Chapter 9. Elle and I

-M4tV3RPvAplIt’s been over two months since my insight I was ready for The One. And since I extended this 100 day challenge with a new one, which included publishing my books, writing erotica, and keeping an offline diary.
I won’t bother you with the details, but I ended up committing to two huge projects for my yogastudio – YouTube videos as well as a Dutch online yoga program, The One is not in sight, and I have no idea where my diary is. And erotica? Countless encounters with Mister Big stayed off record. And not just because they involved things that require a whole new level of self-acceptance before I’m ready to share them.
The only 100 day promise I kept, was to work on my books. Which was not accidentally, also my priority.

The books are created online, which means you can read them through this link.
Yes, you’re welcome sweetheart.

Because my work is autobiographical, editing my books means I m rereading my man quest, man trouble, man desires from eight years back and beyond. And two things stand out. No three. Three things stand out.
1. I m never jealous if I suspect or know a man has someone else
2. I have a weak spot for unavailable (read: taken) men, which has “deteriorated” with age.
3. I keep wishing for an available, single man
I am embarrassed to say I never saw the conflict here, until I read this article about compersion.

Compersion is described as “A feeling of joy when a loved one invests in and takes pleasure from another romantic or sexual relationship.”
It’s a fine line between compersion and candaulism- the latter often described as arousal (instead of joy) from another being involved in sexual activity (not relationship).
The urban dictionary stresses the two are separate things, and even strips compersion of any sexual meaning, by saying “it’s comparable to the joy a parent feels when their child gets married”
Okay, thank you for that horrible comparison.

The article I referred to holds a definition of compersion I prefer: to get aroused (not just feel joy) from basically the idea, or knowledge, that your partner is having sex with someone else. I m still weary at including getting aroused from the other being “romantically involved”, as is the writer from that article. I think it’s clear to everyone that the more involved a partner is with this person, the higher the stakes. The more chance jealousy will win, and things will turn ugly.

I m not saying I don’t see myself doing that – being aroused by him having a relationship. It’s just that I understand why there seems to be a desire to separate either:
– your partner having sex with someone else and you being aroused
– or your partner having a second relationship and you being joyful
And the urban dictionary does that by giving the first the name candaulism and the second compersion, and the writer of the article does it by describing how the whole experiment started with “the absolute gut-level assurance that my boyfriend loves me more than I ever dreamed possible”. Clearly she’s after the first scenario, and not joyful at all over the idea of her partner starting a second meaningful relationship.

New Sexual Preference discovered

So even though I think the writer of the article could have gone with candaulism, what opened my eyes is that it shone a completely different light on the whole concept of open relationships. Between her sentences, describing how she and her boyfriend were in this together and how she took part in selecting the new partner, I discovered a whole new species… a whole new sexual orientation.
The compersionist.
Just like there are dominants and submissives, a cheater has a counterpart, or ideal partner if you wish, that everyone has failed to identify: the compersionist.
Someone who likes the idea of you having other partners. Like the dominant and the submissive, the compersionist and the cheater are like yin and yang. Like the hero and the vilian, they need each other. When matched to others they are dysfunctional, but together they make the perfect match.
The compersionist is the counterpart of the cheater, that no one, as far as I know, has managed to identify. She, or he, is really the missing link in our view on relationships.

Because I m going to take this one or two steps further down than the article:
a compersionist doesn’t want to cheat herself or himself.
I ll admit that I see myself capable of having two meaningful relationships (so maybe that makes me a cheater). But I’m not interested in flings, nor will I ever do something in secret.

And I think it’s partially because I don’t want to cheat, or see lovers for myself, that the term “Open relationships” gives me the creeps. They sound, equal. And like they would benefit from a script, a stage, clearly defined roles, and someone in charge. The reason I defied open relationships was never because I resisted the idea of my partner having someone else but because I wasn’t interested in messy, emotional dramas or naked strangers walking around in my house.

“Open relationships” had a nudist 70s ring to it, that was so deafening I failed to notice their quality. And managed to miss the preference I failed to see in myself. Until at age 44 I m revisiting my diaries, and notice:
1. I m never jealous if I suspect or know a man has someone else
2. I have a weak spot for unavailable (read: taken) men, which has “deteriorated” with age.
3. I keep wishing for an available, single man
And on the same day I read an article on compersion or candaulism, or however you want to call it, and suddenly I m like:
1. the reason you’re not jealous is because you totally get off on your guy and other women
2. the reason you prefer men in relationships is because they have another woman
3. the reason you don’t have an available, single man is because he could fail to cheat on you, and you’d hate that.

Just like I like to be play-raped, and play doctor, and love watching Stoya’s beautiful little pussy, I need a guy to have someone else. Sure- it would be great if I was number one. But being number two is a guarantee he has sex with someone else. And basically in an emotionally and physically non-threatening way.

I ve had this knowledge 24 hours now. So it’s hard to see the full extend of this. And if, how or when, I ll ever make a hard limit of being a man’s number one, and be with someone who is (3) single and available to me.

But I do understand that although I still desire that King and Queen, regal relationship, where we are indeed equal, that doesn’t mean I have a desire to behave the same. To have the same rights, and the same responsibilities. That my sexual preference runs way deeper than “not jealous” and is in fact something that needs to be nourished, and honored. Just like I have always honored his desire to have secrets. And his marriage will have my respect, now more than ever. Now that I realize why I chose him.

I remember a conversation I had with Big. Could be a year ago, but it’s something that comes up frequently. I always say to him: “If we ever get a normal relationship, I m giving you one task. One responsibility. It’s to make sure our life is never boring.”

Somehow I think he’s up for that.

 

 

 

Chapter 8. The Bride

2016 Madonna-Sean-PennLauren’s 100 Day Tutelage has ended and she is now on a quest writing erotica & a private diary. Which proves to be a flamboyant combination. 

