aids phobia. Or I used to before I realized it was simply not an option to be safe all the time.
You know: Get one boyfriend, both stay monogamous
Especially him staying faithful to me would become a problem, because I would find that too boring.
Either way, to be really safe you’d either have to have all sex with protection, including oral; Or alternatively you’d both get tested and you can leave the condoms out.
But then you re stuck with this boring monogamous sex life that is never going to work.
I knew I had the choice between getting over my fears, or settling for a love life that I didn’t want.
And I don’t do settling.
So I got over it.

But when I talk about sex with others, I can still feel so clearly that I think about sex in an entirely different way than they do.
And it’s because of this phobia that once tried to force me into a life that wasn’t mine. It’s because of that, and because I conquered it, that I have a – I think you should call it “seriousness” – a certain seriousness and heaviness, that will always be tied to sex.
If you have to overcome your fear of death, in order to give a blowjob to your lover, you’re in it for real.
You’re not “fooling around” here.
You’re making partner choices that revolve around:
“Is this person worth taking the (small, calculated) risk of getting hiv, in the case a condom breaks or I give him a blowjob and that’s enough to do the trick?”
I never had a guy come in my mouth, but again: It could happen. Even by accident.

Overcoming death does not make your sex life easier, but it does make it more powerful. It provides meaning to something others might claim “just happened”.
With me, that is impossible.

Realizing sex could get you killed, prevents it from being something you’re going to regret later.
Having sex equals “I love you so much, or I want you so much, I’d die for it.”

I think what took me an hour of morning thoughts in bed, is realizing that in the time of the deserted venue and me and my two colleagues trying to have something to do, while not standing too close because of the danger;
I’d live in a time when everybody thought that.
I wouldn’t be the only one, who consciously took the risk of death;
Every man whom I had sex with, would have done the same.

And in its own, no doubt terrible fucked up way, that was an exciting thought.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living
.

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‘Cause all these dreams are swept aside  | “1995” 
is the first chapter to
1994 part 3: This Time I’m Staying 
+
Last night I wrote the introduction 

15 years of silence

New books will be added, as sites are being curated.

.
Twitter:

coming soon: new books

  1. ALL THE THINGS – unpublished work 2010 – 2020
  2. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The following English titles are also expected:
1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019

2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

 

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15 Years of Silence | 1995 series

Saturday evening April 25, 2020
9.45 P.M.
.
I’ve been here before.
I ve been here before numerous times.

The point when I realize staying in 2020 in the midst of this pandemic, is – firstly – not really an option.
It s going to drive me mad. But secondly, that it’s also not where I am supposed to be!
It is a sign that I need to go all-in on the project I started summer 2019, where I travel back in time to 1994.
By now it’s 1995.
.
I ve had numerous times, and I mean definitely even before the crisis gave me a REALLY good reason, multiple times when I knew:
I gotta leave.
I need to time travel to 1995 and only “visit” 2020, for example for work, or to post this blog post.
But that daily life needs to be designed around me being a 22 year old, working from home, and struggling with yoga, her love life, becoming a writer.
A life where I am tempted to start teaching yoga, at a local yoga studio with a super hot yoga teacher who looks like Jon Bon Jovi.
Try saying no to that.
By the way in real life, I have picked up teaching yoga; but it’s an online friends group.

.
I received a phone call tonight, someone I didn’t know asking to join. And it was exactly what I needed to firmly decide that I will not return to teaching public classes.
I have been toying with the thought of offering my online classes outside of the friends group, because obviously now would be a great time to attract a bigger audience. And theoretically, teaching online “should” allow for a broader range of students, than the former studio clients and friends I was teaching before C.
Even though the online classes started out as a substitute for that tiny inner-circle, it seems so very logical to make them more public.
Except of course, it’s not.
I was a yoga teacher for over 15 years and there is a reason I quit.

.
Whether online or in real life: I am not a yoga teacher teaching public classes. I retired from that officially in December, and the call tonight was a slap in the face to wake up from secretly dreaming of taking it bigger.
Having someone I didn’t know on the phone looking for a yoga class, caused a panic attack, which could only be soothed by frantically checking all my social media on my phone, when none of them had any notifications.
My “stimming” ( I still think panic attacks after social interaction occur because I m autistic) conflicted with my resolution to really finally go all-in on the 1995 project.
.
There was no reason at all to check my phone or scroll my feeds.
No reason, except from getting a panic attack from being called as a normal yoga teacher on a Saturday night and realizing that I do not want to be a professional yoga teacher ever again.
That if my small inner-circle groups generate enough money for me to live off, that’s great;
But I m not going to make myself available on the market as a yoga teacher.
I think it’s an extremely vulnerable, awful profession, for someone with my sensitivities.
I have no idea how I lasted 15+ years.
.
All I know is, if I had a chance to start all over, I would do it differently.
For example, if I was magically brought back to 1995, I would not become a yoga teacher.
.
Tomorrow I will travel to 1995, and tell them the news.
And that this time, I’m staying.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living
.

Subscribe to 1995 

The subscription button to this blog is on this page,
probably on the right.
15 Years of Silence  | “1995” 
is the introduction to
1994 part 3: This Time I’m Staying 

http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/LaurenandLulu
New books will be added, as sites are being curated.

.
Twitter:

coming soon: new books

  1. ALL THE THINGS – unpublished work 2010 – 2020
  2. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The following English titles are also expected:
1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019

2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

 

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Take that one to heart | “1994” series

