My dad believes in the idea of mosaic in life. Sometimes unrelated events coalesce to form the big picture that ends up driving our lives, sometimes the future is not as unpredictable as we think if only we know the meaning of the pieces that casually fall into place.

When there is something on my mind, I notice the reminders of it everywhere around me, with little bits of wisdom pushing me in one direction or other, or sometimes pulling me back from the brink of a decision because I manage to learn something new.

I have been thinking about asking. Asking for something, asking about something, asking for what I want, asking for what I need. Asking without expectations, but with purpose. The expectations part is easy, I have a problem with being entitled to anything, which is probably not the healthiest of attitudes, but the purpose part is hard for me. It’s about feeling guilty for even having the audacity to ask, and guilt is something I know all too well and something I tend to bury so deep I can’t always decipher where it ends and reality begins. It gets heavy, I get down, and the hundreds of conversations I have in my mind turn into thousands, all of them not quite that positive.

I ask, and then pull back. “I want” turns into an apology. I don’t want it to be so – I admire those who simply ask, and damn the world. But I end up being so wrapped up in the other side, in thinking for the person I am asking, that I can’t demand what may be an unwanted hassle. Which is beyond silly sometimes.

So last night, I asked. I first tried to work through my mood in my usual way, by sending a picture into the wind of internet, trying to give away an image of my body and a piece of sadness. It didn’t help all that much. I [sort of, awkwardly and half-heartedly] exchanged messages with a poor man who lost the lottery by messaging me at exactly the right (or wrong) time. I am not interested, he made an unfortunate joke, but I sent him a pretty picture, so he can just enjoy that. And then I sent a message to D, as the last resort and a half-assed attempt at a call out for care, to tell him I wanted him there, that I was cold and I wanted him there.

He came. He put on pants (not a small feat, and the guilt for making him do that once he was home and comfortable and blissfully naked reared its head, but he ignored my other half-assed attempt as dismissing my own need), and walked over, for me. I opened the door naked (I was going to bed, after all), and he took off his clothes and made my head spin. I was cold before he got there, but I forgot everything but the way he tastes within seconds. He fucked me, he touched me, he covered my face in spit, he left a perfect bite mark on my stomach, he fucked me more, he made me gasp and gag on his cock, he made me scream, he made me laugh, he made me writhe and lose all air, he pinned me down and breathed down my neck until I was just a tangle of sensations and fireworks. He made me put on a tutu I impulsively bought at a sex shop with friends, and I came so hard I soaked the black mesh and the white couch and the floor (and my bed). He told me to put on something that makes me feel sexy, and when I came out with stockings, garter belt and that bra that doesn’t cover my nipples, he reminded me to my mock horror that I forgot panties. He made me put my hair in pigtails while he put on my tutu, posed for me and then took a picture of me sucking his dick under the tulle. He laid me bare, spent all my nervous energy and brought me back to myself. And then we talked.

He listened to me and was calm and patient. He did not dismiss my feelings of being unwanted, and apologized (though unnecessarily) for being callous last weekend when just minutes after me telling him I was having trouble processing him talking about fucking other girls when we haven’t had sex in so long, he went on to say that he thinks Strawberry is almost at the point of taking off her panties for him. I felt petty and wrong, but he comforted me anyway and reassured me about where we stand. Not that I don’t know that already, and love is not something I doubt, not in the least, but it’s the lack of desire that has been so difficult for me to deal with. We’re good, we’re amazing, and I’m learning how to let him care for me. I was afraid that somehow that part would be lost, or that perhaps those internet crazies are right, and I can’t have love and tenderness and a certain delicious edge of violence at the same time, but I was wrong. I got exactly what I asked for, and exactly what I needed, and as I woke up after just 4 hours of twisted dreams with a sore pussy and hoarse throat and remnants of make up he asked me to put on to go with those pigtails, I was satiated and blissful the way being properly fucked makes me. The deep contentment of a night well had has been like a blanket I’ve wrapped around myself all day today.



I am getting mugs that say “Congratulations, Slut” for myself and my girlfriends. I will pick them up later today, wrap the other ones as gifts, and fill mine up with something delectable and satisfying. I will take off all my clothes, light the candles and sip joy in near dark as I remember the way his hands feel around my throat.


