A Brief History of Writing in all the Wrong Ways

Published on by LS HarteveldLeave a comment

A little confession about fine art of journaling, with pen and paper. I haven’t kept a diary since 2006, when I began writing on my computer.
And even before that, when I did use paper diaries, they were never nearly as elaborate, fulfilling and effective, as their digital counterparts.

I would never have been a writer, if it had not been for the computer. Or internet. I wrote my first semi-autobiographical novel offline, but the internet gave me wings. And over the years my posts have become a hybrid between diary entries, columns, personal development and everything in between.
The only consistency was that they came in the same enchanting format:
Write. Edit. And hit that oh so satisfying “publish” button.
But this is NOT the proper way to journal, to write, nor to keep your diary.

Journaling first.
I will define journaling as writing for the purpose of personal development; affirmations, working through unconscious blocks or trauma, changing limiting beliefs.
You’re supposed to use a paper notebook for journaling – because all research shows handwriting is the best way to do this kind of work. And secondly, you’re not supposed to share this raw stage of doing your mindset work. IF you do want to share something online, it is merely something that was sparked when doing your decent offline stuff.
The REAL journaling inspires your blogpost, it is however not your blogpost. Thou Shall Not Journal online.
And this goes for diary writing too.

You can’t simply type away about your real life, and then share it online.
On a side note, diaries in all shapes and sizes are still, decades after Anais Nin made them mainstream (you’d think!), not so much “frowned upon” I guess;
But diaries certainly rank lowest when they are compared to Real Writing.

Having said that, if you do still insist on keeping a diary, you can’t possibly do that online and expect it to work. It’s just not proper.
You clearly need to keep diaries private and then maaaaaybe (again: if you insist!), edit it and share a cleaned up version at a much later date.

Now for Real Writing there are even more Rules In Place. Real Writing is never based on a blog (or a diary) but relies exclusively on a writer having the patience to show up every day for Art, and work on his or her manuscript.
Preferably with the schedule for each chapter pinned to the wall.
After which the finished manuscript is then published and only the final result is ever shared.
Real Writing is the Sign of Mastery.

And I understand all that. All the rules with regard to journaling, diary writing and writing real books. I do. And it would all be great ideas, if I could actually write, offline.
I did do that.
Once or twice.
On an ancient laptop that wasn’t connected to the internet.
Great stuff.
But then at a certain point, almost without noticing it, I dropped it, stopped writing, didn’t go back; And I ended up having to rescue it by extracting it, and transplanting it online so that it could shoot root, and grow again.

It needed air, it needed to be seen, it needed a place to shine.
Offline projects simply die on me.

And paper notebooks too. They just get cluttered with all the things I m supposed to do, or insights I thought I was going to take action on, and then I don’t do any of those things. Until ultimately, and this has been the fate of all my notebooks, I cut out all the used pages and start again.
With the intention to not mess up, and process my notes each night.
And two months later I am again reaching for my Stanley knife and cut it out.
It’s so disheartening.

The only thing that seems to go on by itself is, is my online writing.
Until I stop because I feel guilty for being this overzealous in my online writing, without writing in paper journals first. That I just smack it down, and hit publish.
Or I stop because I feel guilty for not knowing where the story is going, because I don’t know where my life is going I don’t know yet which parts are important. Or which decisions are final.

But most of all I stop my online writing because I feel guilty for spending so much time doing something
a. incorrectly, obviously.
and
b. that is not my job, and that’s not making me any money.
And I don’t even know if I want writing to make me money. Don’t let creativity pay the bills and all that. And if I do want to make money with writing, then I would have to spend time promoting it, or if I want a real publisher then all those conversations and all the noise from feedback on old stuff, might affect my writing time or concentration.

Me stopping writing lasts two, three days or maybe a week at most, before I sneak back to my blog, hit “Create new post”, and dive in as if it are the arms of a lover I haven’t seen in ages.
So all in all; the offline projects including all notebook writing, fails. Even though I would want it to succeed.
And all the online writing goes really well, and I can stop it for a week at most.

But now I m done with this cycle… From hereon forward?
I’m never going to clear up my act, write offline, or invest in another journal to organize my thoughts. Because my thoughts get messed up from that.
My brain gets just as cluttered as that journal, from journaling offline.
THIS is my writing!
THIS is my journaling!
THIS is my diary!
THIS is my book!
* Hits “publish” *
OH MY GOD THAT FEELS SO GOOD!!

<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Books 

My diaries are available at LULU
New books will be added.

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready,
is to subscribe to this blog.
Button on this page, probably on the top right.

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Nederlands blog:
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Raising my standards: sex and one proper date a week. With myself if I have to.

Published on by LS HarteveldLeave a comment

You know what the crappy thing is about sexual awakenings?
Or as was the case with me, a sexual wake-up call by a rockstar writer oozing youth and health and OMG gimme that!!
(damn it’s been way too long), the crappy thing is, it won’t go back to sleep.
Not even by masturbating, which I did try, and which was kind of a milestone experience because for the first time in years I didn’t masturbate to my secret lover Mr.Big.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I insist on sticking to the correct order of things which actually started before I knew I was going to see the young writer, when Mr.Big said he’d call me which was odd because he barely ever calls me. And this time in particular, I felt like it wasn’t good.
I looked forward to hearing his voice, but I was on my guard.
It sounded suspicious.
But I was wrong.
We had a lovely phone conversation. The content was friendly though, not sexual. But that was to be expected: we weren’t the phone sex type. We didn’t even text sexy messages, working up to seeing each other.

Our relationship was always as if it had never existed and still had to start. As if we were still in the phase of not admitting we really liked each other.
It was one of the many things I appreciated about being his secret mistress, I never felt like he took me for granted. And I certainly never took him for granted either. I knew the risks he took by seeing me, and that I would always be a liability.

It wasn’t that I didn’t know my worth as a lover, it was that I was painfully aware I came at the price of risking it all.
Maybe I didn’t get the long end of the stick, seeing so little of the man I love, but at least I didn’t have to juggle either. My price for being infatuated, perpetually in love year after year – something no man I had slept with had ever achieved – was that it could be over and done with at any time.
And on the day of the call, I feared we were done for.
But we weren’t.

Maybe he had changed his mind, or maybe he really did just want a chat because he was so busy and didn’t want to neglect me. But I enjoyed it.
Yet I haven’t seen him since.

So when I saw the young rockstar writer, whose presence was an energetic wake-up call, like:
“Hello! Lady! Where’s your sex life?”
I had already been asking myself that same question. And doubt had started to creep in. Had Mr.Big been wanting to break up with me?
And/or was he doing that now by simply not arranging a new date?
Did it mean something, that I didn’t see him?
And even if that didn’t mean anything else than all the times before – which was that there was stuff going on at work, family, or with himself – even if that positive scenario was the case, which didn’t have anything to do with me, how long was that going to be enough?

What exactly, was my bottom line when it came to being monogamous? A status I liked, that’s not the point. I don’t like the idea of another lover. But honestly?
If I didn’t appear to be having a minimum date or sex requirement, then wasn’t it about time that I started to think about the ultimate consequences of this?