Friday March 3, 1995
.
Does it require an explanation why I didn’t write, for two months?
Especially since my last entry early January ended with the militant:
“But I will put one foot in front of another, and become a writer.
Alone if I have to. ”
It hardly seems on point that I have not written anything since.
.
Well, yes and no.
.
I didn’t give up on the idea of becoming a writer but it turned out, no writing is required. Or even desired. Because I went through my old manuscripts and diaries and it’s all there.
An entire body of work, as if it dropped right out of the sky.
I honestly had no idea I had written that much. 
.
So I don’t need to write, in order to become a published writer.
I need to organize, curate, filter, edit, embellish, smooth out.
The finite conclusion really is, and I wish it wasn’t, that in order to become a writer I need to be doing the exact same work I do (still) to make a living.
The same work I hate so much.
Eight months since graduation, the loneliness is daunting and my ass feels like it will fall off one day. But I guess that is a shitty reason not to work on publishing my own books right?
Whether you re sitting down every night to write new work, or to edit your existing work, doesn’t really make a difference for the sagginess of your ass.
But it felt different though.
And the idea that my road to becoming a published author, included expanding my ass-sitting hours from 8 to 10, doing the same boring work I m already way overdue with and sick of, was not appealing. 
.
So although I was thrilled to find I was basically already done writing, the conclusion I had maxed out on my solitary desk-sitting-hours, and that something needed to change to avoid “death by copy editing”, was something I needed to come to terms with.
.
This weekend I will start looking for a new job. Something where I have to leave home for, see people, have a laugh or two.
But God, eight months in, and I have to start all over again.
So depressing.
In combination with my love life which has absolutely bottomed out since January, I really had little to be excited about.
.
Both the Slash painter and Bear are up till their necks into their responsibilities towards their families.
With Slash I kind of knew that of course, but nevertheless it still hurt.
And with Bear too, I just want to shake him up.
But I don’t know if I want to do that because I want to yell: “Pick me! Pick me!” or “Run while you can!”.
Or if it really is none of my fucking business how he chooses to live his life, and which responsibilities he accepts.
His purpose, what he has to do in this life; It really is none, NONE, of my business.
I know that, I do.
But sometimes I think I spent the last two months keeping myself from contacting him, and trying to get through to him.
Through to them.
.
It cost a lot of energy and I m still not “done” or at peace about Bear or Slash.
I find the whole situation extremely unsettling. But two months is enough, and I am no longer going to wait for them to change their minds.
I need to get on with my life.
Especially after news came about Slash.
.
It is tempting to go into detail as to how I found out about either one of them.
What was going on with Slash, what with Bear. Who told me what, what I heard from others, and what I picked up intuitively or even paranormally.

But it doesn’t really matter.
The stories are similar.
Both could have chosen for me, and both didn’t. And I didn’t do anything to change their minds.
Technically Slash doesn’t even know how I feel. I never said anything. I can still see his jacket covering my coats at December 31st when he came in to eat oliebollen but I never said it.
I still only think about Bear when I think of sex, but I never told him.
And besides, wouldn’t that be a reason for him not to see me?
That I m all about sex, and that it’s superficial and that he now wants a real woman with whom he can have a future together?
.
I think the difference between me and the men I m in love with, is that to me a man I have sex with, or want to have sex with, is automatically extremely meaningful to me.
They are different, they have a broader taste.
Slash dated many women before he was married for sure, and maybe even now. He could be having an affair with the bar lady from Warhol. It certainly seemed that way.

And Bear has always had other lovers throughout the five years we were seeing each other.
He seemed to have received a calling to settle down and get serious, but I don’t understand it because it’s so not him.
Or is it just so not me?
.
Am I projecting how special these men are to me, and my conscious choice for a tailor-made, unconventional sex life that honors what is, instead of working within the boundaries of what it is society wants from us? 
Is this all me?
.
After two months I ve decided I m done caring.
I m done thinking about it, done worrying about it and if they actually would need saving, I m the last person who should be doing that.
Because it would screw up what we have. It’s an entirely backwards power dynamic, if I start interfering claiming I know things better.
I always had faith in Bear making his own decisions. Always. There is no exception that says:
“Except when you don’t choose me.”
.
It is so simple that I can’t believe I actually spent two months wondering if I had to offer or say something. Or if they were going to turn around. 
It’s so disgusting.
.
Almost as disgusting as getting a saggy ass, not publishing my own books and having to write basically the exact same diary entry twice, two months after you already knew what you had to do.
.
Let’s get to work.
.
~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living
.

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probably on the right.
Take that one to heart | “1994” 
is the fifth chapter of
1994 part 2: A new life

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This blog is reserved for my retro series 1994 diary, where I translate everyday events back in time.
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2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

I remember when we met | “1994” series

I was archiving my spiral bound diary of 1994. When closing it, the first page fell open and it just broke my heart.
It had a quote from Bear.
It was from a conversation we had, about our dreams.
Or his dreams, which fascinated and inspired me.
It may have been why he was so irresistible to me; He just did his own thing and I seemed to have little impact on his life. We only saw each other when it suited him.
Which was another thing I liked, no one understood.
How could I not take initiative to see each other? And didn’t I want him to be there for me when I wasn’t doing well? How could I give him all the power, controlling everything?
That not having a say in whether or not we were going to see each other, was actually one of the most intoxicating things about it, baffled them.
I usually added that I would initiate contact sometimes, to ensure he didn’t feel excluded. But he rarely accepted the invitation.
Late 1993, he had taken his physical exercise to the next level. It didn’t seem to take him any effort. He had been training every day since October, November, and he had been keeping it up.
I immediately started dreaming what I would be able to achieve if I did that.

But Bear reminded me this wasn’t the first time I was inspired by his discipline. He said he would be more frustrating than inspiring me, since I seemed to be having so much trouble to stick to a regiment.
I denied and ensured him 1994 would be different.
Starting with quoting him on the frustration thing, at the beginning of my journal.
Only to not read it again until January 1995 when archiving the journal.
And suddenly I felt so guilty.
Not for not keeping my word to Bear – regardless if he would have been more inclined to stay with me and not break up if I had become more successful at my fitness dreams.
No.
I felt guilty for not backing myself up.
It wasn’t just the fitness.

