Archive for December, 2012

My Term in Orgasm

Early Crushes

I had a couple crushes from first through fifth grade, but the boy at Sunday school and the substitute teacher both had a hand in my later evolution from being a virgin to being deflowered.

I lost my virginity for real on March 25, 1978. I don’t count the one poke received, when I was seventeen, by this boy crush, as losing my virginity. All he did was carry me out of the hot tub next door and over to my family home where he threw me on my bed, ripped off my bikini bottoms, poked me, pulled out and said, “There, now you know.” There was no kiss, no romance, but no real physical abuse. Yet, I remember being shaky after it happened.

No one was home. The phone rang minutes later and I told the ecology counselor from camp on the other end of the line what had happened. His calm voice on the phone let me know that not all boys were that cruel. I felt strange, to be so physically curious with so many mixed emotional messages coming at me.

My Term-In-O

The foreplay for my first time lasted over five years. I was almost thirteen the first day I saw him. I was in Sunday school in the class at the top of the highest staircase when he walked in. He was gorgeous and had a mustache. All the girls in class thought he was cute, but the sight of him in the beginning immobilized me. Each week I waited downstairs for Stephanie (my more experienced girlfriend) to arrive. She’d walk me up and open the door to our class. She helped me overcome my incomprehensible nerves. She bolstered my confidence when I couldn’t go up and see him by myself.

Something about him took my breath away and he knew it. He loved to tease me, to come and sit beside me. He was always pointing me out and sitting down to talk to me. He told me once that the boys in class wanted to know if my breasts were real because they were bigger than all the other girls. I remember when our class went to camp for the weekend and how he wanted me around whenever and wherever he was sitting. We spent so much time that weekend talking. The last day of class he sat me down and told me, “I will wait for you till you are eighteen.”

On my eighteenth birthday my father told me he’d had lunch with an old teacher of mine. “Mr. F gave me his phone number and told me to tell you to call him.” Can you imagine my excitement and amazement, not to mention nervousness at the thought of seeing him again and for this reason?

That spring I went to his house a couple of times before “the day.” We’d talk. I don’t remember why March 25th was the day. I remember laying under him and wondering what the big deal was all about. My diary that night paints a much brighter picture than I remember about the actual event. I didn’t see him much after that but he sent me a postcard of a French castle from Paris a week later affirming his love for me.

Two decades later, my folks drove down that street, pointed out the duplex and said, “That front apartment is where you were conceived.” To which I replied, “The back apartment is where I lost my virginity.”

In 1978, Mr. F owned the back apartment. How weird is that, to literally be on opposite sides of the same wall when being conceived and then engaging sexually for the first time? This was on Termino Avenue. Thus began, my term in Orgasm. Not that I had one when the initial deed was done, but this day was the commencement of what was to come, not that I realized it at the time.

Perhaps it is not unusual for much of the United States, or many other countries around the world, that a woman would be conceived and deflowered in the same building. In other words, I lost it within six to ten feet of where I gained it, on either side of a dividing wall. When I realized the synchronicity of these two events, both taking place in the third month of the year, I thought it strange, unusual, and somehow prophetic. I have another definition for término. My “limited period” of time on the planet, not only to heal myself sexually, but most importantly TO COME to understand and explore orgasm . . . TERM IN O.

Mother, May I?

Between the ages of eight and eighteen I had mirrored wardrobe doors in my bedroom. This was the first time I had a bedroom all to myself. I no longer had to share a room with my baby brother. During those early years, I started to explore my body. I was horrified at this pull from deep within that made me curl up my hot pink, felt “Smiley Face” pillow and hump on it with a nervous, embarrassed angst. I thought this behavior was gross and ugly. When I’d lie down and watch myself in the mirror, I felt shame and didn’t know why I was doing it.

hump pillow

I remember my old babysitter once walking into the room when I was listening to the radio. Led Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love was playing at that point in the song where it’s easy to imagine two people coming close to climax . . . where Plant sings, “Way down inside woman, you need it/love.” The look she gave me as she walked by let me know that there was something wrong with that music and those voices that sort of sounded like I felt when grinding my pillow.

