So… No Threesome Then?


Six year ago my husband had to go for training in Missouri before we moved to Guam. I went to stay with my mom in Oregon for a year, and I dated a guy there who was kind of a mess, but nice. We’ll call him Kevin, since he just has a generic white guy name anyway and they’re all the same.

Anyway, Kevin had been married for 20 years and was in the process of getting over it. I thought he could use a little fun, so I took him along to the kink clubs of Portland and showed him a good time. It wasn’t thrilling or anything, but between him and the gorgeous young pet I kept while living there, I entertained myself.

When I left Portland, gorgeous young pet wandered off into drugs and hippy festivals in the woods, and I haven’t heard from him since (though I hope he’s okay.) However, Kevin stayed in touch. We met up several times over the years (since he lived near my mom) and things seemed fine other than him still being a bit of an Eeyore about everything.


Now that I am living in Hawaii, all of a sudden everyone wants to “come visit me” (by which they mean they want a free place to stay in Hawaii.) Kevin was among those who asked to stay, and I agreed. He’d had a run of bad luck between his daughter’s suicide attempt, losing his job, and his older son having trouble in school due to being autistic. It was a lot to deal with and I thought some beach time would help.

However, Kevin had never spent any time around my husband. I just assume everyone who claims to be poly can handle that. I really wasn’t prepared for what a jerk he was about to be…

See, I knew Kevin had issues. He made the choice to stay in an unhappy marriage long enough to learn some bad behaviors. However, I don’t think I really understood that I was about to see all of them on display at once.

In every interaction he observed between my husband and I, he tried to find conflict. My husband and I do not fight, but Kevin tried to look for the hostility that he thinks is behind every word and gesture in a marriage, and it was exhausting.


I would say some innocuous thing like:

Where are all the spoons?

This is code for:

Husband, I know there is a pile of tea cups on your desk with spoons in them. Bring them to me for spoons belong in the kitchen.”

But Kevin would immediately see hostility in my calm tone of voice and say:

Dude, she sounds pissed off. You better get her the spoons.”

It’s hard to show exactly how shitty it is to have someone gas-lighting your every conversation by trying to turn it into a fight when it’s not. And yes, I know that it’s not his fault because clearly he has a huge hangup about the idea of marriage. I get that. But, it’s no excuse to spend a week trying to see fights in every single thing a couple does.


Then there was the mocking. My husband and I do try to keep affection to a minimum in front of company. However, we’re really happy and we really love each other, so sometimes we can’t help ourselves. And there was Kevin using a tone only a school-yard bully would use: “Yeah yeah I get it, you’re so fucking cute.”

Obviously I saw no reason to have a big breakup while he was here, since I had to drive him the airport and it would have been awkward. However, I breathed a sigh of relief when his cloud of misery and anger was safely dropped on the curb. Then, I sent a Dear John letter post hast.

It’s weird how you can know someone for six years and safely avoid their deep-deeded issues. And then all of a sudden, that shit can all jump out at you like a boogieman in the dark.

I’m so disappointed.


Plus, one thing that sucks about being poly is that I never feel like I’m allowed to be sad about a breakup because I have this beautiful husband who brings me chocolates and loves me to pieces. And yet… six years is a long time to chat with someone, hang out with them, and exchange holiday gifts. It’s the end of A Thing.

I guess if the husband hadn’t been in training in Missouri the whole thing would have fallen apart six years ago when I realized how miserable and bitter Kevin was towards married people. However, things just happened to align in such a way that I didn’t find out until I’d already gotten attached, and that sucks.

Anyway, it’s okay to be sad when you break up with someone even if your life is still full of love and joy. Emotions are weird and complex, and we have the capacity to feel a lot of things at once.

One last thought: I am sick of the trope of the “crazy ex-girlfriend.”

Women tend to find someone new pretty easily, and it’s usually the men who end up brooding and getting weird. So I want to point out that I have a crazy ex-boyfriend who needs a lot of therapy, and it should be more acceptable to talk about how nuts men can get after a breakup. After all, a “crazy ex-girlfriend” refers to a girl who slashes your tires or tells your new girlfriend that you have Herpes. But ladies, we all know that a crazy ex-boyfriend can be dangerous. I live an ocean away from mine so it’ll be fine, but some women live in the same city, and many are murdered by their crazy ex-boyfriends.

May you all stay safe and happy, and may you avoid the ones with hidden issues.




We are off on a trip to Portland, Seaside, Phoenix, and Honolulu. As always, if you will be in any of those cities, hit me up with an e-mail and let’s see if we can get coffee.

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Oh, and if you are in Portland and want to borrow my beautiful Pet, please let me know. He’ll be there for a few days by himself while I am in Phoenix visiting my dying grandmother.

He hasn’t had anyone but me to play with him in so long because we live on a tiny island. It would do him good to have a little variety.

He is a switch. 26 years old, with a slim build. Hetero-flexible but mostly straight. Very attentive and lots of fun.

He is up for grabs in Portland July 20th to July 25th.

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An Honest Confession

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A girl in a group I belong to recently told me that I should be the one to organize the next event because “I don’t have trouble dealing with people.”

I am really glad that I come off that way, but it is not something that happened without a TON of work.

I just needed to confess somewhere that I have social anxiety, and that I always have, because the way she said “you don’t have trouble dealing with people” really got to me, and I needed to deal with that somewhere.


My parents met at a First Edition Dungeons and Dragons quest at Berkley. My mom was the Dungeon Master, and she killed my dad every game. He always had to roll up a new character before they played again. I guess that was her version of flirting.

They were extremely awkward people.

My mom never wore makeup, high-heels, or skirts. She said it was because she was a feminist, but I suspect that it was because she didn’t understand all that stuff, and she didn’t care to learn.