I vowed to become a writer in 1994, and then didn’t.
It wasn’t all bad, don’t get me wrong. Both Bear and me finished our thesis and got our Masters. We both started our working lives as well.
And then a month ago he broke up, and now it’s January 1995, and I m like:
Where did the time go? Where did my dreams go to workout every day (in my case yoga) and to become a writer?
It was all so very sad.
How full of life I still felt one year ago. Everything Bear and me had been sharing. Our five years of being lovers felt like a heart shaped bubble. A curated experience like something you could put in a museum.
The intensity, and the beauty of it just brought tears to my eyes.
For the first time I cried, thinking about our years together, and that he had moved on. Wanted a family. Wanted normalcy. Didn’t want me anymore, the girl who had asked him to have her first time sex with.
Because her boyfriend had ended it, right before her 17th birthday, and she didn’t want to leave this to chance or let it fall into inexperienced hands.
I remember how a burden had been lifted from my shoulders, when I had found him.
Just like the past month after the breakup, I had been devoid of emotion, and I had been pragmatic about what needed to be done. I was young but I was determined to find someone skillful to give me the first time sex.
And took all the steps on instinct.
Bear immediately sprung to mind, because I knew him from stories from two friends and had seen him on a number of occasions. We had been briefly introduced but never really talked.
Bear had been sexually active, and was notorious for not committing. Through the two friends (I can’t remember which one) I got his telephone number, I came up with some kind of excuse for needing it.
I rang him up, explained who I was, and that I wanted to ask him something. But that I could only do it in person. We set a date to have coffee together, and I was business-like about what I wanted from him.
It wasn’t until he said Yes, that I broke into tears.
Suddenly all the tension of setting this up, the fear of staying a virgin far too long, grief of having lost Jonathan at such an important time;
It all came out.
“I m sorry,” I sobbed.
Bear just smiled and took my hands over the table. Touched my face. I wanted to crawl away, I felt so vulnerable. Bear tried to look me in the eye, but the more he tried to stay connected with me, the more I started to cry.
“It’s going to be fine, okay?” he finally said when I had calmed down a bit. “You trust me?”
I nodded.
“I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. Do you understand?”
I didn’t explain that I wasn’t crying because of him doing something. But out of fear of him not doing something. Out of fear of him changing his mind and leaving me hanging. And a virgin.
But just like the daily exercise, Bear did what he promised.
The first time we didn’t go all the way, but stuck to the things I was already experienced with. And the second time we had real sex.
It was extremely emotional. It had been such a big hangup for me, and at first I really thought it was that stress, why I was crying.
But it would stay that way.
The fucking brought out so much tension, I cried more often than not. I felt like a baby in his arms, and it was all okay. More than okay.
It was wonderful.
And now he has ended it.
And there is this bubble of beautiful memories, that will never go away.
Our first date he had ensured me he would never do something I didn’t want;
He held true to his word.
All the way up to the end.
As soon as he wanted a normal relationship and possibly a family, he asked me for a similar coffee date as I had five years ago.
And he left.
Bear was right. 1994 Was not the year he would inspire me to great heights, and became the source of frustration instead. Not because he had stuck to his exercise regime and I hadn’t. But because our time together had come to an end, and had left me empty handed.
Finding the quote in the diary was the first time I cried for our breakup.
For not backing myself.
For making resolutions I didn’t keep.
For not being a writer.
Not having a lover.
Everything.
After two days I decided enough was enough. I was only 22 years old, and I still had my life ahead of me. I took a piece of paper, and drew out what I wanted this year and also for the upcoming years. Just as Bear had done for his.
There were way too many blanks to my liking.
With whom was I going to make love?
Cry?
In whom would I trust?
It was an incredibly lonely exercise, and I can’t say that I’m suddenly healed and looking to the future with hope and dreams.
But I will put one foot in front of another, and become a writer.
Alone if I have to. 
.
~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living
.

Subscribe to 1994 

The subscription button to this blog is on this page,
probably on the right.
I remember when we met | “1994” 
is the fourth chapter of
1994 part 2: A new life

For the real current-day me: 
subscribe to YouTube for My Life in Bon Jovi songs.

Follow on Facebook or Twitter,
NEW connect on Linkedin

diaries en erotica are available in my BOOK SHOP

25% discount on all prices
If you check your cart, you can select your store
f.e. Nederland or United States
with the flag in the upper right corner.

coming soon: new books

1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

Sexual Innuendo | “1994” series

I finally cracked the code why the sexual tension keeps on building between the Slash-like painter I’m in love with, and me.
When we both seem very determined not to throw any fuel on any fire.
Want to guess?
Here’s what I wrote about the last time I saw him:
A Warm Safe Place | “1994” series

It was all extremely respectable.
So then why can’t I stop thinking about him?
Why do I keep having the feeling him raising his hand wishing me a happy new year and good luck with the cats, is not going to be the last time we see each other?

And even more so, that the tension not just keeps on building despite both of us not acting on it;
But because of it.
Our “distant” dynamics are like buckets of gasoline thrown straight onto the fire.
But why? Now I know why.
And I also know what either one of us would have to do to break the spell;
And that neither one of us, is going to do that!
But before I get into that, I want to first explain why things have gotten so heated.
.
Okay. So for starters, even though Slash and me seem to be behaving identically, we are both playing a different role. It only looks as if we re both distant, formal even.
But underneath the surface, our roles are different from each other…
Very, different.
When Slash holds his distance, sidelines me by letting me know he s married, tries to hook me up with his colleague even, he does it from a position of taking the lead.
His actions say: “I have no room for you in my life.”
He keeps it clear that our chance encounter when he painted my balcony was a one-off thing. The click between us might have taken him by surprise at the time, but that he s going to leave it at that.When he avoids physical contact and proximity for example by choosing to sit at the table instead of next to me on the couch, he s saying:
“I like you, but I m not going to act on this. And I want to be clear on that.”

However, that is not what my distance means.
My distance means:
I respect you.
I will never initiate.
You decide.
You don t owe me an explanation.

His distance communicates he s not available. But inadvertently (or intentionally?) makes him dominant.
My distance communicates I respect his choices, but also that I comply to his wishes.
It makes me submissive.

No wonder his rejection and my cooperative understanding have turned into a highly volatile situation.
He s taking the lead and I m complying.
It s like mini-sex.

Having said that, it is now blatantly obvious how either one of us can break the spell effectively: By breaking pattern.
The moment I try to seduce him or take initiative either sexually but especially verbally, by speaking to him about my feelings;
The spell is broken.
And vice versa the moment he puts me in the lead, for example by claiming to be overwhelmed by his feelings for me, or complaining he does not know what to do:
The magic is gone.

The reason I think neither one of us will let the magic die out by talking about it, is because we are both fascinated by it.
Even if we don t act on it.
Maybe especially then.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living..

Subscribe to 1994 

The subscription button to this blog is on this page,
probably on the right.
Sexual Innuendo | “1994” 
is the third chapter of
1994 part 2: A new life

For the real current-day me: 
subscribe to YouTube for My Life in Bon Jovi songs.