I remember my mother walking in once without knocking when I was under the covers humping. Imagine my discomfort! And think how fast I had to turn over . . . and act like nothing was happening. Nothing was said. I hated myself and my secret behavior.

I was nineteen when I realized I wanted to write about sexuality. In 1979, I mentioned this truth only in one sentence in a hidden diary. I didn’t talk about it with many, if any. I’ve written privately for years, sometimes extremely conscious of my process, other times as numb as can be while still leaving a time capsule of sorts. I have been a “trunk writer” since the age of twelve and a half. I wrote in code in journals and poured the best and worst of me out onto inviting clear blank pages. I wrote it and hid it just as fast.

What I wrote in private was my therapy and inspiration. As a relief valve (an orgasm before the orgasm), I knew if I wrote long enough, a rich wisdom and deep confidence would flow through my pen and my soul would become calm again. I know only too well our unconscious selves own much more of our behavior than we are willing to admit.

What I have learned during my short time on the planet is that our sexuality can be the most sacred part of us, but without conscious attention it can be scattered and spent in a profane or dangerous manner. If we aren’t allowed to develop naturally as the human animal we really are, the internal drive can easily get stuck and become perverted.

The act itself is mostly used for either procreation or recreation. Yet, it can also become a rebirth in the moment, a reckoning that reassembles body, mind, and spirit if the stresses of the day have splintered them. It can reconnect us with our highest selves, as well as that which is on high above us—when we get quiet enough to receive it. But without higher intent, sexuality can easily become a source of aggravation and irritation. I am not a doctor, clinical researcher or a philosopher. I am a woman who explored my sexuality alone, in and out of relationships. It’s been a calling, a mission that sounded off so deliberately in my soul I could no longer ignore it.

I’m not every woman—however, I’ve interacted with many during my time here. Where does the coin come into it? So many men think women just want money. Now that so many women are making their own cash (safety and security) earlier in life, this issue fades a bit and what comes into focus is indeed what she really wants when interacting with men. Most of all a woman wants to be loved, and to love. She lives best when giving to those she loves like an eternal fountain, in a constant natural flow.

I was told by one of the astrologers that because of my moon placement I would have to heal my relationship with my mother or it would kill me. I was scared of my mother when I was younger. She had that Scorpio tongue, and as a child I never knew what was going to set her off. As an adult, I know what sets her off and I know I inherited that same tongue. I’m no longer frightened of my mother. I know how to look under her reaction, to ask what’s going on before assuming I know what she’s feeling. When I slow down and don’t react, but instead request clarification and as much honesty as possible, I know how to provide comfort for her. She certainly knows how to provide it for me and has been doing it for many years.

I thought I’d have to wait to bring out my stories until after my mother had passed. I didn’t want to embarrass or shame her for my behavior in any way. We are both still alive. Mom always believed in my writing, if not the subject matter. She always knew how to help me unwind emotionally when tears were stuck. She might not have personally understood what I was feeling, but feelings are pretty universal. My mother had a way of making it safe for me to feel my own feelings, to breathe in deeply and open to them, whatever they were, in the moment. Five minutes on the phone with my mom and my tears could emerge. Once it comes up, the energy has an opportunity to shift.

She’s my favorite person to read a story to when I get literally stuck with words or have doubt that what has come through me should be shared. She may not understand the position I got myself into, but she tells me she is learning so much from listening to my stories. Almost every day now she calls and says, “Would you like to read me another story?”

What I’d been most afraid of is no issue whatsoever.

Mission Possible – a little exploration into what inspired me to write this project

At an early age I asked for a mission. Yet in reality, when I arrived at my specific time and date, December 13, 1959 at 1:06 pm that mission came with me.