Should I perhaps end it myself, to make room for someone who would be able to see me regularly? Or was that too drastic?
Should I get a second lover then?
Or was that out of my league, and was I incapable of setting up something on the side? I had never managed to do it in the past. Not even when I was with my long-term relationship, and getting an affair would have had the potential to save our entire relationship.
Even then I couldn’t, despite trying. It was like my advances bounced off of every man I set eyes on. I had never felt so unloved.

So then what?
Was I going to come up with a Plan B, or did I intend to keep suffering every time my needs weren’t met and I was kept in uncertainty about my fate?

My first instinct was to call Mr.Big. Yet after chewing over that plan for a while, I dismissed it. It would only throw us back to the quarreling of our first months. With me wanting something, and him making a point of not being able to give it.
And besides, the whole problem is being caused by me not taking responsibility for my own sex life. As long as I insist on being monogamous, the consequence is that I m dependent on someONE else to supply it.
And I ve always believed this to be true for marriages as well, which is why I’m pro-mistresses and pro-lovers.
“Cheating” is a sign of taking responsibility for your own sex life and releasing your partner of that task. And ideally, you give your partner as much time for himself, or herself, as he or she needs to  process that and figure things out. And offer the option to never have sex again with you.
But if you know beforehand he or she doesn’t want you to cheat, then you don’t tell.
Some call that lying, I call it courteous.
I would even call it saving the relationship.

And I felt that right now, the time had come to save my relationship with Mr.Big by starting to take care of myself. It wasn’t healthy that my body sighed, and moaned, during yoga because then at least it experienced something.
Anywhere.
It wasn’t healthy that my final years of being fertile and juicy, were wasted having sex far less than once a month.
It was downright appalling.
And whatever reason I thought I had – me being monogamous, me being absolutely over the moon about Mr.Big, me having been terribly unsuccessful in the past in getting a second lover, and needing nine freaking years after ending my long term relationship before I finally, FINALLY, found my ultimate lover Mr.Big –
those reasons were no longer valid.
Not if I wanted an average sex life, but especially not if I wanted an absolutely amazing sex life.
Seeing the young rockstar writer taught me that.

So today when I masturbated, I hesitated.. For years I had masturbated exclusively to Mr.Big. It was something that I had consciously chosen to do, after an early attempt to make it more neutral. According to instructions from a program to attract the man of your dreams, I was supposed to masturbate thinking about “my dream lover”.
Yet it always resulted in thinking about Mr.Big.
Until I stopped fighting it, and gave in, and did it only with him in mind.

But now I felt it was important to stop doing that.
If I did keep masturbating to Mr.Big I would keep affirming that he was the only one. When from now on, I wouldn’t exclude anything anymore.
It was a bit odd, but I managed, and I was fine. Everything still functioned, even without thinking about him.

And I’m going to create dates for myself. I ve thought about joining a dating site, but I wasn’t feeling like it. Perhaps, not feeling like it yet?
But I m going to start by dating the men I already know, or maybe new men I meet. Or I m going to take myself on dates; grooming and dressing well and taking good care of myself.
Blocking my calendar, planning in advance. I so missed that, all the anticipation. I m going to visualize and plan, at least one date every week.
Even if this is just me taking myself some place nice.
And I’m also going to time block staying in and having sex, once a week. Again, I will go solo if I need to. But maybe I don’t need to.
Who knows what will happen.
But those are my new standards, from now on forward.
And the hows or the whos, will just need figure themselves out.

All I m committing to is to keep an open mind.
And not call Mr.Big.

<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Books 

My diaries are available at LULU
New books will be added.

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready,
is to subscribe to this blog.
Button on this page, probably on the top right.

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Nederlands blog:
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A Rock Star Writer and a Sexual Wake-up Call

Published on by LS HarteveldLeave a comment

I knew something was off, when during the occasional yoga practice my body started responding to ANY movement, with a sexual groan or a sigh or an “Oh my God that feels good.”
But today I had the in-person sexual wake-up call from the same man who kicked me out of hibernation five years ago; a young rock star writer who was doing his book tour.

Which in America would mean readers waiting in line, hoping for an autograph and over the moon with personal attention.
But in The Netherlands book signings are a pretty lonely place to be. I assume they’re merely are a token of goodwill to the bookstores and the four fans who knew you were coming.
And that’s me estimating, four people.
Because he told me I wasn’t the only one, and I got there halfway during the signing. With one or two people before me, and one or two after me, that makes four.

Due to their deserted nature, these book signings are usually an immense treat for the few fans who do show up! The author has all the time in the world, and in this case he knew exactly who I was. We met when his debut novel was published, and stayed in touch ever since.
He was The Rock star Writer; whose driven voice and high sexual energy had shook me out of sexual inertia, years ago.
And I was The Blogger, who had written a book about him.

In the past few years we ran into each other occasionally, when I visited book events. But he had not done any tours since then. So this was our reunion.
He was taller than I remembered. I must have been wearing high heels the last time. And he’s bigger than me as well, because he works out daily or something. He has pecs you can crack walnuts on.
Yet, I had forgotten what his physical presence was like.
Which is strange, because he looks good “on paper” too.

Photographers love him, and he always gives entertaining interviews for radio and tv. And he also shows his true emotions, which are usually raw.
His debut novel backfired with turmoil among certain groups, and caused a personal drama.
And this time too, the book backfired with turmoil among certain groups, and was followed by a personal drama.
I asked him about it. Was it true, what he had said in that interview?
It was.

How sad to go through personal loss the moment you publish a book. Twice.
Now he is a winner, he’s tough. But still, I feel for him.
Anyway, that’s not what I was going to say.

What I meant was: I assumed I knew his “energy”. Especially because he’s exactly the same in the media, as he is in person. And yet, the experience of him, is something you cannot prepare yourself for. I would compare it to standing next to a nuclear sexual bomb.

Totally contained! We didn’t even flirt.
And yet it was impossible not to feel his true strength; an infinite well of blatant ambition, push-forward energy, and for certain, sexual zest.
If anyone else would pick up on it, entire crowds would be swirling around him, to spend a minute in that aura.

In India there are several Gurus whose presence is considered divine.
People have all kinds of holy experiences attending their lectures or being in their presence.
Sometimes even getting a hug.
Those Gurus who hug have waiting lines that can be up to a day!

I wonder why Westerners can have these experiences, can pick on somebody else’s energy, when it’s from an Indian Guru?
Yet in real life, they seem oblivious to human energy the strength of a small army.
Even when it’s from the most successful young writer of our country, with a background that put him up against the odds of ever achieving anything in life.

I would say that pretty much gave him away: how could he possibly attain that level of success without wanting it more than anybody else?
Without getting up e-v’ry-time he was down?
He couldn’t.

And it was in these five to ten minutes, talking to the writer, that I could feel my lack of energy in all those areas.
My lack of ambition; I m back to treating writing as a hobby even.
My flaky lust; I haven’t seen my secret married lover for so long, I’m not even sure I have a place in his life anymore.
I felt my lack of will to live.

Sure: when all is fine, all is fine. And thankfully, after going through a rough couple of weeks, everything IS fine.
Thank God.
But when did I ever try to get up when I was down?
Never.
When did I ever get myself a lover when Mr.Big was occupied?
Never.
When did I ever REALLY pursue a career in writing?
Never.
He was the mirror image of all the things I wasn’t, and that no one could go get for me.