Follow on Facebook or Twitter,
NEW connect on Linkedin

diaries en erotica are available in my BOOK SHOP

25% discount on all prices
If you check your cart, you can select your store
f.e. Nederland or United States
with the flag in the upper right corner.

coming soon: new books

1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

A Warm Safe Place | “1994” series

This may be the best January 1st in the history of my entire 22 year old existence.
And I am not sure why, because I am in an impossible position.
This is not one of those happily ever after stories because even if I would end up happy, others would not.

Technically, I could see how everybody could live happily ever after.
But since even Bear has set himself up for a life of monogamy and normalcy, I have given up on the idea that men can love multiple women, without blowing it with one of them. Or both of them.

It’s not that I cannot see how a marriage does not have to blow up if your Slash-like husband has fallen in love with a rock chick whose balcony he painted this summer:
It’s just that it’s not the most likely scenario.
And a hurt, angry wife, a divorce and children caught in the middle, is.
Yet I seem unbothered by this horror scenario.
Probably because I m still under the spell. His spell. Rationally I can see this is going to be a mess but emotionally I m in way over my head.
Because I encountered the Slash-like painter on the last day of 1994 with a bag of oliebollen (a Dutch treat for New Year’s Eve) in our building.

He was just on his way out.
I came home from shopping for my first New Year’s Eve when I was going to be all by myself. I have my own apartment, so I no longer have housemates. And I have cats now, and didn’t want to leave them alone with all the fireworks.
Slash threw me a big smile when he saw me and said:
“I left something at your door. I hope you don’t mind.”
The company he works for were delivering cards on behalf of the real estate company, thanking us for our cooperation during this year’s renovation.
If the tenant was home they would also get a box of oliebollen, but they were not allowed to leave them at the doorstep if no one opened the door.
Yet, the painter who looked like Slash, had.
He was wearing a black leather jacket.
I had never seen it, because I usually saw him in his work-gear and the two times I had seen him at Warhol’s, he had not been wearing a coat.
He was wearing black jeans and black boots. The perfect rock star ensemble.
The only thing that revealed he was not entirely casual was a black shirt, instead of a T-shirt or a sweater.
I assumed he was already dressed for a New Year’s Eve with his family, perhaps with an extra family or friends coming over.
Luckily enough, I was also decently dressed.
Since I didn’t have anybody to dress up for, I knew that if I didn’t make a conscious decision, New Year’s Eve would end up without make-up and without beautiful clothes.
A questionable way to start the new year.
So instead of waiting until later in the day, I was already wearing my festive outfit, and wearing makeup.
I considered myself so lucky that I ran into him.
He would be the last person I saw in 1994!
And I was looking amazing and he was looking amazing and we had just bumped into each other on a day neither of us were pressed for time. He had an excuse not to be home, because technically he was working, delivering cards.
I asked him, if he wanted to come up and eat the oliebollen with me.
And to my unspeakable joy, which I hoped I kept a bit hidden, he accepted.
He carried my heavy bags up, and indeed, there was a box of oliebollen with a card on my doorstep.
Slash seemed a little embarrassed that I was going to read it, with him being present. But there was nothing to be ashamed of, really. All he had done, was put his own name on the card that had been pre-printed by the company.
He had signed it:
Happy New Year
“Slash”
And he had drawn the little bald man with the big nose and big hands, looking over a ridge. The one he had pointed out to me on the Iron Maiden album cover.
There was no phone number or anything like that. It was really respectable, and I liked seeing the card before we went up.
I interpreted it as a sweet goodbye note.
Something like: “You were not crazy. We did have a moment together and I m sorry I m married and I never told you.”
But his way of saying it was better.
Regardless of me thinking his message was neutral, he felt embarrassed for a moment. Almost as if he had not realized that if he would go up with me, it would include me seeing the card.
So we went in, he took the groceries to the kitchen and I took the box and the card. We put our coats on the hooks, and just seeing his jacket in my hallway, covering my other coats, made me so happy.
It was as if it belonged there.
Like he was already my boyfriend, when I knew very well that he was not.
We went to the kitchen, where I simultaneously made coffee, heated our oliebollen in the oven (he originally wanted only one oliebol, but I told him that equaled zero and that they always came in pairs.) and I unpacked all the groceries.
He had to move around all the time, because he was always in the way of the fridge, the cabinet, the stove. And it was all very funny.
I don’t even remember what our topic of conversation was.
But I do know that it got interrupted all the time by me saying: “I m sorry but,” or him saying: “Oh, I need to move again.”
We were both, very deliberately, not touching the other person.
We even tried to stay as far away from each other as we could.
And not just in the kitchen, in my living as well.
I sat on the couch, but he sat at the table. No kidding. He even asked: “Do you mind if I sit at the table?”
No, I don’t. I didn’t.
It was obvious that we were both sensing things. It was as if the air between us was on fire, I have never felt anything like it. And yet neither of us mentioned it, and we both did our utmost best not to add fuel to the fire.
And in a way we succeeded.
Because nothing was said, no phone numbers were exchanged. No promises were made and we just parted raising our hand in the air: “Goodbye! Have a great new year!”
“Good luck with the cats,” were his final words, before I saw him descend from the stairs.
We did well.
Yet now all I can think of is everything about him. It was as if I finally understood that I should enjoy him being there. The first weeks after our balcony day this summer, and even the times I saw him at Warhol, I forgot to notice what he looked like. I didn’t know the color of his eyes, how tall he was or how he was built.
But now I tried to absorb everything about him.
The deep brown of his eyes.
The soft childlike features of his face.
His strong hands.
The tone of his voice, it was like a warm blanket. Although he did not have a very low voice but a friendly one.
Just like his body; It wasn’t threatening in any way.
I couldn’t sense his sexuality, and I still don’t know if we would be a match. Or – let’s be honest here – if he would be a match to me.
After 5 years with Bear, I’ve gotten so used to a man being dominant and I have promised myself I never have to be dominant in bed, or even seductive.
I don’t want that.
But I do know our great sex life was because Bear was sensitive to my needs. That although I usually say it was his dominance, that I could surrender to, it wasn’t. It was his sensitivity to what it was I needed, and he understood that most of the time this meant for him to be dominant.
To push me.
To take me.
But he would always look into my eyes, and never lose connection with me. He immediately picked up if my mood had shifted. Often before I did.
I don’t know if I will ever see Slash again.
But I do know that when I felt so attracted to him, without sensing his sexuality or without knowing if he would be dominant, that it was because those things really do not matter.
That the first thing I look for, when I m in love and wonder if we’re a good match, really isn’t if someone is dominant in bed.
It’s if someone is warm and feels safe.
And he did.
.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living..