I always wondered why Big didn’t leave his wife. I wondered every time we had The Best Sex Ever. Which was often. I wondered every time I could feel his jealousy. I wondered after I caught him drunk and he poured all withheld love over me. And stood by it even after he sobered up although he could never utter the words again. I wondered on the rare days his marriage seemed over because his wife was finally pushing through with the divorce. I wondered with every snippet of how they communicated and knew we would do so much better. And that he knew we would. Until it all boiled down to that same thought over and over:
What the fuck is keeping you so long?
But it was always a silent question.

On a torrential rainy morning I was figuratively struck by lightning. Mister Big had been the perfect lover for eighteen months. The one I had envisioned in 2006 when I broke with my long-term partner to find him. The other. The masculine, strong, independent soul with whom I could have love, intimacy and amazing sex, for the natural lifespan of the relationship. There was one tiny demand Mister Big never met but because it was so futile, given the grand scheme of things and the euphoria of finally finding someone who was sexually my equal, I never made a big deal out of it.
The small detail was: Mister Big was not available.
I wondered why he didn’t choose me. Of course I did. But I wasn’t convinced it would make our relationship, and certainly not the sex, any better if he left his wife.
But what I missed is this:
by not being available our affair would have an unnaturally long life.
At this rate we would still want to jump on each other age 95.
For a while I thought that would be okay. I had set out to find my perfect lover. I had found him. And we would ride it out having occasional sex and constant wondering why he didn’t choose me. Fine. Close enough to what I wanted right?

But this week I thought about the situation a little deeper. And about what I really wanted. Not “wanted out of this” but “wanted” as in: if you get three wishes then what are they. Or in my vocabulary: if you can manifest anything you desire (and I believe I can) what would you manifest?

Before I share my conclusions, let me explain a little bit about the manifestation train I was on. I m on a 100 Day Anais Nin challenge: writing my diary (offline) and writing erotica (here). The purpose of this challenge is to self-reflect and nurture my creative writing, but also to become more conscious of what it is I want. Top of my list: I wanted to publish my books but had a 7 year deep publishing block. A little more than a week into my challenge I got a clear insight, a vision, how to do the layout of the books. I took off editing and knew with absolute certainty I would finish this. I had it nailed. Over 90 days left and the biggest problem was already solved.
“That was easy!” I exclaimed. “What else do I want to solve?”
So I said “my love life”.

Since I was clueless what I wanted, I just gave the whole package over to the Universe. I said: “Today I will do this and that, and you (Universe) are to figure out my love life.”
I expected a clear vision of the layout for my love life. And riding my bike on a rainy day, there it was! Less than 48 hours after I had given Universe the assignment.
I saw I was in a relationship with a man. One. I can say I wouldn’t mind two (and name them) but there really was only one. I could see him being either Big or Benjamin (still owe you an introduction on him. Suffice to say Benjamin is about as available as ice cream in the Sahara) but I knew Universe doesn’t give you names and faces. It gives you the feeling of being in that relationship.
And I saw myself totally acting my age. A sexy and mature woman. A queen. Unwavering. Deserving. Confident. This was a different phase of my life.
My thirties had been about my coming of age sexually, but I was now ready for the next step. I needed a new challenge: to be in a perfect relationship.

I saw a king and a queen: equal and regal. We were a team and as a team we got better at our game. We celebrated our victories and achieved things neither one of us could have done alone. Like any couple we would have the challenge of keeping our sex life alive, but I saw that as a challenge in a good way. One you grow from. It was exactly like looking for the perfect lover when you have enough sexual fears to paralyze you forever. And since I had successfully passed that test and was still enjoying the fruits of it with Mister Big, I was confident having a relationship and keeping it in supreme condition was something I would find enjoyable.

I cycled on through the rain, grateful for the vision I received and delighted with this unexpected change of my life. I said: “Today I will teach my classes and go see a movie with friends. And I want you to find me The One.”

This time it will not take 8 years to find him.

erotic story: The Quickie

2010 madonna_making_breakfastLauren’s 100 Day Tutelage has ended and she has decided to go on a 100 Day Anais Nin quest writing erotica. 

The buildup is always different. Time is a factor. The longer it takes before we see each other, the stronger the desire. But it’s not just the weeks apart that determine how much I need his touch, how much I crave to be kissed and hugged, or how eager I am to be fucked before my body has a chance to catch up. My longing grows with every fantasy sparked and shared. With every scenario hinted at and masturbated on. With every script in my head that gives me orgasms no real life partner can give me but Big’s imaginary and always available twin brother works them brilliantly. How desperate I am to see Big depends on how many earth shattering masturbation sessions I had.
And this time it was a lot.
“BB I’m of no use. I’ll be wasted from my trip.”
BB meant Baby Bee. But this little insect was not taking no for an answer.
“Can I come over AM? I’ll bring breakfast.”

So on a sunny day I arrive with a box of fresh eggs, French bread, Italian meat products and a selection of condoms that could cover a modest gangbang. When it comes to seeing Mister Big I always come prepared. As expected Big is clean and dressed despite just rolling jetlagged out of a plane. His overseas meeting was jammed into an in-and-out operation which illustrated his attitude to work. I fear I will one day lose him to a heart attack but I never say that. And by pushing he “takes advantage of me” when he clearly needs his rest, I am keeping him overworked.