If I wanted to be that unstoppable, that healthy, that success driven and even remotely sexually satisfied? I would have to change my ways. He was just an example that it could be done.

And the rest, was up to me.

<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Books 

My diaries are available at LULU
New books will be added.

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready,
is to subscribe to this blog.
Button on this page, probably on the top right.

Or follow my Facebook page
/ Twitter: @LSHarteveld

Nederlands blog:
https://zegmaarlauren.com/

Lovers Politician Gate: The Virtuous Right to Lie and Cheat

Published on by LS HarteveldLeave a comment

This morning, news broke that the left wing party who had the biggest win during last elections, fired two of its members of parliament, for lying about when their affair had started.

The reason their political leader gave, was the same reason all people who ever got cheated on use:
“I will never be able to trust you again.”
And it hit a nerve with me.
Because this subject – our right to lie and not tell the truth – is one close to my heart, and something that is applicable not just in love.
But in everything.

Being a secret mistress, I had a reason to rethink the topics of transparency and lying. I wasn’t feeling too good about:
“He is lying to his wife and that makes me an accomplice.”

I m currently tutoring someone in logic (Math), and it’s easy to see that line of reasoning hides a lot of incorrect assumptions. But even before that, I could see it didn’t make sense.
And I stopped feeling responsible for someone else.

The longer I am a mistress, the better I know:
We are all born a certain way.

You don’t become a cheating husband by accident. You become it because your brain is hard wired to sustain that kind of tension. You probably don’t feel alive until you have multiple parallel lives, secrets, where one doesn’t know the other one exists. It’s the kind of voltage normal people will immediately try to smooth out. It eats them up from the inside out.
But not you.

Men, or women, who cheat, whether with a mistress or with random encounters, need that. And they need it to be secret. If it’s not a secret, it becomes something entirely different.
Something that more than likely, will not do anything for them.

So realizing that, not only did I discharge myself from having to take responsibility for his actions; I even to an extend discharged him of it.
I’m not going to say that if you’re hard wired for this, or as I call it, if it’s your sexual orientation, that you don’t have the option of repressing your natural tendencies and staying faithful.
Sure you do.

Just that you’ll never become as good at it, as people who have a natural intolerance to living under that kind of stress.

Your brain will not respond to the calm and the clarity of having a monogamous love life without lies, in the way the brain of a monogamist will respond to it.
So obviously I don’t see anything wrong with keeping your secret relationship, secret.

But there is more to expelling the two lovers from the Green Left party.

First off, do you know what a real leader would do? Stand by his people, no matter fucking what.
Through scandal.
Through crimes.
Through political failure.
YOU HOLD THE LINE!

And you do this because it’s best practice in any organisation but you do it in particular if your team just brought you victory during the last election.
This is your time to take responsibility and take the punches for your employees.

And it doesn’t even have to be like that. Because a real leader can completely brush aside any private affairs, stating their party has other priorities:
“And so should you.”
A sneer to any journalist butting in.

No journalist, no party member, absolutely no one, is entitled to know the truth about your sex life, unless what you’re doing is a felony.

And there is a bigger lesson here: if you are having a relationship with anyone, assuming they have told you the truth about their marital status, their diplomas, the money they have in the bank?
If you’re in a relationship assuming your partner is faithful?
You’re in it for the wrong reasons.

Next week, I m going to start with a business coach someone recommended to me. And then someone else warned me saying:
“Be careful. Anyone can call themselves a coach. It doesn’t require a certain training or education.”
And I laughed.

Because the moment I make a coaching relationship dependent on whether or not someone has gone through the right training, I’m saying:
“I m counting on external things to justify our relationship.”

In my opinion, any relationship should be based on either one of two things.

One is the loyalty or need you feel to be there.
For example taking care of a sick family member. If you feel called to do this, it should be without expecting any reward. They still might not include you in their will. They still might be nasty.  But if you see it as your duty, it’s your duty.
Period.
But this is not the way we perceive love relationships, friendships, going to coaches, nor the way we view work relationships.

Which brings us to the second basis of a relationship;
You’re there because you want to.
A totally different situation where the relationship is based on value, and on giving and receiving. Where it’s still difficult to argue what will benefit you most (I think the giving!)  but okay.
However… there is one thing strikingly similar, between this mature relationship style, and one based on obligation.
Either you do it. Or you don’t.
Either you’re in the relationship FULLY. Or you’re out.

You should never do it because you’re expecting some kind of reward, or because you assume someone is behaving in a certain way off-screen. In their own time.
In any mature relationship, the reward is in the moment, in the now. 
And if you’re not feeling it, then you should get out.

Don’t stay because you assume someone is faithful. Because then you’ll regret it if they’re unfaithful.
Don’t stay because they have money in the bank and will take care of you at old age. Because then you’ll be disappointed if they spent it.
Don’t stay because the coach has good diplomas. Because then you’ll feel betrayed if they were fake.
Don’t keep two members on your team assuming they’re infallible or don’t have secrets. You will be disappointed.
Losing faith in someone over any of those things, reveals a bitter truth:
It was you, who was the liar.

You, the betrayed party, were untruthful as a lover, an employer or a client. Your presence in the relationship, stopped being appropriate a long time ago. Because you were in it for the wrong reasons, a lot of assumptions and possibly a future outcome. And now you’re just angry because someone refused to accommodate your hidden agenda.

Thankfully for you, we live in a society that idolizes transparency, so public opinion, all your friends, the judge, the party, and everybody else will more than likely choose your side.
So enjoy your bitter victory of being right.
Meanwhile killing off everything you loved.
And who more than likely loved you back, which is why they never bothered you with the truth. They thought the truth wasn’t what your relationship was about.
That it was about good politics, and doing something for your country.
About motivation and inspiration.
Love, presence, and joy.
They were the ones who really thought you were in this together.

And you just proved them wrong.

<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Books 

My diaries are available at LULU
New books will be added.

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready,
is to subscribe to this blog.
Button on this page, probably on the top right.

Or follow my Facebook page
/ Twitter: @LSHarteveld

Nederlands blog:
https://zegmaarlauren.com/

Writing is only a hobby.

Published on by LS HarteveldLeave a comment

“A hobby.”
I’ve always liked that word.
Probably because in the movie Tomb Raider (2001) Lara Craft visits someone who can help her with a mysterious clock. This cunning villain then introduces himself merely as a lawyer, at which Lara replies with a dry British accent:
“And the study of clocks is… a hobby?”

In a similar manner Catherine Tramell, the femme fatale of Basic Instinct, gives new meaning to the word “amateur”, when she is asked if she’s “a pro”, meaning a sex worker.
“No, I’m an amateur.”

Both dialogues toy with the idea that there’s a fine line between a hobby and a profession. And that whether you use your skill or knowledge as a means of income is not determined by your level of mastery.
It’s a choice.
And a choice that has been pulling my life in opposite directions for a very long time. Maybe even over a decade, ever since I started writing.

And ultimately resulting in a moderate chaos and an emotional roller coaster, over the past few weeks.
But it started five weeks ago with a firm choice!
Choose writing; blog every day. Teach yoga by night (unchanged). 