Subscribe to 1994 

The subscription button to this blog is on this page,
probably on the right.
A Warm Safe Place | “1994” 
is the second chapter of
1994 part 2: A new life

For the real current-day me: 
subscribe to YouTube for My Life in Bon Jovi songs.

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My diaries en erotica are available at 

my BOOK SHOP
25% discount on all prices
If you check your cart, you can select your store
f.e. Nederland or United States
with the flag in the upper right corner.

Nederlandse boeken kun je ook direct bij mij bestellen

coming soon: new books

1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

Welcome to the jungle | “1994” series

Maybe I waited too long.
My
melancholic moments, my saddest moments, and certainly something that resembled tears (I only vaguely remember them…. it was all so strange) must have been the first days after Bear broke up with me.
That although I did not feel like I was feeling it, that was all that was gonna come, making it the best moment to write about the breakup when I was still emotionally involved.
There wouldn’t come a better time, when I h
ad more meaningful things to say.
But I didn’t believe that. 

Bear had meant so much to me and therefor I was convinced I would eventually break to pieces and lose my mind.
That “this” could not be it.
But nothing came…
And now I m on the verge of 1995 and I just want to have the breakup with the most important man of my life in my diary, especially since we no longer seem to be friends. He didn’t show up at a party we both had been invited to and that he had been looking forward to.
We had said our goodbyes with a big hug and actually saying:
“See you then.”
That had been another possible reason for keeping it together:
I still had something to look forward to.
Either way, the party came and no Bear. No explanation either and instead of being devastated I just interpreted it as a sign that he could be having more difficulty with the new situation than me.
Our breakup had not brought the peace of mind he had hoped for, and now he was cutting ties.
Yet, I was still okay.
And with that another good moment to reflect and to write, passed.
So now I had already missed the first days or the first week, when my feelings had been the strongest. Then I missed out on the second opportunity, which was experiencing that he didn’t want to see me anymore.
And then the third trigger happened, which didn’t have anything to do with my Bear, but with the second man I am in love with.
A Slash like painter who did my balcony, and whom I later went to see at Warhol’s because he had told me he usually went there on Saturday’s.
In Warhol he let the woman behind the bar in Andy’s room hijack our conversation, and almost pretended he had no idea who I was.
Afterwards I had seen him only once, when I was going out and we ended up at Warhol’s.
I now considered it my time to pretend we had no memorable connection.
He took it well, which I on my turn, found extremely sexy.
“Well played!” I thought.
Then just this month he started working on the building with a colleague. The scaffolding slowly moved up the street, alongside the building. After two weeks it was on our side, the final apartments that needed work.
Probably because I had been impressed with his relaxed attitude the second time at Warhols, and also because he had kept his cool every time I cycled by and casually said hi, I offered them coffee.
I didn’t invite them in, or anything.
And I treated him and his colleague entirely equal, nothing flirtatious. I was business-like even.
Which in turn, seemed to fascinate him.
As if he started to wonder if his imagination had been playing tricks on him.
“I thought she had come to the Warhol to see me, but now I m not so sure!”
Something like that, I don’t know.
Like I said, I wasn’t overthinking it. I was just normalizing whatever it was that had happened this summer, with strategic use of coffee and cookies.
I wasn’t bending over backwards to win his heart.
On my way out I passed them again. It was the end of the day, I had been working from home and was now going to a Christmas drink at the publisher’s.
They were breaking down the scaffolding, and as I was taking my bike out of the basement, putting my handbag at my steering wheel and getting ready to leave, the most peculiar conversation arose.
Something in the lines of my Slash-like painter making jokes to the other one, the he (the other one) was single.
But that he (the Slash painter) had a family.
It was all done in a casual boys will be boys kind of way, and it even included the suggestion that the other painter and me should hook up.
Or Slash addressing both his colleague and me in a way that suggested “we” were a group, or the singles or something.
What I also noticed was that the colleague did not seem to notice this was a strange conversation. Or he was too excited to be named in one sentence with me.
Like I said, it was not exactly clear what was said or anything, but I did understand that he was telling me he was involved with someone.
And I know it’s not with the woman who’s working in Andy’s room, that was super obvious. But if you have a family, and you have a sexy bartender who has the hots for you, it does explain why you’re not following up on the girl with whom you unexpectedly had a wonderful afternoon, when you were sent to paint her balcony.
It does explain that.
On my way to the Christmas party I kept thinking why it was that something seemed off with Slash’s remark. Something was… strange. I was too busy trying to get my finger on it, to realize that I had just been rejected.
That after Bear breaking up with me, and then Bear not showing up, I now had the other man I was in love with saying no.
I now had three reasons to feel lonely and rejected, and yet I still did not feel miserable. I was more like a detective trying to figure out “Whodunnit”
Although in my case, not having sex since July, the answer was obviously not “me”.
I had not dunnit for five months and both men were rejecting me.
It took me over a week to crack the puzzle. Everything. From why I wasn’t feeling totally devastated when he broke up, to why I was okay with him not showing up to the party;
To why I was unimpressed with Slash telling me he was taken.
The reason is one and the same:
I m still in the game.
It is as if these men have come up and said: “I can’t play.” but then expected me to respond with something.
To stop doing something.
As if I am running around in red lingerie sucking my fingers and winking: “Come here, sailor.” and am supposed to change that.
I don’t know.
But they are treating me, or talking to me, as if they are expecting something to happen with me. As if I am supposed to do something, as a response.
As if they want me to step out of the game.
When they are the ones who have just announced they are either not playing games or have stopped playing.
And now they’re looking at me to leave the board.
Why would I leave the board?
They are the ones who left.
I still like them, both of them.
I like Slash and I like Bear.
But I m not stepping off the board because they are not in a position to play anymore.
I said this to a friend last weekend. That I finally understood that these men had expected me to be defeated. And that even I had expected that. My constant waiting, expecting to at one point “feel” the breakup.
But I was fine.
“It is so strange,” I said to her. “I miss Bear, I really do. And I would have loved Slash, but he doesn’t even let me come near.
Yet I still feel excited. But why?”
“Because you’re still in the game,” she laughed. “And you’re a good player!”
I sure am.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living..