*
Big is always quicker than me. Already back into his clothes, his hair nicely combed. Music and the smell of coffee escape the kitchen. I’m putting my hair back up although I ll probably look fucked despite. I join him in the kitchen.
“I’m concerned about you. How much you work. I don’t say it because it gives an excuse not to see me. But then I feel guilty asking for your time.”
“You have every right to ask for it.” Big responds. “How’s your business going?”
“Crushing it. I have a new program for the yoga. I want the same success for my books. I’m into Stoya for this.”
Big was responsible for introducing me to her porn on one of our first dates.
“I want to be the Stoya of literature. She has her own channel now. She’s totally independent.”
“Are you a member?” Big laughs.
“It’s a business expense. My accountant might think otherwise.”
Big shakes his head still laughing.
“You win BB. Compared to you my work will always be boring. And stressful.”

We sit down for our breakfast to conclude our 90 minute date. He has to leave for an appointment, I know that.
“I collected my things, but the cap from the lube is missing.” I say. “Can you get it? You were the last one to have it.”
“Just leave it,” he shrugs. “It’s not like it has any text on it right?”
“Something like: extra long lasting lubricant for hours of anal sex? I don’t think so. But I don’t want it found by the wrong people.”
“I’m sure it’s neutral,” he insists.
“Oh I would recognize a lube cap anytime. And you’re responsible. You were Chief Lubrication Officer.”
“I ll have a look. Are you still sore?”
“From behind you mean?”
He nods. “Because it hurt and we stopped.”
I shake my head. “That’s okay. I wanted you so bad I got greedy. I wanted you so much it hurt.”

*

I smelled liquor on his breath. Probably booze from the Wall Street bar he went to with an American colleague.
“There are two cute girls here.” He texted. “But my buddy is not getting my signals.”
“Are you turning me on?” I texted back. “It’s working.”
I was always frightened he would get an std. Yet when he hinted at sex with other women the turn on was undeniable. If he ever became trustworthy I would probably end it for reasons of irreconcilable boredom.
“It scares me, you and someone else. But I’m also turned on.” I Whatsapped when he was waiting at the gate. “Conflict of interest.”
He texted back: “I can handle that.”

I can handle that opened the door for me, I dropped my bags, threw myself in his arms and was welcomed by a warm tongue, strong arms, and dry fucked against the wall. I was groaning with every painful rub of his hard on to my jeans. We made it to the bedroom and undressed each other in what seemed like one yearning, one mutual desire. And then it stopped. It was the too-much-on-your plate-suddenly-not-hungry experience I never had with him. That feeling of wanting sex but for unknown reasons dropping out of it. It would still be okay but it would lack the most vibrant part.

We were naked and kissing and I didn’t know if I was going to tell him. I could already feel the disappointment that whatever I would do, I could not bring it back. Suddenly he ceased his passionate cuddling and made eye contact.
“What do you want?”
I let the maturity of his question sink in. I could feel it right down there. It was like I was tingled back alive, or maybe better pinched back live. What I was hearing went straight between my thighs. He gave a soft kiss on my cheek but his embrace stayed still.
“What do you really want? You can tell me.”
He knew the effect his voice had on me. And we had a shared memory of our first time anal sex where he had asked me the exact same thing: What do you really want?
His voice was controlled, sensual and slow.
“I want anal sex,” I sighed. ”Very much”
“Already?”
I nodded.
“I bought new lube. I’ll show you.”

Relieved I could hand this over to him, I showed him the lube and which condom we should use for this.
“I got it.” He laid down on his back. “Now come here.”
He directed me in a straddle pose over his face and I received his warm tongue. It was generous and sweet and with a magical combination of tongue, saliva, and his fingertips, he did what he could to prepare me. He asked me to give him a blowjob and I did. I still didn’t know who enjoyed it more, him or me. It was one of the many things that was always flawless with him. I always felt totally appreciated. Memories of other men were mixed here, awkward or tainted. Like I was the one enjoying sex and had to convince a partner. Like I needed to fix them. Mister Big didn’t require fixing.
“Here,” he said.
I looked up and he handed me the condom.
“Come sit.”
I was the woman on top and the moment it went in I collapsed in total pleasure.
“It’s been so long,” I said, suddenly emotional. He embraced me, hugged me close. Our French kisses mixed with my tears of joy and I pressed my knees to his ribs. He slid a fingertip up my ass and hugged me even closer. A rocking movement.
He took the bottle of lube. I sat up straight and we stared in each other’s eyes as he used the lube to stretch me from behind. “You like it double, don’t you?” I gave him a wide smile. He lifted me up.

His tip pressed my anus and I slowly lowered. He thrust up, just a little nudge, which resulted in an immediate sharp pain.
“Ow! Don’t move.” I begged. “I need to stay here.”
Whenever I dared to move it hurt. No matter how careful I was.
“It’s so painful. I can’t take it.”
We hugged intensely, faces buried in each other’s neck and my tears ran freely.
“I miss you so much sometimes.”

I was on hands and knees. His first thrust was just to get in, the second hit the cervix. The third and fourth made me shout out and again I forced him to slow down even though I had agreed to be “fucked doggy style, properly” as he put it. When he finally backed off it became sensual smooth fucking. The two, three deep thrusts I got after I cried out became a source of joy, transforming into hot waves of pleasure. A finger in my ass, probably a thumb. More pleasure, more shame. I dropped onto my forearms and squeezed my face into the pillow. Smothering my orgasm, not wanting to make too much noise. He came the moment I did.

We cuddled and kissed. Our afterplay was as always simple and loving. I remarked:
“I think we did everything two people can do to each other. In under 30 minutes.”
And Big answered: “The best recipe for a jetlag I could have wished for.”