More memories

I’ve actually had many drafts over the last few months, most of the in notes on my phone that, when I read them now, bring me back to those moments and remind me exactly how I felt – hurt, hopeful, loved, content, furious, strong, and mostly unsettled. None were complete, and often personal in a way that those snippets would not make sense to anyone else, probably.

I find that I hoard memories. Not in the obvious or demonstrative way – I don’t think I could even if I tried because I am not big on pictures. Even though I have thousands of them, again, on my phone (most of them are naked, which is really funny considering the first picture ever that I took that showed my nipples was for D, not even 2 years ago). I remember keeping postcards from my cousins when I was little, but my first treasure of memories was from the time I left Moscow.

I found out my parents were applying to immigrate the summer before grade 6. My best friend up to that point and I ended up having some sort of argument after I got fed up of being taken for granted and exploited (weird, right now I feel this way about K), and I spent most of the next year floating around the school, feeling disconnected but in no way lonely. Come to think of it, I never did feel lonely – I really don’t require people to like me or even accept me, and I can always find someone to alleviate my boredom, should that happen. Since I felt completely unattached and free, I was excited about the prospect of moving to a new country, and tried to imagine what it would be like, and if it was like anything I’ve seen in the movies. (For the record, it’s not.)

After grade 6, to move from the rapidly deteriorating political situation, we moved to Moscow. The summer was spent on the playground, watching Dirty Dancing and fantasizing about the boy next door. Once school started, I got a reality check – sometimes life happens in the way you don’t expect, and trying to control feelings is futile. In just a few days, I met people who became my whole world, if only for a little while, and were the friends I would measure others against, perhaps unfairly, for years to come. I had such good friends – best friends – who showed me what it’s like to truly open up, to trust and to accept. All throughout the following year, I tried to forget the fact that we were going to move, tried to enjoy my time and not let it slip that the life that I loved and the comfort of finding my people would change. A year later, I mentioned the inevitable move to a few of them, and the weight lifted, if only because now it was shared.

As a remnant of health scares rampant in the old USSR, we all got tested for various illnesses (when I was little, we had annual checks of the thyroid glands – thanks to the proximity to the Chernobyl debacle) – and right before new year we got the vaccine tests for tuberculosis. You know, the ones that they prick you with and then you can’t touch it or let it get wet for a week until they check what is the reaction? (Side note, my mind now permanently lives in the gutter, it is somewhat impressive.) Anyway, so my injection area was slightly irritated, so they sent me off to the hospital to get proper tests. For the record, no, I have never had tuberculosis, and went through a rigorous health check before we got the visa, so I did not bring any illnesses to this continent. You know, sometimes people wonder. The reason it became significant was because they said I wouldn’t be allowed back in school in January without a confirmation of clean health. And just a few days after the beginning of new year, we got the invitation for visa.

So I never went back to that school.

I never saw most of the people in my class, and haven’t said goodbye to most of them.

My best friends, though – leaving them was breaking my heart. Some of the guys stopped by the night before, including the blond cutie I had the biggest crush on (who had arguably the best legs I have ever seen on a man), the bad boy who was a dick to mostly everyone, but one who taught me about honesty and loyalty (who was so furious when he found out I was moving he actually yelled at me, for the first time ever). My girls, though, refused to come see me then. They decided they would see me off in the morning, and promised to see me in just a few hours.

In the morning, I was woken up at least an hour before I expected. Turned out, the weather was getting even worse, and we had to start moving earlier. I was getting into a panic – would I end up leaving without seeing them? The ride to the airport was a blur of tears and dark streets – I don’t remember anything except finally going through the checkpoints. I was hoping against all odds that maybe they would have made it for the second car, the one with some relatives who would come see us off and say final goodbyes, but it didn’t happen. We were leaving, and best plans, so sweet to think of the day before, were ruined.

I was going through the last passport check when I heard my name.

I don’t know how they did it. They were all sleeping at one girl’s place, and I guess they made it to my apartment, were told I was already gone, and somehow managed to wake up someone’s dad who drove them at 6am to the airport. Just to say goodbye to me. They also had some things for me – a set of pictures they took during the last few weeks at school, while I was already gone, a perfume they knew I wanted and an audio tape they recorded the night before, of all of them talking to me and wishing me the best and reminding me how much they loved me and what I meant to them. So, as much as I am terrible at accepting presents (I never really learned how to do that, and it always makes me uncomfortable), I shakily took those precious gifts and had to say goodbye to them. And then I left.