Subscribe to 1994 

The subscription button to this blog is on this page,
probably on the right.
Welcome to the jungle | “1994” 
is the first chapter of
1994 part 2: A new life

For the real current-day me: 
subscribe to YouTube for My Life in Bon Jovi songs.

Follow on Facebook or Twitter,
NEW connect on Linkedin

My diaries en erotica are available at 

my BOOK SHOP
25% discount on all prices
If you check your cart, you can select your store
f.e. Nederland or United States
with the flag in the upper right corner.

Nederlandse boeken kun je ook direct bij mij bestellen

coming soon: new books

1. Reboot – a hero’s journey. Diary 2017-2019
2. I M NOT CHANGING MY FUCKING SHOW
3. Big Mistress – confessions, columns and sex advice from the other woman
4. Blote Kont- verhalen over mannen, macht en dagjes uit (Dutch)

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready is to follow this blog. The subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

Dating from now on: Rules of engagement { 1994 project }

Molly Ringwald. Whose 80s pictures are frequently featured in my 1994 project

This is a goodbye post. 
But a very exciting one.
It is “Goodbye 2019” and “Hello 1994”

I m taking on my life as an art project, where I create an entire new persona, based on real life events, as well as on desires of what I want my life to be like.
It’s something I started four months ago, with the series “1994 fanfic inspired erotica”.
It was me trying out the concept of time-traveling, as well as feeling into it.
Was it as inspiring as it sounded?
Did it feel expansive?
And yes!
Taking 25 years off my life, turned out to be as good as it sounded. But I didn’t go all in. There was simply too much at stake, and too much going on energetically, I would even say.
I tried to figure out why I was feeling so awful, but it wasn’t until my lover broke up with me one week ago, that I knew the answer to that.
Our relationship had been falling apart.
And I had picked it up without knowing it.
Ultimately the conversation itself – you could even call it a date! – was the most painless, supportive breakup in the history of mankind.
Not because I wasn’t sad.
But because I had already shed all my tears, felt all the despair, and built myself up again. I had already done all the internal work.
And without a doubt, so did he.
It was two mature adults, who had learned that relationships can end, but anything that is worth saving, will last on in our hearts.
I felt like I passed my exam to adulthood.
With honors.
And now what, right? There was nothing left to do anymore. Not here. Not in 2019.
After this accomplishment, I would almost feel compelled to share everything I have learned. To become or stay an inspirational speaker, coach, yoga teacher. I ve always claimed I was good with relationships, and with the cum laude breakup I had proof I could really do it.
But I don’t want to inspire as a professional.
I don’t want that to be my work.
So I m at this point where I feel I have developed myself as a senior in the field of personal development, but it’s not my field. I am an artist.
Someone who plays.
Creates.
And then moves on.
I don’t identify with having any specific profession; I “just” channel it.
That’s what I ve done as a yoga teacher, a writer, a publisher. And I ll channel whatever profession will be next for me in real life.
The only profession you could “tie” to my identity, is being a play artist, or a performance artist.
Someone who is always changing, always playing, and consciously and unconsciously creating a new truth by first living it. Adopting it.
“1994” has started by taking baby steps, and exploring how it felt.
But with the departure of my lover, and my love life always being the main thing I write about and am interested in, I am free to really go all in.
I can start creating a new reality.
The love life I desire.

Disclaimer for lovers – Rules of engagement 1994

Although I can leave out, reframe, embellish or omit any event, experience or character in order to either fit into the 1994 time bubble, or to keep someone from appearing in my blog, there is one aspect where this is not going to happen;
My love life.
Love is what makes the world go round, and it’s certainly what makes me tick. I d rather never have a man in my bed ever again, than to give up writing.
Or to give up being in love with whomever I want.
Which means there are four non-negotiable rules, for whomever I get sexually involved with.

rule number 1: I m a secret/ Writer FIRST 

Any man with whom I have a sexual relationship, must take into account that our encounters, and my feelings surrounding them, will be written about.
And in order for me to be free to do that, you can never refer to me as your girlfriend or your lover, because it would mean that your friends are now reading our blog, and I can no longer freely write about it.

Your anonymity will be guaranteed, by writing about you as a fictional character, without matching characteristics. And the content, as to what it is I write, can be negotiated as well.
In particular with regard to protecting your privacy or your feelings.
In order to make this writing aspect as comfortable as possible:
I will always deny that you are my lover, and I strongly suggest you do the same.
There is an escape clause to this secrecy 😉 

See 4.

rule number 2: You must guarantee my safety, and be comfortable seeing me in public

If you’re married, wanted dead or alive, a singer in a rock and roll band, or if there is any other reason why I could get the cops or angry women on my doorstep if we’re seen together?
We call it quits.
The secrecy under 1 is just to avoid people from recognizing you in my blog, and to claim our boundaries as singles. It’s no one’s business what we do.
But the secrecy is not because I want to hide in hotel rooms, and never go out in public (as friends).

rule number 3: You must keep seeing other women

For a long time I thought this was a dominance thing.
That in theory, a man could also be faithful to me, and convey in this kind of arrogant way that HE was the one who decided what he was going to do with his body.
Not me.
But right now, that all sounds very far fetched.
I need you out there having adventures and me not knowing what you’re doing, or
my sexual interest will flatline before you know it.
If you are uncomfortable with me writing about having a lover who has other women? Don’t come.
In the rare case I absolutely have to write about something extremely dramatic that happened in your love life or other relationships – I will change our timeline, events and of course names for you.
Details of your love life (should I know them) will never be revealed. 

rule number 4 (going steady rule): we’re a team

This rule is not for those who are my lover:
This is for those who ultimately want more, which is to say to become my partner, and call me their girlfriend instead of friend.
We’re a team.
And I need you to be supportive of me.
You see, I m hard-wired to be faithful. It really is, a frickin big deal for me to be physically intimate with someone else when I am already involved.