When I had my first astrology reading at age twenty-three, I remembered hearing about little idiosyncratic slivers of my being only I seemed to know about. I was amazed that those secrets I thought I kept hidden from the world could actually be seen by a stranger. Most people think astrology is the one-dimensional paragraph found in the newspaper. I’m a full-bodied Sagittarius. I have four of my major planets in Sagittarius, who represents the Centaur and is embodied as half man, half animal.

Around thirty I had my first full reading from a gifted astrologer. I was told I have a dilemma between gathering info (Moon in Gemini) and having to find the truth (Sun in Sagittarius), and if the form for expressing myself isn’t right, I’ll destroy the effort (Pluto in Virgo). Boy, did that ring true. I can research something forever, but always feel the more I discover, the less I feel justified in claiming THE answer. I never feel something I’m working on is finished. I fill myself up seeking outside of myself for the answers that are only within.

I was told:

“Your gift is when you can say, ‘This is what my belly tells me about the truth of these experiences I had.’ Self-sabotage comes in if you are looking outside of yourself; you won’t be able to hear or touch your belly wisdom because you’re feeding it the so-called “right” form and truth of patriarchal information.”

My whole life I’ve tried to listen to what my gut was telling me, which often felt diametrically opposed to the status quo and what was advertised as mainstream. I constantly felt I needed to fight to be me, to keep myself authentic and not give my essence away in chunks and pieces because I didn’t have the strength to remain intact.

This astrologer told me that in many lifetimes I’d given up myself in order to be loved. I’d been raped, murdered, prostituted, victimized, drugged, manipulated, and abused on all levels. All of these occurrences happened under the guise of others telling me if I did things their way, I’d be loved. Seeking love, as humans do, in many previous lifetimes I gave up my soul’s course to find that love.

I was told in this lifetime I would come to recognize that I own my body. I wouldn’t have to do the typical pattern that woman is owned by someone else. Early on my father encouraged me to be independent. “With the right man, you won’t have to give up who you really are.” I’ve never met that man. Many people say relationship is about compromise. But I think many of these people are in relationships because they don’t want to be alone. I recently spoke with a woman who grew up on the same street. She said she got married because our society is a couple’s culture and it was too hard to be alone when everyone else was paired up. I’ve rarely felt that way. Instead, often in a relationship, I sought those moments alone when I could hear myself think.

The astrologer told me that in this lifetime many of the men who would come to me were men that I’d had past lives with, and that I had an opportunity to heal those patterns in this lifetime.

She said, “You have sacrificed yourself for love or to be valued by others vis-a-vis your Scorpio nature; sexuality, intensity, power, and emotional depth. You have a memory of these many lifetimes that you’ve been told, ‘if you do it our way, you will be loved.’ You can’t do it anymore.”

I was advised on how to transform it:

“Deeply immerse yourself in the Venus archetype, in the sexuality and power of your Scorpio self. This is the lifetime you can make closure on all those lifetimes you’ve been the chameleon in order to fit in, the times you’ve been the tantric sexual priestess, and when you dealt with suicide. The deep pitfall remains; you must stay conscious in order not to fall prey to old patterns.”

My chart has Venus and Neptune in Scorpio in the Seventh House, which I bring up over and over throughout this book. I was told at thirty that I’d forever have a veil over my eyes, and I wouldn’t see those I love accurately. Neptune can cause a fog to obscure one’s vision. Often I see what I want to see instead of what is really there.

I’ve known many women to give men up. Maybe they had a few bad relationships and that was it. They focused their energies elsewhere. I’ve never been able to do that. Venus in Scorpio is the height and depth of orgasm as well as the agony of jealousy. It’s a human paradox, to secrete bile with most servings of bliss.

“At some point you’ll have to decide for yourself that you’ve collected enough to satisfy your emotional needs and then move over and synthesize it all into a truth that deals with Eighth House emotional, not linear, patriarchal truths.”

I believe that time is now.