It was only in Frankfurt airport, on the layover, that I got to listen to the tape. I am pretty sure I was a terrible mess, with tear-stained face and probably snot all over me, frantically eating some chocolates (I know exactly what they were) and just listening, over and over again, to those amazing people who taught me everything I knew about friendship and love.

Those pictures and tape are still in a box I hold dear. The perfume is gone, but I remember it so well sometimes a familiar whiff reminds me of that precise moment they found me and of the subsequent 6 months in Vancouver, lonely and heartbroken and homesick – not for my school or country or familiar places, but for the people who meant the most to me. I hold other things in this box, too – an old compass that was given to my dad by his father, a baby pajama thing that used to be mine, some postcards and a tiny white and blue ceramic tiger. That’s all that is left from my time in Moscow.

Most of the time, I don’t think about them, or about the year and a half I lived there. But when I do… I feel like I can remember everything. Most likely, I am missing some pieces, and some moments have been changed, tinted with the romantic notions of lost connections. I know that we all changed – and while I do believe that, mostly, the major parts of what me “me” are there, they probably developed differently from my friends. We all grew up. I remember talking to one of them, really, the only one with whom I had some contact over the years and who came to visit me in this country, once I moved to Montreal. Her first question (we were both 18 at the time) was “are there good men to marry there?” and I was speechless for a moment. It shows how different our realities became, how differently we saw the world and how diverged our ambitions got. It’s ok, and I know that now we probably wouldn’t have the same understanding of each other and the world as we did back then. I would still like to see some of them, to witness how they grew up, who they are now – and get that flutter of memory. But it will probably not happen. I haven’t been back. What we had is gone, but it happened. It was real. I am who I am because of them, and it’s funny, but a detail from those years is still a presence in some of my passwords, and is a constant reminder of where I come from. I hold on to the memory of my friends, and I treasure it like the most precious gift it is. I don’t measure people up against the untainted memory of a 13 year old girl anymore, but it is still who I want to be – that person who is deserving of a pure friendship, and worthy of waking someone up and driving through the night for just a minute of a goodbye.

Boob pics are more than just boob pics.

A Dissolute Life Means...

My exhusband didn’t like receiving sexy photos.  I tried once after I got my iPhone and he never responded.  When he got home, he told me it’d made him anxious and that he didn’t like it.  I never did it again.

I also never saw myself as sexy through his eyes.  How could I?  He wasn’t verbose and he wasn’t open with his feelings.  He would get angry at me when I’d get down on myself and say, “How can I find you sexy or attractive when you’re attacking yourself like this?  I find confidence sexy.”

My self-esteem slowly eroded to nothing as the snake ate its tail.

When we decided to separate and I began dating again it was like a whole new world.  After 7 years of little to no feedback about my body I was suddenly dancing through hordes of hungry, appreciative men.  Their eyes, mouths, hands…

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For turtles in northern climates (even though I have never seen one and they don’t make sense to me). For people playing with my hair. For unexpected visitors. For K and her awesome brain. For N, and friends moving away. For reconnecting with the past. For the first cottage experience, the fire and the sky of many stars. For “pool noodle”. For good books, and for occasional bad ones. For parents becoming friends. For sister, just the way she is. For sunbathing on balcony. For glory of changing leaves. For D. For hope. For ambition. For taking myself out for dinner and loving it. For long hot baths. For loving and letting go. For Mexican January vacation and realizing going with people is not as bad as I think. For NYC trip and understanding that yes, it is, it just depends on the company. For bites and bruises, ropes and tassels. For threesomes. For debauchery and embarrassing mornings. For knowing this is not so bad. For learning when to walk away (and sometimes for still not doing it). For lazy Sunday afternoons on the couch. For crisp sheets and slow mornings. For lingerie. For walking around naked. For the joy of cooking and truffles. A lot of thankfulness for truffles. For jazz and wine. For food in general. For being loved and cared for. For amazing friends. For being a girl. For nights at the pub with a book and music. For seeing the downtown from the mountain, again but differently. For knowing all things come to an end, and that’s the beauty of it. For being happy and sometimes even for feeling sad.