 

 

Also available: erotic story The Saint

 

erotic story: The Saint

Michael Madsenby LS Harteveld

Lauren’s 100 Day Tutelage has ended and she has concluded she’ll go on a 100 Day Anais Nin quest writing erotica and diaries. Read how she came to this conclusion on the previous post and here on her yoga blog. Oh who am I kidding! Dive right in😉

I have been sober for two weeks, praising the clarity of my mind and embracing my new identity as social saint. I am beyond suspicion when it comes to matters of good character, disciplined living, and other traits hailed in yoga teachers and other balanced professionals. I gave up drinking to gain full control over my mental powers and my old personality fell of me. Like lizard’s skin. My white winter coat, that I am still wearing these cold days this May, has become a white cloak of innocence. Not drinking has provided me with a VIP Saint card that will let me off the hook till eternity or until my first wine. Whichever one comes first.

I ring the top bell to the penthouse and stay in front of the camera even though I will have to leap to get the door. The buzzer always seems too short. His “hello?” always disturbed, as if he didn’t expect company. The hallway is quiet like an insurance office with succulent dark green plants and luscious ferns in brick planters with terra colored granules. The elevator is waiting for me on the ground floor and will take me to a home cooked dinner: steak and salad. He will have extra dark chocolate mousse from the caterer and will feed it to me before dinner and I ll say: “You know that’s cheating, right?”
And he’ll answer: “I do.”

For a while we switched to daylight. The dates became more frequent and never caused the withdrawal of our nightly encounters. Nor did they invoke the insatiable need in me to be held, to be comforted. Which had proven to be problematic since his after-sex service stopped at the door. Daytime sex was neither remembered for its epicness, nor for its disruptive backlash. It merely touched the surface of what we were capable of. They probably stopped because he too preferred agony – in his case a guilt ridden heart – to barely feeling anything. It was a price we were willing to pay.

A wave of nervousness flushes over me, mixed with excitement and arousal. A big smile, feeling so deliciously alive, still in awe over the purity of this. Wholeheartedly being in love is miraculous in its simplicity. You can’t believe you’ll ever settle again. Maybe on availability. Or justification. I ll settle for social shaming, or other forms of exclusion because I am the other woman. For that I will settle. But not on feeling anything less than this intoxicating thrill.

His tall physique blocks the door. I kiss the shaved cheek and receive the hug of the sturdy torso. It’s the familiarity between our bodies that always surprises me. I like role playing and sex games, and have done that with all of my boyfriends. But it’s the uncompromising love our bodies have for each other that makes this intoxicating. My body  lead me to this one, an unreliable married man. And it was the purest choice I ever made.

The friendly wrinkles near his bright blue eyes. The husky How are you? It’s all equally enchanting. Craving that first moment our lips touch and then controlling myself because I don’t want to admit how much I want him. Or how much more I want. Progressive and addictive as wine. Maybe that’s why I stopped drinking because no way I could sober up on this one. The deeply seductive Mister Big.

He’s wearing one of his pressed white shirts, top buttons loose, sleeves rolled up. I never understood how a man my age could be so potent and yet still have a full head of black hair. Where does he leave all that testosterone? He has moderate chest hair like a twenty year old. And I know what that looks like. But the cute eye wrinkles and sun tanned skin put him right up in his forties. I suspect he has never been more stunning than he is now. And he has never been more dangerous.
“So no wine I guess?”
He throws me a devilish smile before taking a sip from his red in an elegant oversized glass.

He prepares our meal without putting on an apron. Thank God. Not that I ever detected one here but with a business shirt like that and my broad experience with dating, part of me still expects he’ll get anal on moments like that. And not in a good way. Considering the flaws I neglected in other men, insecurities I healed, egos I mended and the gallons of unrepresentative outfits I tolerated, I forgive myself for being cautious. Those poor lovers probably had to put up with my quirks as well. Nothing as tiring as imperfect love. It’s the flawless ease of being together that gives him away. His true feelings. The ones he’ll rather choke on than share. I’m convinced never speaking of love is his way of staying loyal to his wife. A successful one, as far as I’m concerned.

The table is already set and he serves me a medium steak without asking how I have it.
“They turned out perfect.” He cuts through his own work. His is thicker and rare.
“Why did you stop drinking?”
“I got you to make my head spin.” I tease him. “And I like the saint status. I can do no wrong now. It’s like I won a zillion karma points. I could play out my darkest fantasies and still look at myself in the mirror.”
“How about your darkest fantasies while looking at yourself in the mirror?”
His time to smirk.
“There is only one way to find out,” I suggest. I play cool but this makes me nervous. Part of me still fears he’ll reject me. Before, during or after. And that’s not counting his regular 48 hour post-coital fall-out. “Maybe the bucket list? It’s been so long since we did one.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I thought the doctor one.”
“Okay.” He gulps down his wine. “Give me a minute.”
He leaves the candles burning, music on, and walks to the bedroom.
“What do I say then?” I suddenly panic.

We French kissed in the kitchen half an hour ago. And although I could feel myself getting turned on  making out on the countertop, legs spread, it didn’t count as real foreplay. But this does. That domineering voice telling me:
“You figure it out. It’s your fantasy.”
He walks calmly to the bedroom and closes the door lightly. Nerves flare up with an intensity of a thousand butterflies. Fuck. We’re gonna do this.

My mind races with options. A non-sexual ailment and leave it up to him to make it sexual? That’s not my fantasy. That’s a porn script.  He might as well have been a pizza delivery guy. I decide to take responsibility for the way we start off. He’ll take it from there, I know he will. But he will be more bold if I stand up for what I want. And not be shy or dodgy.  I will say I have a new boyfriend after a very long time of being single. Intercourse is painful and I have no idea what’s going on. I walk to the shut door of the familiar bedroom, with the man I’ve been seeing for 18 months yet with whom I feel it’s the first time every time. Knowing him seems to vaporize during the long periods we don’t see each other. I always start new and fresh, he remains a stranger. I’m suddenly scared but I knocked already. I don’t know if I can do this. And then he opens the door. He’s wearing his glasses. I’m so stunned I forget to introduce myself and weakly shake his hand.
“Please take a seat.”
The room is brightly lit. The bed is bare, with a white fitted sheet. He routinely goes through a set of questions, without showing any interest. He tells me to undress.