“Your creativity is where your autonomy comes in. The way to punish yourself is to cut off your creativity, then you can’t be free, and you’ll stay stuck to all the structures that won’t nourish you. Your true persona in public is the HEALER. You will see bullshit, untruth, power manipulations, and corruption. You will also see your own power, your own sense of self, and how you serve best. As you purge and release to purify, to know your core self, let your gut do the talking. Don’t use your mind. Flow with being alone.”

That’s what my trunk writing was all about; this obsessive need to express, get my emotions out, and ideas onto the page. I spent so much time studying the world around me that I knew only too well that I didn’t fit into the structure that was being delineated as The Way to succeed. I learned early (much before any astrological information was given to me) how to work the system, and I found early success at playing the game, simultaneously, with great cost to the core self of my authentic voice.

“To heal these patterns, you have to bring each one up so you can learn from them again and, this time, transform them. It will be tough as you get involved in each situation, but at some level you must remember that you are bringing them up to live it out. Constantly remind yourself that you are the weaver at the center of it all. Keep repeating to yourself, ‘I am all these experiences but they do not control me.’ You are more than all of your past.”

I’ve learned a great deal about what was driving my self-sabotage, my existential pain, as well as my rage. It all gets scientific but I learned at thirty that I needed to marry myself to the writing if I was to find some safe place to live in this world. For the next fifteen years I lived my life and wrote about it as best I could.

I have astrological built-in conflicts around sex. Through this focus in life, I’ve discovered the deeper emotions of sexuality. I’ve learned each relationship offers us a unique look into ourselves. As we grow and mature, we attract someone who is at a similar level of growth and maturity. Everyone is a mirror. If we refuse to see ourselves accurately, or to listen intently to the red flags offered us in the connection, then we keep repeating a pattern. Only by repeating patterns over and over have I learned this. You will see these patterns unfold as you read my stories.

Looking back I believe it is the strength of the four strong planets in Sagittarius that kept the part of me that Sylvia Plath spoke to, rather than Walt Disney, from taking control of my soul. My Sagittarius powered me forward through life to seek the answers in spite of my deep Scorpio pain.

I now have a choice how I wish to deal with the difficult emotions that arise in almost all of my intimate relationships. At fifty-two, all I can say is, it’s about time.

Instead of acting out, as you will see in some of these stories, I’m finally learning to consciously choose my perspective.  Instead of staying stuck on the ground and either stinging or being stung, I have the option to choose to soar above it for the higher truth. Ideally, I can allow illumination to understand each situation from this broader more expansive perspective, and then transform it with the Phoenix energy that is the highest expression of Scorpio.

No one said any of this was easy; I fail as often as I succeed. Soon, I hope to succeed more often.

I share this segment not to confuse anyone, but to pay homage to an interpretation of this life that inspired me to do really difficult work because of its worth and importance; not only for me, but also for all women. At the time I thought clearing such an old seductive pattern was impossible. I was wrong. As you begin to read my story, keep in mind that consciously I knew none of this until I was thirty years old.

astro chart

The Guest House – Rumi

This poem is very important to me. I am reworking the front of the book so I can get straight to the stories that sing the strongest, but I didn’t want this poem’s connection to my book to be lost.

The Guest House

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness
comes as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes
because each has been sent
as a guide from above.

                                                               –The Essential Rumi



In Search of the Big O is my Delta of Venus.

June 6, 1992                                                  What is Erotica?

My Jewish answer to the question is another question, “What do you love about sex?”

In Search of the Big O is my Delta of Venus.

My Dad prepared me for his version of the “birds and the bees” by taking me to Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlor. Amidst the banging drums and sirens, he stressed the importance of being protected, carrying a rubber, loving safely. “You carry your own protection because there will come a day when you want to get in a guy’s pants so bad, you’re not going to want to wait because he’s unprepared.” My Father told me that sex was such a wonderful part of his life, he really hoped I would have love that brought me that same satisfaction he has felt with my Mother.  For years I accused him of pushing sex, saying this conversation took place when I was in eighth grade and hadn’t even received a guy’s tongue yet, not anywhere.  My diary told another tale.  Dear Dad waited until I was a senior in High School, just months before I used saran wrap as a precaution.