“I want you”

Last Friday, after almost a week of no contact whatsoever, I get a message at 8:48 in the morning.

“Show me your underwear.”

Of course, I do. It’s striped, black and turquoise, and when I lift up my skirt you can see my tattoo and the tops of my stockings.

He tells me to show him what’s underneath.

I do.

He asks me to put a couple of fingers in my pussy.

I don’t stop. I don’t care that I’m three feet away from my coworker, and my boss’s office door is open.

He asks me if I’m getting wet.

I’m soaking.

I know exactly why I’m doing this. I no longer want the same things I did before – I don’t trust him enough to fall apart. But sex? I can do sex. Pure desire. Teasing, open, gluttonous, and I love it.

Tonight, Ginger Dude reappears. He asks for pictures, and I send him the one from my office bathroom – the one where the cardigan is barely covering my nipples, with tank top and skirt gone and panties and stockings fully exposed. I usually don’t send fully naked picture to anyone who hasn’t already seen me that way, and this still works for me. He says he could get addicted to me and that he wants me.

It sets my skin on fire.

Desire makes me feel alive. It is by no means the measure of my value, but I like it. It does not fix the hurt and heartbreak, but I don’t want or need it to. It simply reminds me I am here, that fantasies are meant to be realized, that chemistry is like fireworks and that just like the song goes, life “is just an instant”.

Oh, and I also know there is a very small chance I will (want to) see him after next Tuesday. And I like it this way.

Yellow sky


There was the most glorious rainbow out today. The sky was bright yellow and the rain was almost done, and the surreal colours made that street more beautiful than I’ve ever seen it. I wore leggings for the first time this fall, and my boots are now soaking through at the first sight of a puddle, but I went for a walk anyway with my music and wet feet, and everything was right with the world.


I don’t usually get called “fragile”. I am friendly, open, bubbly, but also private and tough and strong (I think. Generally. Or maybe I’m just emotionally distant and closed off). I don’t share feelings, don’t ask for help, don’t rely on other people and definitely don’t show it when I’m upset or hurt. And yet…

After three years of increasingly abusive work environment (my boss is certifiably insane, misogynistic, inappropriate and dysfunctional), I have had enough. Now I made a deadline for myself to leave this place no matter what before the end of the year. Hopefully it can be for something I really want, but if not, I will make a lateral move. Last Friday, after finding out that he told a client to tell the mother of the girl I work with that I should not be associated with because I am “a whore, aggressive and disrespectful”, I couldn’t shake it off. I have resolved to leave. I cannot confront him about this specific comment because it would put the girl who told me in a bad position, and she asked me not to tell. This is fine. I will make sure he doesn’t treat anyone new the way he’s been treating me, but that doesn’t really change anything for me. This culmination of hostility here at work coupled with me being hypersensitive in personal life left me slightly damaged and in need of comfort at the bar last Friday. And the people who work there, who are near strangers to me with no ties or obligations, got me ice cream with liquor and whipped cream. I nearly dissolved into tears. D came over after and gave me a hug (K told him he was being an asshole, without my knowledge whatsoever), but that was not even the best part. The care from people who simply wanted me to feel better was exactly what I needed, what made me feel precious and important and comforted. I allowed myself to feel sad and miserable for that one night, and then made plans to fix this mess.

And this week, a guy at work told me I have been looking “fragile”. On one hand, I am almost disappointed in myself for not being able to control the sheer volume of hurt flooding me. On another, though, the fact that someone noticed and cared enough to acknowledge it and make it better was all I needed to find the motivation to keep going. What worries me is that it feels like I need these little signs of care lately – be they from strangers, co-workers or D. I tried asking for it, but that backfired gloriously, and so these small moments of care are precious to me. Mom messaged me and asked if I want to come visit her and dad on the West Coast during the holidays and just “be a daughter”, and once again, I felt comforted and very tempted to do just that. I don’t like being this sensitive, and it feels like I am raw from the last few months of emotional rollercoasters and constant disappointments from work. I don’t want to self-medicate or ignore it all, I just want to stop feeling so damn weak.