I take my pants off. He stays on his chair occupied with his notes. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen it all.” Bored. Arrogant. I can feel the thrill of this fantasy unfolding. Like I’m unwrapping a present knowing what’s in it, and yet I get more excited with every new layer of see through paper. I know I ll be wet when he examines me. I can protest and complain as much as I like without him thinking I want him to stop. We never have safe words. Our role play is light as a feather on the scale of S and M. Not having a safe word provides it with a little extra edge. His natural limit for inflicting pain comes before I’ve reached my desired level of it. I know that. Maybe we should have agreed on a code word for when I want more.

He looks over his glasses: “You can lie down now. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
A towel is waiting for me, laid out horizontally.

I stare in the mirror above me, my knees drop out, ankles crossed. I’m still wearing a red top. I can hear a pen scratching the paper. A dry cough. Absentminded noises. Maybe it’s the lack of alcohol but I get this heightened sense of awareness. I hear clearly, see, taste, smell. The tension in my body builds up in a way that becomes unbearable. The only choice is to let go but it’s like it’s wringed out of me. The face of the woman staring back, close to tears, reflecting an uneasy bunch of mixed emotions. I’m okay. I’m going to enjoy this. No shame. It will only rob me from pleasure. No shame.
“It can be a bit cold.”
He’s here. Where was I?
I let out a moan, startled by the coldness of his fingertips and my burning desire.
He spreads my labia. “Just try to relax as much as possible.”
A second moan. I close my eyes. No more mirror.

I answer questions about what I feel. I follow instructions. When to push, when to relax. When to brace myself. I don’t protest when he announces he will now do the back, and he goes through the whole script again. And I welcome the final phase. The build up to examining both. I squeak and can’t resist looking in the mirror. No matter how much shame forbids it. He leaves for the bathroom and I hear him wash his hands. I smile at the bashful woman. She’s blushing.

He returns, still drying his hands with a soft white towel and I give him a “That was fun!” glance. But he looks serious. “I’m afraid I have some bad news.” He puts the towel on the table and sits next to me. “I need to do one more examination.”
A shock of horniness immediately flows to my pussy. My mouth stays open. Stunned. How am I supposed to respond? He ignores my off-key response.
“You need to stay present for this. You can’t shut your eyes and you will have to look at me. Can you do that?”
Another rush. I nod. Yes.
He extensively walks me through what I can expect. Every detail, every calmly explained invasive act makes me shiver, desire, and fear in the most delicious way. A growing urge to drop out of the role of the victimized patient and share my enthusiasm. But I don’t.
I only smile once, but he rewards me with quick wink.
“I need your permission,” the serious voice closes everything he just told me. “It will be painful but if you can’t take it anymore, you have to tell me immediately.”
Blue eyes. Stern glasses.
“Okay.” I whisper coarsely.

Our session goes on for another hour before we lie in each other’s arms. Fully satisfied. I can finally tell him how amazing this was. I already got a taste of it with a playful lover, years ago.
“I never went for pap smears after that,” I say.
“Why not?” Big asks. “You would actually enjoy it.”
I explain my pragmatic view on illness and early diagnoses. Something we have opposing views on. But that’s not the only reason. “Until I played doctor with that boyfriend, I didn’t know how much I appreciate this. I love this. I really do.” I let past experiences and what we just did melt together. Like I’m accumulating treasures. “I think I love it more than life itself.”
He tightens his arms around me, and squeezes me even closer with a warm hugging leg.
“I know.”

Chapter 7. Face to Face

2004 denk ik confessions

Always try the project you don’t want to do. What you’re afraid of. That’s what makes you a great artist.
Marina Abramovic

I was two weeks into being sober, of praising the clarity of my mind and embracing my new identity as social saint. I was beyond suspicion, in particular when it came to matters of good character, disciplined living, and other traits hailed in yoga teachers and other balanced professionals alike. Not drinking was a status that oozed an almighty power because I had given up on drinking to gain full control of my mental powers. When I made that decision, my old personality fell of me, like lizard’s skin. And my white winter coat, which I was still wearing on the legendary cold days this May, became a white cloak of innocence. I had become a Saint. Not drinking had provided me with a VIP Saint card that would let me off the hook till eternity or until my first wine. Whichever one came first.

The signs of withdrawal from this addiction I didn’t know I had, were physical. I developed lower back pain. I had suffered it a decade ago and always assumed it had been healed by yogic therapy and patience. I had drunk little to no alcohol then so in retrospect I considered it may have cleared up because I upped on liquor.  Also, I wasn’t stable anymore in my yoga poses. I apologized in multiple classes for my apparent lack of skill. Apologizing as a teacher is a beginners mistake so now I had two things I could feel embarrassed about. Although these signs were disturbing, they only made me more determined. Apparently alcohol had played a key role in having a balanced, relaxed body. I didn’t need that kind of dependence.

My social life had been unharmed by non-drinking. I had dates that could, and until recently did, include alcohol two to four times a week. It was one of the things that made me so happy about not-drinking: I was allowed to keep the precious time with friends and family, and yet at the same time I would need less recovery time and be more alert on when I wanted to leave. I would become more productive publishing my eight books. For the yoga studio everything was up and running: I had launched a new program, set up my own YouTube channel, and had a year-long running theme for my weekly yoga blog. All elements were working together harmoniously, driving my business. It bought me time to focus on my other ambition: writing. Or more precisely: publishing. I knew I wanted to publish the books myself, for reasons of autonomy, but editing was taking me ages. And most of that time was spent avoiding it. I hated every minute I spent on it, and then I hated myself for not doing it, and before I knew it I was ten years into my writing “career”. This was my work cycle, which took anywhere between one day and one year: starting editing, hating it, dropping it, leaving it dropped and dreading to pick it up. Not-drinking had not provided me with any substantial progress in the area I needed it most. Except for one thing: my self-hatred had now become unbearable.