I was really aiming at getting an income through writing within a year.
I chose my topic (being a mistress); I chose my market (English speaking or reading); and I chose the most logical option for distribution, which was to investigate which Dutch publishers were active on English markets. I sent messages to writers I had met over the years, to ask them if they could recommend publishers or agents.

It all seemed to be going fine, but then pretty recently I had some serious stuff going on behind the scenes, which meant that this choice was no longer an option. I didn’t have a year and needed to get a full income asap.
Which brought me to:
Get full income; get job. Cancel all yoga classes.
I would continue to write and publish on weekends.

Then someone informed me on how much (or how little) I would probably make with the work I aspired to do. I quickly realized quitting teaching yoga before I even had a new job (whatever that was going to be) was unwise.
Especially if it didn’t cover my current expenses and I would need a side hustle to supplement it.
So I toned the decision down to:
Get a job. Curate yoga classes.

I reorganized my yoga classes by cancelling two successful classes as of this summer, because the lease contract of that location was per year and only for a fixed time slot. When I also had my own studio a few miles further down, where I was way more flexibel.
I also informed all my students that we’d go underground (no public classes anymore) and that I would sustain our current schedule as much as I could. New schedules would be sent out every two months.

These fairly simple changes created so much space in my head. I immediately knew they were right. And yet, the moment I started thinking about how the slimmed down studio would look like with a job, I saw that peaceful schedule turn into total mayhem.

Even if I would find a job for exactly the number of hours I had available (next to teaching yoga) in order to have a 40 hour work week, I freaked out.

There was no space. No fun. No spontaneity. There was absolutely nothing to write about in terms of doing things worth writing about.

But also; no space to think.

Over the years I ve come to realize that it is not writing that is my lifeline. Or even if it is, that writing is preceded by the real thing which has made life so sweet.
Thinking.

In the form of sitting down and journaling or planning. But also thinking when I’m folding laundry, going for a walk, or even watching tv. Thinking is super explicit when I m with friends and we mine through a topic, until its deepest layers are uncovered.

It’s this thinking, that is my gold when it comes to writing.
Well this, and Mr.Big my secret lover, who ensures I can write about sex once in a while.

But with a full schedule, split between a new job and teaching yoga, it was this lack of time to think, to talk, to digest and rearrange life in my head, that scared me.
I m not going to say I can’t live without the luxury of time. I m sure I can.
But what I m saying is:
I realized I wasn’t ready to give it up.
Not without a fight.

Also, the behind the scenes thing I mentioned, had turned around.
Within one week my entire financial situation had changed 180 degrees for the better.

I suddenly had the means to pursue a career that wouldn’t immediately make money. In theory I could even go back to plan A; to become a writer.
Except I no longer wanted that.

Reorganizing my yoga studio had sparked my enthusiasm for my current profession. And I know this is going to sound so weird! But I saw an opportunity to become a fulltime yoga teacher again.

Fulltime meaning, that if I don’t teach, I work on my yoga book, my marketing, and so on. But I work for the studio for 40 hours a week.

Over the years I’ve started treating my writing professionally, but this has been at the expense of the yoga studio. I also had less to do, there are fewer classes than five years ago. But I have no idea how the yoga studio would be doing, if I was still giving it my all.
Without holding back.

If I would work my yoga studio with the same excitement I had fifteen years ago, and with the same commitment I would have for a new job, what would happen?!

I wanted that question answered.
And the reorganization of the yoga studio had worked miracles for my self-esteem. Being a successful yoga teacher became just as appealing as being a successful writer. And it was way more within reach.
I was being offered a fresh start. 

There would be so many writers who would have chosen “Writing” here and not their old business. They would have recommitted to daily writing, just like I did five weeks ago.
And I understand that. And I applaud that.
But after weeks of moving around the different chunks of time of my imaginary future planning – making money, curating classes, thinking, doing interesting things to write about, writing, publishing my books – not having to juggle and only being a yoga teacher and hobby writer, sounds so appealing.
It’s definitely a Hell Yes!!

I’m not going to put a finite plan or date to it. I know myself, it could shift around a bit. But my first plan is to start the underground yoga studio July first – for current clients and other former members.

My second plan is to go big on the private classes. They will be the only thing I offer on my website, business cards and in personal conversations.
The review date is set at the end of the year. Then I ll see if my new yoga studio is bringing me everything I hoped for.
If so, yay!
And if no?
Then I tried, failed, and will be ready for something new.

And more importantly: ready to sacrifice the rest.

<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Books 

My diaries are available at LULU
New books will be added.

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready,
is to subscribe to this blog.
Button on this page, probably on the top right.

Or follow my Facebook page
/ Twitter: @LSHarteveld

Nederlands blog:
https://zegmaarlauren.com/

No, I’m an amateur

Submissive caring bottom

Published on by LS HarteveldLeave a comment

“I haven’t had sex for ages,” I complained to Damian.
He had picked me up from the station in his baby Benz, and sped us to his house which he shared with his boyfriend and four cats.
“You know, I’ve realized Big is like my goose with the golden eggs,” I continued.
Mr. Big was my secret lover, who I only saw when he saw fit.
Which he hadn’t in a long time.
“If I didn’t have Mr.Big I wouldn’t have anything interesting to write about.”

“These nights won’t help,” Damian agreed. “We ate ice cream, we watched Madonna videos,” he mimicked Madonna’s helium 80s voice when she did a little sketch of how she started out.
“We laughed really hard, and my dream came true,” I finished it for him.
Damian laughed
“If this is what you dream of we can’t be friends.”
He drove wildly over a speed bump.

Damian was the only friend who had foreseen I would need a Plan B if my cat Max would die. About two months prior, he suggested that I should visit him and his boyfriend, and more importantly, their cats.
It took me quite a while before I took him up on it.
But now we had weekly date nights on the couch, and sometimes a second date as well, going to a movie or such.
We never skipped my weekly dose of kitty, in favor of a normal date. In fact we never skipped it at all. And although I initially came to cuddle with the cats, to be in the company of two men turned out to be a great substitute for not seeing Big as often as I would have liked.
“I love being with you and Daniel,” I confessed. “It’s so good to get this male energy.”

I wasn’t angry with Big. After three and a half year, being a secret mistress had become a conscious choice. I knew I would never be satisfied having a relationship with someone who was available.
Not seeing Big much was the downside of an otherwise perfect arrangement. Or maybe it wasn’t even a downside. Maybe it was what made seeing each other so good.
“I do wonder what void I fill with you guys,” I asked Damian. “It’s not like you need female energy.”
“You’re my alibi for weekly ice cream,” Damian answered.

We always had vegan ice-cream. Damian ate vegan, whenever it was easy and available. But I appreciated it, and now preferred it over regular ice-cream. It didn’t make you feel so heavy and it contained 30% less sugar.
Which might explain why I ate about a hundred percent more of it.
In the first few weeks, Damian offered to split the pint of peanut-butter cookie dough ice-cream, and I was all like:
“Oh no! That’s way too much for me!”
But after a few weeks of then agreeing to a second portion, and basically eating half of the pint anyway, my objections just became a running gag.
“I begin to see what you’re like in bed!” Damian would mock me. “Oh no! That’s way too big, I can’t take that!“

Lately, Damian stocked two or three flavors of ice-cream, and we had lost our natural limit of one jar split in half. So now the jokes about second portions were current again.
“Just force it into my bowl. I don’t want to have a say in it.”
“You know I don’t do that,” Damian would then dismiss it, and open a detailed conversation of how many scoops of every flavor I wanted for my second portion.