Funny,  sex is an obsession in my life. An overwhelming focus I’ve tried to squelch, drown, bury, repress, suppress, smoke out, depress, dope up, oppress with no luck. While discussing my desire to write of certain sexual influences on my life, one male friend said, “You seem to be an accurate mirror of the modern woman; open, yet frustrated.

Memories, fantasies and illusions combine in this set of short stories focused on the concept of wanting it, fearing it, getting it, getting it better, wanting it deeper, longer, thicker, more lovingly, differently, giving it, trading it, selling it (in one way or another). Sex labels our groins and determines our desires. It is a subject every man and woman has an opinion about, thus create their lives around.

In Search Of The Big O and other stories is my attempt at erotica.  For years I’ve wondered how to write it; third person, fictionalized, or straight from my diary. Should I write using my initials, my name, my twat’s name or the name of the heroine in my mind?  What will my parents think, my friends from high school, college, America, even my Russian heritage; expecting success! What will they think of this “grand young one” writing so intimately about her “grande old skin?”

As I begin to write I am wondering still about how to attach myself with that which is flowing through. First off, I realize many writer’s practice their craft through the writing of erotica; Anaïs Nin, Erica Jong, Anne Rice to name a few. I also realize that most fiction is just personal experience twisted in some creative fashion and renamed. Reading a feature article in the LA Times View section (1-10-92) on Dean R. Koontz, local writer, multimillionaire, “The Dean of Evil” enlightened me to the terms and profession of identity.  I want to lift up life with my stories, greeting cards, love gifts and birthday collages.  They can call me “The Princess of Passion.”

I’m merely one individual utilizing potential, energy, and devotion as I live in the skin of my desire, combining the beauty of youth, the wisdom of age, and the truth of love.


Mykonos 1980

I remember heading for the island after a sleepless nightmare in Athens. I’d flown there from Tel Aviv alone, starting the part of my European journey in which I’d travel solo. I separated from my two male companions after two weeks because I wanted local color and they were insistent on labeling every surrounding. After three weeks in Israel, I was ready to soak up serenity on some ocean front somewhere.

At twenty, I was naive and unsure. How to find my own hotel room without knowing the language?  On the bus from the airport to the center of town a young clean-cut Greek offered his seat to an older woman and then after talking to me and finding out my name and travel plans, he asked me if I’d like to stay with him and his Mother.  Thinking I’d save money and be safe I agreed, allowed and enjoyed the authentic meal made by his aged Mother in mourning, in black clothes and heart. Only after dinner did I realize I was either to suffer through the mosquito infested heat wave in my insulated polyester sleeping bag under the stairs, or follow this sweaty and pushy “safe” fellow to the air-conditioned upstairs where he would take my thank you, thinking it was owed him.

On the boat that next afternoon I knew what I wanted and needed. A beach on which to rest and a stretch of days to spend on that beach. I headed toward Mykonos because I had heard it had the private little beaches as well as the hot and alive nights on the town. I reckoned I’d have seclusion and society, ruggedness and beauty.

When I got to the island that first week of August I had no idea that the entire island would be sold out. The police commissioner leaned in at me and said I could stay at his house for, as he put it, “next to nothing.”

I remember telling him I’d rather sleep on the beach.

“I’ll have to arrest you. That is not allowed,” was all he said with a sinister smile.

Mystified and mad, I sought an alternative to the professional man with the mustache and thin level of integrity.

I’m preparing in the last days of 2012, to release COURTING ME(N): Juggling Love, Lust, and Logic out into the world. I’ve been going through old files and found this one in an old computer labeled simply as Erotica. There was more to this that was quite graphic, but this was the gist of what I wanted to share at this time.

The next files I put on this blog will be pieces of the introduction to the current book that lays the foundation for what is to come. Yet, after a few readers found that part tedious, I’m editing them out of the eBook version (and will put them here for the time being) so the stories that sing can find those hungry ears more quickly.