It was a Friday night. I had caught myself opting-out after the first 45 minutes of editing in a week. So imagine this: for a whole week I m beating myself up, plotting, bribing until finally I start editing, only to then drop out after 45 minutes and get all worked up about something that was really none of my business. I was so terribly disappointed with myself I didn’t mind leaving my desk and going out for some fresh air to the yoga studio, to do some light cleaning. At least I could make myself useful and the night wouldn’t be a total waste. And in that mood of self-destructive blaming, I suddenly saw what I had been doing…. That thing, what I got worked up about, was not because I was unhappy editing. It wasn’t aggression towards what I was doing. It was an attempt of another side of myself, to make her voice heard… it was the one who wrote all those lovely books I was editing; whose voice had written the very thing I still enjoyed rereading.
It was the writer in me.

From the looks of it, I m still writing. I have the yoga blog. I have the White Tigress blog. I have an offline project The Way of The Trickster, which was supposed to develop based on my White Tigress adventure. But suddenly, on my bicycle and close to tears, I realized those are not the real deal. They re not gratifying, they’re not me. As much as I hate editing my eight books, the reason I keep returning there is because I absolutely adore their content! But the idea of ever having to edit Trickster is horrific. Compared to my English erotica about me and Big, which is book 8, everything I have written this year online and offline, is bleak..

I cycled to the city and realized I hated myself and for all the wrong reasons. And had silenced the part of me I loved, the one who could write all those stories. I had banned her from the writing table because she could not be trusted with time, not with perseverance, and because she claimed days and nights until a story was finished. That was not the type of woman who was going to help getting books published. She was expelled.

And she was the one who had started drinking.

It hit me I never had reason to worry about my drinking until this year! I never needed to put much energy to moderate my alcohol consumption, and social life. I had been perfectly happy at home writing the night away. But now home was a yoga empire and creative writing had been marginalized to editing. It was no longer my home. I fled to town and wanted to forget, to be entertained. I didn’t see it, until the haze and escape of alcohol were removed..

It’s way past midnight. For the first time in six months I feel like I ve written something that matters, I’ve refound myself. I can’t see the whole picture yet, but here are my three preliminary conclusions:

  1. Abort my self-help book The Way of The Trickster, and never return to the genre again.
  2. Start writing autobiographical erotica again. Online. It’s the most authentic part of my writing, it’s the highest developed part, and it’s what sets me aside as an artist, as Marina would say it. Since I took the erotica down I feel safer, less exposed to judging eyes, but it’s blocking not just my development as a writer (to not have written any new stuff in months), but I also need the erotica to process my experiences with Mister Big. The role of writing erotica, in my sex life, is something I already talked about in the previous post.
  3. I need to do something about my publishing to make it more manageable. The plan was to publish the books individually. I even spent over €500 on their cover designs. And to publish them all in one hardcover afterwards. I m going to turn that around. First I m going to publish the hardcover, a collection of all eight with the Dutch title Het Boek Benjamin. I only have to oversee one Word document, one pdf, and order one test copy to check the lay-out. I could make it a limited edition. After four months, I take it down, and republish it as eight separate paperbacks, ready for the Holiday season.

My teary eyed bike ride taught me how important my erotica is to me. To process my sexual encounters and to develop myself as a writer. They’re the most difficult to write, and the most satisfying. I thought it was the wine I had been dependent on, but that was a coping mechanism. I had been dependent on my erotica. And when a more efficient part of me said to stop writing erotica for now, I let it happen. No wonder because it was the part I feared most, it made me vulnerable. “Yes! Let’s drop that!” I may have yelled back, relieved I could quit something so intimate.
And then I started drinking.

It’s such a classic. Alcohol and food and sex are all interrelated. If one is unavailable you resort to the other. I just never saw I was substituting, until now.

So expect new erotica of my latest adventure soon. I will call this erotica story “The Saint” and it will open with the same paragraph as this blog post.

Come say hi

I don’t know if I ll publish The Saint here on the White Tigress blog, on my Facebook page, or on my LS Harteveld website, so maybe you want to track all of them. You could also use Twitter .

My yogaclasses on YouTube

Chapter 6. The Lonely Pentecost of LS Harteveld

 

 

O-Ren: “You didn’t think it was going to be this easy, did you?”
B.: “You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did.”

They say the Holidays are the hardest when you are the mistress. He’s with his family, you don’t hear from him, and your body still longs for his embrace but all cuddles go to those entitled to receive his love. Who have first right to claim his free time. It’s true. The holidays are the hardest. Especially with the memory of your date so fresh. In the past I could have blogged an erotic story to ease my suffering; a handmade afterglow by reliving the greatness of our sexual encounter. It helped me to process the intensity of it. The boundaries I gave up, willingly, consciously, in order to fully experience what he could give me: the fulfillment of my darkest fantasies. It is always after those sessions I yearn for him most, when his marginal communication is a hard landing after being intimate.

For a while we switched to smaller dates, and daylight. The dates became more frequent and never caused the same withdrawal as our nightly encounters. Nor did they invoke the insatiable need in me to be held, to be comforted. Encounters that were neither remembered for their pleasure, nor for their disruptive backlash. They merely scratched the surface of what we were capable of so perhaps it was no wonder they stopped. We never talked about it, but I imagine he too preferred the agony of a guilt ridden heart, to feeling barely anything. I know I did. A message with an emoticon was the last thing I heard from him, before he dropped out of conversation.
“How are you feeling? Are you okay?” I had asked.
The silence was deafening.