Damian was a bottom, just like me. Which meant he didn’t like taking charge.
He had been the first with whom I really, really, shared what I was like in bed. I even told him more than the guys I was with, and I never discussed my sex life with my girlfriends.
Not really.
Even then – before #metoo – powerplay and play-rape were almost political subjects. You couldn’t go around claiming your entire sexuality came down to wanting to be penetrated in all your holes without consent.
And if you did you were supposed to engage in defending and explaining, that yes of course, there had actually been consent. And of course not, would you like real rape.
A draining conversation.
For both parties I assumed.

So for years I only talked real sex with Damian. And even now, he was the only one who understood, that if you (a bottom) had to make the first move, you did it so reluctantly and basically held it against someone. The other person better make that up to you, by immediately taking charge and making the next five moves and beyond.
So that we could go back to the comfort of being bottoms.

The only time Damian and me were inclined to be versatile, was if the guy was way younger and age put us in charge. Then we’d make an exception, which we saw as “taking responsibility”.
But it wasn’t ideal.

Damian was living with Daniel, who was versatile. This meant that Daniel could play multiple roles. Damian and me tried to categorize the cats as well. The bitchy lady was a dominatrix (we immediately agreed on her); the male cat with the cute small face was gender-neutral (Damian disagreed), and the two giant male cats were “just into anything naughty” (according to Damian).
“I would say versatile,” I said.
“That’s the same thing,” Damian brushed it off.

We went into the kitchen to get ice-cream and Damian filled our bowls, contemplating out loud how much he should leave in the containers for Daniel.
“Does he want ice-cream too?” I asked.
I didn’t recall seeing Daniel eating ice-cream. He was at his usual spot at the dining table, gaming with his online friends. Daniel could hear our conversations and occasionally contributed.
“We just had dinner,” Damian said. “Daniel can’t eat, if he’s just eaten.”
“I don’t understand that,” I said.
“Of course not. You’re a bottom. We can always take more.”

We settled on the couch, with cats, ice-cream and Madonna’s Confessions tour. Damian was the only one who cuddled with his cats in the same way I did. He was always completely taken aback by how cute they were, and showered them with compliments as he kissed their little heads, and faces. The cats were completely docile, because they were so used to being handled.
The two naughty ones were of course very naughty. Something Daniel tried to correct.

“I m the bad cop of the house,” he complained, as me and Damian were completely devoid of any desire to do anything about anyone.
“Just let them!” I defended the cats, whenever Daniel asked me to help out when the naughty ones tore up the couch or bullied each other.
Daniel rolled his eyes; “Promise me, you’ll never get a dog.”
“I promise.”

Damian and me talked about how I had looked for job opportunities in taking care of elderly people or mentally disabled people.
“It’s like with cats: I give love and care. I don’t need anything back, the reward is in the giving.”
But so far the response from recruitment had been lukewarm at best.
“And that’s okay, you know. I believe in divine guidance. If a door doesn’t open, it’s not my door. It’s like with dating. Either you’re super eager to see me. Or you’re not. But I m not going to sell myself.”
“Of course you’re not,” Damian agreed. “You’re submissive. A loving caring bottom.”

On screen Madonna was dancing and showing off her gorgeous body. As if he was reading my thoughts, Damian said:
“She’s 47 there. No, 48.”
“That gives me two years to get that body,” I sighed, patting my chubby belly. “Originally I said I was going to lose it all, by July 5th.”
“Why July 5th?”  Damian asked.
“I don’t know. I just came across it, in a blog. Now I’m waiting for a miracle.”
“Maybe you can pray to Ganesha,” Damian suggested.
“Ganesha? I think we need something stronger. Like Kali.”
I need something fierce and dominant, to whip this bottom into shape.

Preferably without consent.

<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Books 

My diaries are available at LULU
New books will be added.

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready,
is to subscribe to this blog.
Button on this page, probably on the top right.

Or follow my Facebook page
/ Twitter: @LSHarteveld

Nederlands blog:
https://zegmaarlauren.com/

A scattered life with foreign pieces

Published on by LS HarteveldLeave a comment

Every time I think I know what’s important, I find another piece of the puzzle.
“Of course this one should go in there as well!” I exclaim, when I find a tiny furry piece that says “new cat baby 2019”.
Or “write every day”; a piece that I always estimate at sixty minutes a day, but that can blow up to four hours.

But when I peer at the puzzle where “cat baby” or “write every day” should go, I realize that these pieces can only go in there, if I take others out.
Such as this freaking big piece that says:
GET A NORMAL JOB AND START MAKING SOME MONEY YOU BITCH
Sometimes that ugly piece isn’t there, but then there is this other large piece there instead. It says:
job to take care of elderly people or mentally disabled people.
purpose work.
no cats required.

All large chunks that involve me getting a new career or payroll job make a poor fit with the desire to write, because of scarcity of time, and also with the desire for cats.
With the cats it’s not so much a time thing, but it would be hard to leave them at home for nine hours a day. Looking at me with those large eyes. And it would be absolutely impossible to go out for full days if a cat was sick.
Getting a new career taking care of people would at least have the benefit that I could put love and nurture into my work. That it could substitute the need for cats. And then when I had time off, I could go on guilt-free holidays, because I had colleagues take over.
Not two cat babies at home missing their mom.
But this new career would be full-time, at least for the first two years. This has to do with the pretty standard two year job/re-education contract.
I would have to give up teaching yoga, because I don’t want to do that if I’m already busy commuting, working, receiving training and studying.
A 40+++ hour job.

So a job may replace my strong desire to get cats, and give me a nice salary, but there are also Basic Needs that I would need to live without:
To write for this blog.
To have ample time with friends or if I’m really lucky, with my lover Mr.Big.
I would have to let these pieces of the puzzle go.

And then there is this other piece, which fits so well with either getting a part-time job in an unrelated sector (and continue teaching yoga), or with getting a full time job in care or somewhere else.
This strange piece has an abusive message, that nonetheless is so tempting…
It says:
STOP BEING AN ENTITLED BITCH AND GET YOUR ASS TO WORK FOR 40 HOURS LIKE A NORMAL PERSON
And the more obligations I put together?
The better it fits!

I could have a 40+ hour job AND keep teaching my group classes – a schedule so busy that I would consider killing myself -and yet the STOP BEING AN ENTITLED BITCH piece would still fit.
It would probably have a sadistic side-kick appearing:
“That’s right! That’s what normal people do! It’s about time you learn you’re not entitle to ANYTHING!”
And the “make a full income” piece would be on the table.
But there wouldn’t be any room for something else.

The only thing I could do to create space if “make a full income” and “40+ hour job” were on the table?
Is to stop teaching yoga for two years, so that I at least have some free time for friends, and for writing.
Give up yoga… that’s drastic.

For the past few years I have had this cute, cheap yoga studio in the city center by divine intervention. I made a note-to-self that had the weight of a message tattooed on my arm;
That I would never, ever, give it up.
I would hold on to this small affordable yoga studio with my life.