But (at least in theory) I think I could be intimate with more than one man, because there have been times when I WAS in love with two men.
I have always figured it only took that second man to say “yes”, to turn me from being monogamous into polyamorous.
But does it?
Because so far when I was in love with two men, my main love-interest was already moving on, or turning away.
I have once written a book about this.
It’s called Dutch American Diary.
And it’s about me being in love with two men, and the agony that comes from that. It takes a while before I realize that I only fell in love with the second man, because the first could not meet the demands above, and we were completely stuck between me being a secret mistress and trying to break up.
We weren’t good at either one.
A second love interest was the only thing that would give me the power to stay away from him.
And this pattern of pulling in a second crush, as a response to realizing the first is no longer an option, has persisted.
Whenever a second man came into my life, or an old crush suddenly became current again, the main man in my life was already pulling back or had proven to come with the proverbial hornet’s nest.
All in all, I have more proof that I am absolutely incapable of having sex with anyone other than my main man, than otherwise.
However, I do not want to be selected or chosen, because I am this kind of dream woman who lets you fool around but she herself seems bound to an invisible moral code between her and God or something.
No.
Instead, I want you to be supportive of me.
I either want you to treat me as a secret lover, which means that we both could be dating other people and you make sure I don’t get to see any of your jealousy.
Or, if you want to be a part of my life, I want you to be there for me when I explore these things. Because my happiness is your happiness (as it is vice versa), and you know that what is true cannot be taken away.
I really believe that I will be the dream woman for someone, and that my dream man is out there.
And he will read this, all four points, and know it’s him.

Entering the portal to 1994

The past couple of months, I ve freely switched between my fantasy world in 1994 and my real life.
But today, is the day I m going all in.
Which as far as this blog is concerned, means I will no longer be writing about secret mistresshood since I now live in 1994, and my lover Bear was single.
And I will no longer be engaging in politics or any current day events that used to catch my attention, and inspire me to write.
Everything I write, will be in the series 1994, and once every two, three weeks, I will be writing a letter to my creativity coach Sara.
This letter to her, is where I will give a helicopter view of what my “real” life is like;
But otherwise, I will not be going back and forth anymore.
I will now teleport myself to 1994.
See you on the other side.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living

The two outlets which will stay in 2019 are my YouTube
subscribe to YouTube for My Life in Bon Jovi songs.

and my Dutch blog about film. Nederlands blog over film:
Zeg maar Lauren

Follow on Facebook or Twitter
NEW connect on Linkedin
..

Subscribe to 1994

All episodes from this art project, can be found on my new page!
1994: A Performance Art Project
And the subscription button to this blog is on this page, probably on the right.

My diaries en erotica are available at 

my BOOK SHOP 25% discount on all prices If you check your cart, you can select your store f.e. Nederland or United States with the flag in the upper right corner. Nederlandse boeken kun je ook direct bij mij bestellen

Anything goes, Unfinished book on Consent Play | “1994” episode 6

In October 1994 I wrote my experience with consent play, in a notebook.
With the intention of publishing it one day.
I never finished it, as explained in the previous episode.

This is what I wrote about my consent play and my affair with relationship with Bear.

contains erotic elements
NSFW, not suitable for work
triggering

Monday 21- Tuesday October 22 1994
0.40

I don’t know how many words will go into this journal before it’s full. How many pages before this ballpoint is empty. How many stories I need to tell before I have said what I ve come here to say. But I do know the limited resources will work in my advantage.
On top of the boundaries set by the material, there is the slowness of it.
The thoughts that just drip onto the paper word for word.
A little pause at the end of every sentence.
And I ve set myself a time limit.
Not because I m in a hurry finishing or publishing it. But because I believe this unspoken confession is what is blocking the pathway to what it is I desire.
Or who.
All of them. The men.
But above all else: Not writing this out is blocking my way to becoming the person I would be in their presence.
The lover who calls herself, yes, what?
What is it, this unnamed role? Both “girlfriend” and “submissive” are equally misplaced. Neither one is what I want to be and at heart already am.
Just without words so far.
How do you name a woman who desires to be in a constant game for her consent?
Not just in the obvious, the play rape.
I did think that for a while.
That the most defining characteristic of my sexual preference was to be dominated during sex.
But now I know this consent is always played for, and withheld unless I feel I have his full attention.
And then we play.
Then I surrender.
Then he can dominate me.
But that my desire for power play is weaved into the bigger picture of two lovers only seeing each other for sex.
Or for a date of some sort
My sexual preference cannot “just” be defined as power play or rough sex, because that would imply that you could be married and have this type of sex at night and then discuss whose turn it is to stock the fridge.
That is not how consent play works- let’s call it that for now.
Consent play would ask: What fridge?
What tomorrow?
There is only the now.
It is like a perpetual tango. A game of attraction, where you hope you ll dance again.
There are multiple men I would like to tango with. But currently I m dating none of them.
I don’t have to answer to anyone right now. I m alone with my thoughts and with my desires. Between what was and what can become, who I can become.
And when I do the right man will come.
Plural, maybe.

Tuesday 22- Wednesday October 23 1994
Create the Truth
0.05

I tick off the things I want to do each day.
Cuddle enough with both cats.
Masturbate.
Yoga.
Some things are harder than others.
Writing in this journal is also on there and it’s one of the things I don’t want to skip. Not even if it’s after midnight before I start.
The reason I want to do this is because this activity is called “create the truth”. I know that by writing I want a dominant lover, I will create him.

I need to feel like I am the perfect match and then next to me, like magic, a vacuum will be created that will draw the right man and only the right man, in.
This man will automatically, when we make love, force me down, pin me down, restrict me, push me, command me, open me, enter me, hurt me, fill me, and it will be under that weight that I lean in and let go.
And that I am home.

Wednesday 23 – Thursday 24 October 1994
0.15

On days like this it’s so good to have this diary to come back to.
I didn’t do yoga, didn’t see friends or a movie. The only thing I did, which was good for my sexuality (or maybe it’s more a prerequisite than an aphrodisiac) is deep cleanse my house.
I feel thrilled by this.
I intend to do yoga AM! The PM thing is not working for me. I hope that a sexy yoga session every morning will keep my spirits up for the rest of the day.
That I ll keep identifying with my sexual ambitions, of who I need to be.
Right now I keep forgetting it until suddenly I remember after midnight, when I pick up this journal.
I need to start doing a hell of a lot more to straighten this out, than writing this book.