I started writing erotica about him, as a medicine for those mornings, nights and absent minded work-hours after. I had experience writing erotica but mostly fiction, although I sometimes used real lovers and myself as characters. For non-fiction, I blogged in a diary format. It contained sex but was never that graphic and allowed for enough space to have a real relationship. At least that’s what I told myself. In retrospect I needed the diaries to mold a lover into someone more “deserving” of my adoration. I compensated for everything he wasn’t and covered up for things I didn’t like. The diaries carved out with words someone I could unconditionally love. And to complete my betrayal I omitted the times a fantasy was fulfilled, simply because I was not ready to share them with the world. I left the best things out.

But with Big everything was different. I never wanted to write about sex with him. I never even wanted to have sex. I never set the intention: “Hey, let’s go have the best sex of my life with a married man with children, and then write about it.” I didn’t do that. But I have been entirely intentional going on a sexual odyssee when I gave up a relationship at 34. I went to a sexual therapist to work through my fears and started dating for the first time in my adult life. Finding the perfect lover was my holy grail. And I pursued it with the same vigor other women go after babies or husband material. From that perspective, when my holy grail turned out to be married with kids, of course I was not going to veto it. Especially not on moral grounds because morality was of no use where I wanted him to go. This brazen, taken, cunning man was the key to every fantasy I cherished. Eight years since I started my quest; I had found him.

Finding him turned out to be just the beginning. I wearily tested the waters, and ended up naked and doing things a savvy business woman could have made good money of. I planned our first time real sex, and was baffled by his sexual stamina. Over, and over, and over. I was in my period. How many men in their 40s have the energy to wear you out on days like that? He did. Every date I thought I knew what would happen, he surprised me taking it further. I can’t say he “pushed” me, it wasn’t anything like that. It were things he or I had brought up in conversation, and I pictured him a bucket list. A sexual menu I hoped he could prepare and serve. If anyone had been pushy it was me as I had put him under pressure most men would find intimidating. Not him. And since all fantasies required him to be in charge, it was a miracle he always effortlessly regained control and positioned himself as the one in charge. I was cleared from all responsibility.
“What do you want me to say?” I asked as he sent me out only to re-enter his “doctor’s office”.
“You figure it out,” he answered in a domineering voice. “It’s your fantasy.”
Had he hesitated, the session would have started off on the wrong foot. I would not have trusted him with the role, and would have been weary for moments I had to cue him what I wanted. That one line You figure it out indicated that he was not my buddy or my confidant. He was now a stranger, one step from being a doctor. He shut me off, because he knew distance was the key ingredient of the fantasy.
And it worked. Brilliantly.

With Big everything I learned about men – they’re not always hard and entitled to have their own insecurities- didn’t apply. Someone joked I was dating a Porn King, and that nailed the kind of performance he would deliver: an outstanding one. But it also indicated he was not going to be there for me after. I would be alone. The insecurities that creep up on every woman after having sex – Does he love me? Does he love me enough? Why isn’t he here?- were amplified because the sex had been more intense than ever. As was his absence. I needed him more than any man, and he was available the least.
And that’s when the erotica came in.

Three months into our affair I started writing. We had had our months of drama. Every time we had sex it escalated into a break-up, with me needing him, and him withdrawing. But since he was obviously the dream partner I had been waiting for eight years and because he refused to be manipulated by me, our break-ups were neither permanent nor did they solve anything. They were just annoying. It was like a power struggle I knew I could never win. And losing was the best case scenario. Had I found a way to win, I would have ruined our sexual game because I would have taken his power away.
So instead of trying to get him to do what I wanted, I started writing. For one year I wrote our most memorable sessions to erotic stories, on my LS Harteveld blog. Then 2016 came, and I stopped. I would focus on my books, took all erotica and all diaries down, and emptied the blog of anything I wanted to print.

It wasn’t just because I was creating real books; it was also because I had become uneasy with the material being public. Where public meant: not being paid for😉  In February I had a coming out. My LS Harteveld readers now knew the name of my yoga studio, and my yoga students knew my pen name. The two worlds had merged. Which was a good thing, but I didn’t need transcripts of ground breaking sexual sessions available online for free. Not anymore.
But in my attempt to Go Pro clearing out my blog, I forgot writing erotica online had served a purpose: to be there for me when I needed to process some pretty intense stuff. It was my way to sieve out all the good, let go of all bad, and to work through the fears that had come up. I wrote the best erotica I ever laid eyes on – they’ll be published in  July in a book called Big – and the public eye prohibited me to let it get to me. My blog kept me from breaking down.

I stopped writing erotica and this new blog, the 100 Day Tutelage of Hsi Lai, has already served its purpose as a sexual wellness adventure. I wasn’t supposed to return here. Processing everything that happened after he said You figure it out, was an offline job. The sweet memories of our role play would stay inside, mixed with all the fears, the self-doubt, and destructive emotional mayhem it brought up. I would grow stronger from dealing with it on my own. Unconsciously, I had probably taken down the blog because I wanted to step up my game. Because I was ready.

In the words of Kill Bill, the movie that inspired the title of this blog and every Chapter:
“You didn’t think it was going to be this easy, did you?”
“You know, for a second there, yeah, I kinda did.”

Come say hi

Follow LS Harteveld on Twitter, Facebook, or subscribe to my yogaclasses on YouTube.
Books will be announced in my newsletter from the LS Harteveld website.

 

Chapter 5. Showdown at the house of LS Harteveld


1986 11880691_10153547826279402_6186754838720082445_nEnter your email address and receive a new post which will probably go out entirely random😉
Short read (7 minutes)

Background info: This blog is based on the book The Sexual Teachings of the White Tigress by Hsi Lai.