At the time I had been in business for ten years and every place I had ever rented up until then, had been either too expensive, too cold, too hot, too far away from my other locations. Or it was perfect, but I it didn’t have any options to rent it for more hours.
My tiny yoga studio would always be worth holding on to.
But still.. renting a business space for two years without using it?

This process of trying to fit the pieces together has been going on for over a week. Many things have changed, the puzzle has changed too.
I have cancelled my lease at the most profitable location. It’s not my own studio but a place where I have taught for eleven years.
As soon as I considered going into health care, I realized I couldn’t commit to those classes for another year.
Having a fixed night when I had to teach yoga didn’t make sense if I had to start working in shifts. Or even if I took on another job:
It could easily require me to work that night.

Letting that more expensive location, and that fixed night, go, means I am now free to determine my hours on a flexible basis in my own studio.
I m free to change careers.
But I could also expand my number of classes, if the studio picks up. Which could happen! In my new concept I work from a single location, and we’ll be a private studio for current members, returning members, and their friends.
And if everybody is as enthusiastic about that as I am, I could even end up expanding the number of classes I teach, and a payroll job or new career will no longer be necessary.
And I have a trump card:
Teaching private yoga.
It’s something I have never put my full weight in.
But now I feel I need to do this..
That before I bring out the big gun, a new career, I need to give it another shot to get a full income from “just” teaching yoga.
Which will also allow me to keep writing and to publish books. It’s a tandem strategy; What’s good for yoga is good for writing.

And only if that fails?
If I’ve given it my all, and between now and let’s say six months I don’t see any progress?
Then I ll look at the “real job” option again.

So I was right, when I left that big location, concentrated all my classes and slimmed down the concept to a friends-only studio.
It certainly wasn’t going anywhere the way it was.

But after a week of alternating between crying and being euphoric; And of fitting the pieces together and then finding new pieces and not having a place to put them; I begin to understand that my puzzle may very well not contain a new career, nor any abusive pieces that yell at me. That those pieces just look attractive because they’re so large. They cover a lot of holes.
They cover purpose, they cover income.
They fill up all the holes in my life, and of my career, as well as the hole in my heart where my cats used to be.

But the trick is that despite of their impressive results, they will never truly fit. They’re a cover-up, offering a tempting, complete picture of a life well lived.

But it’s not my life.
It’s a foreign one.

<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Books 

My diaries are available at LULU
New books will be added.

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready,
is to subscribe to this blog.
Button on this page, probably on the top right.

Or follow my Facebook page
/ Twitter: @LSHarteveld

Nederlands blog:
https://zegmaarlauren.com/

Why I never stood up to my parents

Published on by LS HarteveldLeave a comment

I was way over forty when I discovered something:
That writing made me happy.
It had been kind of a necessity when I was in my thirties, became single and started dating. It was my primary tool of self-reflection and growth. But in my forties, with my love life figured out, and a secret lover to practice all lessons learned, writing became a Joy.

As long as my days consisted of writing I didn’t need anything normal people needed. Social interactions, food, exercise, and even sleep all became options, if I was interested in staying healthy. But I didn’t actually need them, and could go on without breaks for up to ten hours.
I learned to make meals in five minutes and ate them at my desk.

I learned I could get out of my pajamas, shower, have dinner and be ready to go out and teach yoga, in fifteen minutes flat.
I had a standing desk, but otherwise my ass would have fallen off.
And I wouldn’t have noticed it.

I looked down on other people who needed normal things like leisure and Netflix. And this is going to sound horrible, but since you’re probably already reading this to see for yourself that I am a fucked up person: I know.
And I’m not even hiding it.

But I was happy in my writing bubble. Especially because I had cats, who more or less accidentally came on my path when I separated from the boyfriend who was supposed to take care of them should we ever break up.
But those two little fellows were the best thing that ever happened to me.
They were the reason I never considered pursuing a career that would take me away from home, nor would I consider doing something, or committing to something, that could limit the infinite amount of time, love and money I could spend on them.

I would even consider invasive treatments or operations in order to stay alive to take care of them. Because I knew that if I died their level of care would suffer.
They were my number one reason to live.

And because I had my writing, I actually enjoyed that life tied to computer and my cats. It was not just home, it was everything.
It was my Life.

I was also amazed at how productive I was, and how little sleep I needed.
I had never expected it anymore, that there was something in me that made me tick..

I was two decades past what should have been my rebellious puberty; Standing up for choosing an education or profession I wanted!

I was a decade past what should have been my motivated twenties;
Hustling my ass off to make a career!

I had done neither of those things. I had simply chosen the road of least resistance, so that my parents wouldn’t get too upset.
I didn’t realize yet that I would be totally unsuitable, or at least unmotivated, to make the career they wanted for me, but I did instinctively go for:
“What would they like me to do, what is my margin, and from those options what is the optimal choice for me?”
I scowled myself for not standing up for myself, but in retrospect that makes so much sense. Because I didn’t have anything to stand up for!
I had not discovered writing yet, and I also didn’t have cats.

To make my parents happy, or at least not to let them worry too much, and to not let my boyfriend down.
Those were my life’s goals, and I was really good at them.

Until I found myself single, living alone, with two little furry friends to take care of and a computer to write on, feeling ABSOLUTE BLISS.
And not needing sleep, not needing food.

I m not going to say that I needed “few things”!
An apartment all to yourself as well as twenty-four hours every day, is nothing small.
It’s actually the biggest, most entitled thing, you can possibly imagine.
But I thrived at it.
I was by far the best cat mother I ever knew, maybe aside from women who have dedicated their life to rescuing cats, and taking them in.
But I came pretty close.
And I had only two cats; they had my full attention. So they didn’t have to share anything. Not even the kitty litter box, of which I had three, so that they always had something to choose from. Because I had learned the optimal number of kitty litter boxes was the number of cats plus one.

But it felt so great to be so goddamn good at something! And next to being a kick-ass cat mother I also liked what I wrote, to reread it.
It evolved from writing Dutch fiction, to Dutch erotica, to English diaries, to ultimately English autobiographical erotica. And now I’ve taken things down a notch, and focus on the topic of being a mistress.

But what I failed to see in those twelve years – when writing went from something that was required to process my complicated sexual issues, to something that I did because it was how I breathed – was that underneath? Nothing had changed.
And beyond the cats?
Nothing had changed either.

If I had to choose again, between pleasing my parents or choosing for my writing or my cats – only the cats would have been a reason to stand up for myself.
I would never let anything touch them.
I would have become a prostitute if that’s what was required to support our cat heaven, which was basically also my heaven.
But when the cats died, it was gone.

My cats Max and Willem took the magic with them, of me being willing to fight for my life. They had been the only thing that would have outweighed disturbing my parents.
But writing?
No.

I m not going to say: “I need to write! You can’t take this from me! And if I have to I ll turn a prostitute in order to make sure I can write!”
I don’t care. I really don’t.

If it would make them happy I would just called it quits on the playtime of having my own yoga studio, and dismiss the whole idea of being an entrepreneur.
Just take a job with a pension plan, and give them the worry-free life of having a daughter who is successful and doesn’t do anything that puts anyone at risk.
No financial risk.
Not of reputation.
Not by making enemies.

But the last time I chose to make a parent happy this way, he died within five months.
At peace; Because he knew I had a job and was now taken care of.

<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

Books 

My diaries are available at LULU
New books will be added.