Wednesday October 30 1994
A League of their own
09.30

First day working from home, and immediately I take this journal and go to the cafe instead of spending the day behind my desk.
Don’t worry.
I ll make it up.
It’s just that I ve been in such a dark place that I m thrilled my desire to journal has returned.
The story has returned.
And it’s not the story I thought it was.
Maybe they were related: The story of consent play and my meltdown.
Consent play is a lot more complex than just a variation to SM.

And I am a lot more complex than just a college grad stuck in her first job.
I might have needed the meltdown in order to do justice to the story, as well as to myself.

Over the past week I ve discovered a really big chunk in my identity that didn’t seem to have a purpose.
Except as a place of strength.
Yesterday I was talking about this part to a friend and she said:
“Oh my God, you’re sitting just like her.”
She was referring to Catherine Tramell, Basic Instinct. A movie I ve seen more than any other.
Just this summer they played it at the discount theater and I added 4 to the list.
And I m thinking of getting a VHS.
What I mean with my identification with her being this big piece of a puzzle or chunk of my identity that I didn’t know where to put is well… literally that!
Where do I behave or feel like Catherine Tramell, if I m submissive in bed?
If I make myself as grey as possible at work? Not that I ve been very successful at that and I m glad I can start working from home but nevertheless.
I didn’t recognize myself.
I think cutting my personality in half was the biggest cause of me having suicidal thoughts over the weekend.
Not as an act of despair but as a happy thought. A comforting one. One I d rather thought of than how I was going to solve this.
But the signs that life was slipping though my fingers, had been earlier.
In no longer masturbating. No longer writing.
Cancelling appointments.
Quit eating sugar, which was the first moment death entered my thoughts. I wanted to lose weight because I wanted to bring my body back to its pre-college thinness before I died.
And there it was there: The thought of suicide.
I felt dead on the inside already and felt it needed to stay that way not to disturb the others around me. The only one who didn’t require me to be half-dead already, was Bear.
I have not heard from him in weeks, if not months. But I ran into him and he invited me over or suggested we should see each other soon.
But I rejected.
If he doesn’t want to see me, I don’t want him to feel pressured to invite me. I really believe he has someone else right now.
And the idea that we would meet up at my all-time low was out of the question.
On my way home I kept wondering why I had been so determined to reject him helping me. He had literally offered: “Maybe it helps to talk.”

Yet I knew that the moment I accepted this, it would not only ruin what we had-
but that it was also dangerous. Because I would become dependent on him.
I would be meeting him from a place of needing him when I want him to want me, not to pity me.
And suddenly I snapped out of it.
I saw why I felt suicidal, why I was so happy with my love life and could even bare the thought of him having someone else.
And where that giant chunk went!
I saw why I had seen Basic Instinct so many times, and why I should be buying a VHS.
And most importantly: I saw why my submission during sex was rooted in strength.
My relationship with Bear has been the only place, in all those years, where I have been able to show myself as a badass Catherine Tramell.
He never blinked.
Not when I asked him to become my lover and deflower me.
Not when I asked for anal sex.
Not when I asked for play rape.
Playing doctor.
Applaud him for staying sexually active with other women.
Watch him with great love, appreciation and understanding as others around him crashed into his stubbornness.
I saw that we had something that we couldn’t have with others because they needed it to have rules, form, agreement.
When we had none of those things.
We had a deep understanding and appreciation of each other’s strength and independence.
We saw each other as solitary beings.
Not as half of a couple in need of amalgamation.
My relationship with Bear had been my Catherine Tramell Sanctuary.
And the reason I had been starving myself, denying myself, creatively cutting myself off and ultimately the reason why I wanted to kill myself:
Because in all other aspects of my life I had not been Catherine Tramell.

Sunday November 17, 1994
Epilogue

I just typed out these notes on consent play, and I was right.
This really was, and is, all I can say about it.
Sometimes I think my depression and the current trouble we are going through are the effects of leaving university, and both of us trying to find our place in this world.
I m convinced we’ll stay in touch, over the course of our lives.
But right now I need to start implementing what I learned about who I want to be.
It’s almost 5 years ago that we started our affair. We were both still in high school when we met.
I have become an adult and stepped into my power, but only in my relationship with him. So therefor it was very limited.
You could say I m only half adult.
Or a part-time adult.
The rest of the time my own power scares me. Or the response I get from people is starting to scare me. Now more than ever, it seems.
My studies were filled with male friends, but at the publisher’s it’s mostly women.
I have definitely not been coping well with that. And I avoid their company, mostly.
With Bear out of sight, the only place where I ve felt good in my own skin, disappeared. No wonder I feel I m losing my strength.
Growing up is like shedding skin, isn’t it?
You can’t enjoy your new identity, if you keep paying attention to everything that has fallen off.
My old life, my student life, is over.
And maybe my relationship with the boy who grew into a man, at my side, is over too. Maybe our affair is part of the dead skin.
But maybe it’s part of the strong, vibrant beings that we became. And maybe we’ll always keep reinventing ourselves, together.
It reminds me of the final scene of Basic Instinct.
Nick and Catherine just had sex, and Catherine is unsure how they’re going to have a normal relationship. She seems terrified and confused, but you can’t see if she’s having relationship skitters because she’s so used to killing the people she loves. Or if she’s scared because everybody she loves ends up being killed.
After playing a game with the viewer, where you think she’s going to kill him, the movie seems to end in a passionate kiss, indicating she was never the killer.
After a fade out, Nick and Catherine come into focus once more but this time the camera moves under the bed, where you see an ice pick. Indicating she did intend to kill him, and she’s the killer after all.
I always thought that last shot was cheap and I didn’t buy it.
Not even the first time I saw it.
I didn’t buy it that Nick and Catherine would not stay together, since they were a match made in heaven. No one was playing at their level, and they both had enough experience to know that no one ever would.
Things like that don’t end.

~Lauren
An unexamined life is not worth living

Subscribe to this blog (subscription button somewhere on this page – most likely on the right) for the next episode of 1994.
You can read episode 1 to 5 here:
A letter from a stranger | “1994” fanfic inspired erotica episode 1 
Mutuals | “1994”: fanfic inspired erotica episode 2 
Think about you | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 3
Out ta get me | “1994”: fanfic inspired story episode 4
Rocket Queen |”1994″: fanfic inspired story episode 5  

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