No one will be picture perfect, I guess.
And when it comes to improving your life using an obscure method, with only one hardly known book ever written on the subject, this is even more so. I had to make peace with uninformed choices, and carving out my own path, right from the start.
Having said that, Hsi Lai’s book is very clear there are two things a White Tigress must never do, if she wants to increase her longevity and her mental powers.
1.  to have full, uncontrolled vaginal intercourse
2. to dwell on romantic feelings
Oh bummer. My two favorite things.

Even now when my body is failing, and I ve re-committed to a sugar low, alcohol low diet, I still can’t make myself implement the two most basic changes to my lifestyle:
to get more lovers (since mine is hardly available)
and have oral sex with them.
Playful teenage-like sex, with a man coming in your face and on your cleavage, that’s what totally boosts a White Tigress immunity and strength.
The book has tons of chapters on how to do this precisely, but since I hardly get any practice, I must say I haven’t studied them in depth.
I did notice the last time we were together that the myth was true: having a man come in your face gives you significantly more energy than if he doesn’t.
But in my opinion ANY male attention will benefit you as a woman.

Yin and Yang

The theory is very simple: a man is yang, and he loses energy through ejaculation. He needs to supplement his yang with a woman’s yin, that he can absorb from intercourse with a woman.
A woman is yin, and loses energy through menstruation. She needs to supplement her yin with a man’s yang, that she can absorb from oral sex with a man.

I fully acknowledge sex as the most powerful tool to gain this energy, although I wouldn’t be surprised if it only works if I m in love. Yet, I do think things can stay far more platonic. If I analyse all those times in my life where I felt miserable, and merely going on a date was giving me such a boost! Although I haven’t met any new men since I m with my lover, I still have three masculine friends who I see on an infrequent basis. I always end up invigorated. And I m pretty sure that goes the other way around as well: that they too feel elevated by my company.
When it comes to supplementing my energy, I’m considering more of that. For more men in my life who I can hang out with. Because from experience, I know one thing for sure: my body was born monogamous. And if not my body, then at least my romantic heart.

As much as I endorse the idea of taking better care of myself, getting more yang onto my tongue, face, and rest of my naked body; setting up encounters for the single purpose of having oral sex, is a disastrous idea. First of all, it would leave me upset (because I m in love with my lover). Secondly, I would probably beg to be fucked hard and deep, and end up with far less Qi than I started with.

No. If I see room for another man in my life, it wouldn’t be physical.
It would be completely romantic.

Plan B

I m currently gearing up to publish my books once and for all. Which is one of the reasons I m no longer committed to writing here every week; I intend to spend every hour I can spare on my books.

The other reason is that I feel I ve hit my White Tigress plateau:
After a few weeks of not doing any yoga at home, my heavy menstruation and a breast infection have made me commit to my daily White Tigress yoga. To straighten this hormonal mess out.
And a few days back I got such a violent toothache, after starting to eat more and more sugar. I got on my Fabulous Tooth Diet again. The pain disappeared almost entirely within a day.
I will include info on this diet as well as the White Tigress yoga practice in the Appendix at the bottom of this post.

So my diet and White Tigress yoga routine are in place!

But with my reluctance to explore sex with other men, barely seeing my lover, and since I still love intercourse and am a hopeless romantic, I’m not making any progress in my White Tigress tutelage. I ve probably reached the stage Hsi Lai would give me a hard spanking.
Which is by the way totally ligit in The White Tigress, and I would be “open” to getting punished more! But okay, if that comes from someone other than my lover, I would end up being fucked by third parties so that aint gonna work either.
Before I shame the White Tigress title any further, I will bail out.

I will stick to my diet and the daily White Tigress yoga, and set out to publish my 8 books. Because that’s another reason I m not so much interested in longevity and health: I feel I don’t need that much time.
I know my purpose: it’s to get those books out. Maybe write one more, that would be a bonus. The books are already written and once I find the Magic Formula committing, I can have them published within two months.
And after that, it really doesn’t matter that much anymore, how long I live.

I keep a White Tigress journal, where I write down each day which hours I worked, slept, or had sex. Or other relevant things to this journey. The final weeks I can see a shift to becoming a stronger entrepreneur, working through some old pesky mindset problems. Thanks to the White Tigress principle, of involving your mind and your identity, in your practice, I now take care of my mental health and self-image with the same vigor I use to keep my house in order: daily, and consistently.
Since this White Tigress blog I ve really felt that I ve grown into a new woman, and outgrown the old.

On the second day of the White Tigress journey I scribbled something at the top of the page:
Dreamed about B.
There is a cloud drawn around it.

Maybe that is the only thing I still owe you, the only thing I could possibly add.

That I tell you the truth about Benjamin.

appendix

These are my two new extended yoga pdf’s:
White Tigress XL part 1
White Tigress XL part 2

The Fabulous Teeth diet can be found by Googling the work of Ramiel Nagel. What I ve “implemented” (it’s definitely the light version!) is cutting sugar and taking cheap over the counter supplements:
codliver oil capsules with vitamin D
vitamin D
vitamin C
A women’s tablet for hair, nails and bones
& I eat salmon 5 times a week, eggs every day, cheese, fullcream yoghurt, ghee (see bottom chapter 1 how to make that)
I go easy on grains and bread and make a pot of chicken broth and drink a cup daily.
recipi chicken broth
500 grams of chicken thighs at bottom of a big pot
1 big carrot chopped up
1 onion chopped up
2 table spoons of vinagar
step 1: cover it all with water and add some salt
step 2: warm it at a superlow fire, or leave it for an hour before heating it
step 3: cook it whenever you’re home, total of about 8 hours or more.
step 4: through a sieve, pour broth into jars
step 5: dissect chicken meat from the bones, for consumption.
I don’t eat the bones, skins, onion or carrot.