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready,
is to subscribe to this blog.
Button on this page, probably on the top right.

Or follow my Facebook page
/ Twitter: @LSHarteveld

Nederlands blog:
https://zegmaarlauren.com/

I wanna quit so badly

Published on by LS HarteveldLeave a comment

I ACTUALLY thought it was going to work:
No more diary posts.
No more writing about writing.
No more yoga bizz struggles.
And definitely no more erotica.
Well, technically that one was fake. I haven’t written erotica since 2016 to begin with.
But from now on forward I was going to BE the professional AUTHOR SPEAKER EXPERT! on the field of being a mistress.
I was going to share THAT message, and ONLY that message with the world.
And I m pretty sure there was something in that final mission statement that concerned having to stop typing in capitals.
Or at least there should have been.

And what a great idea to move everything that was not a hundred percent relevant to The Message of The Mistress, back into hiding.
Smashing really.
This blog would get one, clean, professional, bite sized message every day:
It’s okay to be a mistress, or to have a mistress.
And even if you’re betrayed by your husband having one:
No reason for drama.
We can all get better from this. Here, let me explain….

My Mistress Message would be the ONLY thing I would be known for.
So that I could disconnect the rest of my life from the public eye. Where it had been since 2010 when I had started publishing on my LS Harteveld website.
It would help me to feel safer and less anxious, if I created more privacy and stopped sharing daily shenanigans.
That was Sunday.
And guess what?
I didn’t write since Sunday.

It’s Wednesday night now, and between Sunday morning and Wednesday night not writing? That’s forever, in my writer book. That’s SOMEONE IS SERIOUSLY LOSING HER SHIT -long.
Not in the way I was losing my shit last week!
There were no heart attacks and sleepless nights this time. And this morning, when someone started tweeting about astrology and all the Scorpios answered with their deepest most powerful, sexual stuff and I joyfully remembered it was now my job to join the conversation as an expert?
Just for a moment, I thought I could pull it off.

I would write my first clean 500 words professional message, with maybe a cute or inspiring example (nothing triggering!) of why Scorpio women, whether by sun sign or ascendant, make the best mistresses.
It would be the first of many of such little, harmless posts, which aside from its difficult topic of mistresshood, would not be different from any mainstream column about sex or relationships.
Oh what a wonderful, pink, fluffy cotton candy dream it is!

The days I wrote stuff that gave me heart attacks, and felt exposed because next to my difficult message I shared every-fucking-thing else;
They would be over.

These posts would not disrupt the hard-fought mental and financial equilibrium of my life. No one would get hurt over these…
But then the day happened.

Today, Wednesday, the fourth day of relative peace and calm. And I realized after a series of events, that there was no “safe”. There was no way I could share my message in a way that would ensure money would be earned, messages would be heard, and risks would be worth taking.
And that in fact, trying to play it safe may very well turn out to be the riskiest thing I could possibly choose.

First of all: the fact that I didn’t write for three mornings in a row?
Hello?!
How could I miss that?

After over a month of daily blogging, then missing a day because of anxiety, then drawing a conclusion, being happy, peaceful, STOPPING WRITING.
It’s daunting how easy it was.
How the promise I no longer had to share ALL the things, completely cured me from my urge to write.
Apparently there was no motivation, let alone a pressing urge, left to write a daily blogpost, once the battle field had been cleared from phobias and anxiety. I didn’t want to disturb the peace. And especially not by writing a piece that would have the raw emotional impact of a baby crocodile. Which could still, technically, bite someone’s finger off.

The civilized messaging, writing, that I intended to base an entire career on, would have been soulless and obsolete. And that’s assuming I could have actually started it.

Things got bad. Talk of a “real” job. Stop hoping I ll ever make my business work. And I could see myself being ignored and gossiped about, by female coworkers who would find out who I (also) was. See myself being made fun of by men who would brag to each other if I walked by.
I saw myself rather wanting to die.

I didn’t see anything suicidal, but I definitely saw a wish to stop making an effort to live physically. And a willingness to just hand in all the fun, ambition, my hobby of writing, or even teaching yoga, and just do something that pays and doesn’t upset anyone.

And to make things at work as normal as possible I would first remove all my LS Harteveld work; the website, purge Google. And if someone would still find out, I would say:
“That was me in the past. I am no longer that person.”
And bow my head in shame.

I would be spiritually dead.

And I was surprised by how tempting that was. To give it all up.
To say:
I failed. I wasn’t making any money from it and I was too afraid writing about being a mistress would get me murdered. Or that my family would start being ashamed of me.
Or for something, anything, happening to them, by people who were angry with me.
It wasn’t worth it.
I’m a mistress, I m a bad person, but I m not going to make it worse.

And I said it was tempting, but that should be present tense.
It still is tempting.
I wanna quit so badly.

<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

update January 2021:
I want to assure you becoming proper never happened, and I am still writing!
You can subscribe to the blog, to receive new posts in your InBox.
My current project is Lauren96:
It is a diary of my life but translated to 25 years ago.

Books 

My diaries are available at LULU
New books will be added.

The best way to receive updates on when these books are ready,
is to subscribe to this blog.
Button on this page, probably on the top right.

Or follow my Facebook page
/ Twitter: @LSHarteveld

Nederlands blog:
https://zegmaarlauren.com/

Back in the closet

Published on by LS HarteveldLeave a comment

I spent the day of the royal wedding with the only gay men whom I knew would not be watching the wedding.
Well, that’s not true.
I have many gay friends and I can’t see any of them being remotely interested. Maybe it’s an Anglo-Saxon thing because I don’t know any Dutch gays interested in royalty. Except for a few royalty reporters.
Interested in sex? All of them.
Madonna? Fifty percent.
Musicals? A few.
I even know one who is a soccer fan. He kept that from me for years. I was baffled when his boyfriend accidentally let that slip.
And then you think you know someone!!

But I never detected an interest in royalty in any of them. And four out of five don’t care for weddings either. And neither do I.
I ve been declining wedding invitations for years. I would make an exception if it was direct family, or closest friend. Only for the ones I love most.

I always feel like Maleficent when it comes to weddings. Maleficent is the uninvited evil fairy from Sleeping Beauty. Except of course I don’t want to be invited either.

Now that I’m a mistress, it makes even more sense because mistresses and weddings are not a logical combination. Maybe one day, if we totally own our sexuality, mistresses will be able to rejoice in weddings:
“Yay! More married men!”

But not attending weddings has more to do with the fact that I simply don’t like parties, and I don’t like being reduced to an audience either.
Unless it’s to attend something that I find truly inspiring. For example going to a museum or taking a guided historical walk, then I can be audience. Even a concert with a support act would already be beyond my attention span. I would give it fifteen minutes tops, between handing in my ticket and needing the main show to start.
But I don’t care for weddings either, if I can watch Harry and Meghan from the quiet seclusion of my own home. So I didn’t watch.
And neither did my gay friends.
I spent the Saturday with them, and was asked about a certain person. If I thought he was gay or not. And I admitted that I had always assumed he was gay, but that it was getting harder to believe since he was now forty plus and married with children.

And this was a guy who could get anybody, any age, any gender, any sexual orientation, to make an exception for him (if necessary). He was absolutely gorgeous.
Which was one of the reasons I assumed he was gay.

Straight men are usually not that easy on the eyes, and they do not score that high on people skills either. One of the reasons male players barely have any competition, is because most other men are so uncomfortable talking to women.
This is local; Could be different somewhere else!
But in The Netherlands, if a man easily connects with people in general but that includes women; He’s either a player or he’s gay.
I still thought this one was gay.
“I have the impression he’s never coming out of the closet. He’s hiding even deeper.”
My friends and me all agree someone can stay in the closet for as long he or she wants. I wasn’t always like that but it’s one thing being a mistress taught me: to realize that when your sexuality meets opposition, you have every right to deny it, lie about it, or refrain from it. You have the right to setup a whole second life and marry whoever you choose, and to stay in the closet forever.
If that’s what you want.

At times I suspect the only reason I’m even in this relationship with a married man, is because I believed it was temporary. I wouldn’t even have recognized myself in that word “Mistress”. I believed it was temporary and that he would choose for me.
You can compare it to experimenting with someone from the same gender.
It’s stage one.
It’s an important step, but it’s only experimenting. You’re not making any decisions. 

To go from stage one to realizing you’re full blown liking it and never want to go back, can still take years. And maybe you will never allow for that level of accepting who you are. Regardless of how lighthearted you jumped into the experimental stage.

So my friends and me don’t out people. And I m ashamed to say that I once did press a friend, and took it personal I felt he wasn’t honest. I would apologize if I ever saw him again.
But I do still fantasize and wonder: Would he? Is he?
And so do my friends.

So we were wondering about this man presumably hiding deep into the closet of being gay, and things started to shift inside of me as well. My previous post, which cost me two days and one heart attack to write, was still fresh in my memory. I knew being so open about being a mistress, and actually advocating it to those who have similar preferences for secrecy, excitement, and unavailable men (wake up call! you will never be satisfied with something else!), was coming at a price;
ANXIETY.

Like being gay, a mistress can never be sure if she will not be molested or killed over it. I have so many “friends” who say they would kill their husbands if they found out.
I know better.
They’d kill me.
So that’s what I mean when I say I no longer out gay men. But that it probably took me until I was a mistress to really feel that choice. To understand why it’s sometimes practically impossible to honor who you are and speak up for what you believe in.
But the conversation, combined with my recent anxiety attacks, had stirred something in me; I wanted out.
Not out of the relationship – I never considered that a serious option.
I wanted to stop drawing attention to myself.
No writing, no books, no message.
No Twitter, no Facebook, no career.
I would just go back to being a yoga teacher and keep my thoughts to myself and my gay friends. Maybe I wouldn’t get killed, if I stopped speaking about my sexual preference. Maybe “they” would leave me alone, if I was “only” a yoga teacher..

And the pieces started to move, and the day went by and I didn’t write for this daily blog, and slowly my thoughts started to make sense.
One of the key insights into my own preferences was my need for secrecy. That I had lost a huge part of joy with my long-term boyfriend, when we made our relationship public after six months.
There was the initial excitement over being able to share it.
And then – poof! – it was gone.
Initially I thought it was because after a while you’re not in love anymore. But that wasn’t it, because I’ve been in love for over three years with my lover. I get more butterflies every time.
My fleeting interest with my long-term boyfriend was simply caused by our “coming out”. 

I was way more excited about us when we were still a secret.
And had lost something valuable, coming out of the closet.

If I would stop talking and writing about being a mistress, I could go back to having the perks of secrecy and stop having these anxiety attacks… It’s so difficult to say no to that.
It comes down to existential questions like:
Why I am here on earth?
How important is it for me to get this message out there?
Unfortunately: Very.
I don’t think there is a single area where I have a bigger contribution to make than here. Stopping now would feel like Marie Curie butting out of research before she discovered radioactivity.

I just Googled her.
What I didn’t know was that she too was a mistress when she was in her forties. Her husband had died and she had a lover who was a scientist too. He was married. At the time it wasn’t out of the ordinary for successful men to have a mistress, but she needed to stay in the background. The fact that she was famous and foreign, made her not eligible to be measured according to loose French standards. When the news broke she was scandalized and even had to go into hiding.

So although my work is far less important than Marie Curie’s, I do know this is it.
To stop writing would be a short term relief.
But I feel so strongly, that this is The Message. That some people, women, men, need this. To be a secret lover.
And some men or women need to have a second lover.
That’s how they’re wired.

You don’t accidentally end up loving two people.
If you love two people, there was a vacancy. It’s like those animals who have two penises: they’re built differently.

I don’t want to get too much on the field of people who have two partners: one legit, and one secret. Because I think that’s not my story to tell. But yes, they too are not heard. They probably don’t even understand themselves. They might even think they fucked it up.
It’s so sad. It’s ALL so sad.

If I think even further, about all those betrayed partners: They think it’s about them. That the relationship wasn’t good enough. That they shouldn’t have said such and such. Shouldn’t have been so difficult, or something.
Or that their partner should have left if they “wanted it so badly!”.
And so on.

The unnecessary sadness and suffering this taboo is causing, might be the most important reason why I don’t want to go back into the closet.
Not the closet of my sexuality.
I will persist, just like Marie Curie persisted.
And I hope it doesn’t cost me, but it did cost her. She died of an ailment caused by radioactive exposure. She paid with her life but her invention has been saving lives for over a hundred years.

But there is something else. Something I think I unconsciously let go off a long time ago. As if I already knew that standing up as a mistress, inevitably meant that I longed for more privacy in other areas.
I will no longer be writing diaries or erotica;
which has been my most important work since 2006.

I made this choice unconsciously. I can see that now, looking back on my last projects. 
Their content already shows me drawing back:
Reboot, started in August 2017, was about rebooting my body, but also contained a lot of sex.
The Hero’s Journey, started at Christmas, was only about yoga. Or about Not Practicing Yoga. The accountability of the blog had the opposite effect on me. I practically had four yoga-free months.
The Daily Hustle, started a month ago, was more about the daily grind, the yoga studio, and writing.
The only place where I m digging deeper into my soul than ever, are these posts, The Grateful Mistress Series.

In an effort to bring some of the passionate diary writing back, which I still had in my book Big diaries and erotica  I made countless note to selfs:
“Write erotica again!”
The last story was December 2016, which had been the published in Big.
But there will be no more erotic stories.
No more diaries.
No more speaking about yoga.
I know I ve shared all in the past, but I feel I need to draw back into the closet. That I have been drawing back for years.
Just that I failed to notice it.

I kept thinking my life was like an onion: That I could just keep peeling back layers. But when I saw the big picture, I realized that is a very dangerous way to think about self-revelation.
Ultimately, the onion will be gone.

It reminded me of a story about a sex worker. I think I saw it in a movie. She didn’t want to be touched in her armpits. Having a place on her body where she wasn’t touched gave her a sense of control, in a profession that required her to give up boundaries.
With The Grateful Mistress Series, I am already peeling layers, turning myself inside out.
But in order to keep being able to do that, I have to move all unrelated aspects of my life, or parts I am no longer willing to share, back into the closet.
Like an armpit; they may not be a particularly interesting part of me.
But as long as no one can touch me there?
I can share myself here.
Fully.

<3LSH
An Unexamined Life is Not Worth Living

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