My dad was an engineer. I know they aren’t all obtuse and awkward, but the stereotype that engineers ARE socially awkward comes from people like my dad. He had this laugh like a donkey that always made everyone stare, and he never even noticed that they were staring.

Seriously, it sounded just like a donkey.

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Growing up with parents who bought an isolated farm on purpose to raise us on, and who had no friends, did not help me learn to socialize.

Having a younger sister who was a sociopath as basically my only playmate didn’t help either. She was really frightening. I remember one time when she squeezed a baby chicken until its head came off, and then tossed it aside as if she had done nothing worthy of concern. I was so upset I cried hours in one of my secret hiding places.

In my teens, my parents kicked me out of their house.

I lived on the streets for years, and awful shit happened to me. I was a naive and pretty girl from a small town, so you can take some guesses as to how that worked out for me. If I hadn’t had social anxiety before, the PTSD from being homeless and all that came with that would have ensured that I developed it.

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All the while, I had Grave’s disease, so my body was attacking my thyroid gland. This caused my thyroid to overproduce hormones, and made me live in a constant state of fight-or-flight.

I couldn’t afford healthcare, and anyway, I thought it was all in my head when my heart started racing if I had to deal with a person. It felt like my heart would rise up in my throat and I would sweat and feel light-headed.

I just thought everyone always felt that way, you know? People all talk like they struggle with social stuff, so I always assumed they all had the same panic that I did. When I read the definition of a panic attack in one of my Psych textbooks, I remember being confused and thinking “that’s not normal?!?”

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The thing is; I am fucking stubborn.

So because I am fucking stubborn, I worked in a dungeon called Madam Tracy’s and taught myself to act confident and be a Dominatrix. I went to events and talked to strangers. I joined organizations and groups and made friends.

And because my husband is in the military, I have to keep making new friends, because we move away from the old ones. I have been making new friends constantly my entire life, and sometimes the fear of rejection is just crushing.

It has never gotten easier for me.


Just a few weeks ago I was hanging out with a new friend that I met through a hiking group I started. She is cute, and smart, and interesting. So naturally I  feel big and dumb and awkward around her. And I remember thinking “I am so glad she can’t tell how freaked out I am. I hope I am not acting weird.” And I always feel that way. All the time, my entire life, for 35 years.

It didn’t stop me from having a promotions company and throwing events, owning an art gallery on the First Friday Art Walk in Phoenix, or being the managing editor of S.L.A.M. Magazine. It didn’t stop me from planning fetish proms, play parties, and camping trips. It didn’t stop me from speaking at conventions in front of rooms full of people.

As I said, I am stubborn.


But no matter how stubborn I am, I still have social anxiety.

It’s not easy for me. And I know after all these years of practice that it never will be easy, because it’s exactly as bad as it always was.

The moral of the story is: Don’t assume that other people are more confident or more comfortable around people than you are. Just because they don’t talk about how they feel, doesn’t mean that they don’t have feelings.

I am pretty fucked up inside and my nightmares are worse than any horror movie I have ever seen. There are places in my head that I can’t look because I will cry for days. I am glad that I come off as together, friendly, and good at planning. I am glad that people feel like asking me to take charge of events because I am “so good at it.” I am glad that I inspire confidence and motivation in others.


However, it’s not easy.

I guess if I were to give this story a moral, the moral would be this: Just do the things you are terrified of. Push through the panic attacks and the sweat. Push through the sheer terror and don’t let yourself give up.

It never gets easier on the inside. That much is true. On the inside I am still the little girl hiding in a cupboard from my little sister because she was so scary. I am still the homeless teenager who was hurt too much to feel anything for a long time. And I am still the person who panics and says stupid stuff at inopportune moments in my head. 

However, on the outside, years of public speaking classes and practice have paid off. Outside my own head, I actually manage to convince people that I am cool and confident. Outside my head, I am the girl who stitched up my friends’ head after he got beat up by a gang. I am the girl who kept my calm when they pushed me out on stage in front of thousands of people to do a count down to Midnight at one of my shows on New Year’s. Outside my head I manage to speak at funerals, make friends, and plan events.

So I am living proof that someone who grew up with social anxiety and geeks for parents can still have friends and do stuff. And if I live as much as I possibly can outside of my head, I can even enjoy some of that stuff. And so can you.


Dating Online and the Community


The subject of dating has come up a lot in my life lately. You all know by now about the person I love in Arizona who is going through a divorce. I have been struggling to help him find things to be happy about now that he has lost his home and family.

It’s not easy.

His idea for dating was to go back through old flames and see if any of them were still around. I guess that makes sense. When you are hurt, go for the familiar.

Of course when that didn’t go well, I suggested online dating.


He tried valiantly to meet girls off several sites, but none were very interested in talking abut ideas, and instead wanted to talk about people and events. If you don’t get the joke there, look up Eleanor Roosevelt.

So thus far, he has met with limited success and this has made him decide to give up on dating for the time being. I tried in vein to change his mind, and tried to talk about the virtues of getting to know new and exciting people, and how wonderful falling in love is.

Then I logged into Fetlife and I remembered that he’s right.

Dating does suck.

My bad.

I was wrong.


Let me tell you about the two new prizewinning jerks who sent me messaged while I was trying to sell the idea that dating is wonderful.

Jerk Number One:

This guy messaged me with “Wat up you down to fuk?”

Let that sentence (bad grammar and spelling and all) sink in to your brain, and then realize that this is not a person I knew. This is a random stranger. I guess he’s new to the area (that’s literally all his profile said) and he doesn’t realize that it’s a small pond, and you can’t afford to be an asshat to even one person.

I tried to be polite, and respond by saying that he would benefit from having a profile picture and some information about himself. I went on to suggest that he should maybe treat women like people and start with “Hello.”

(No really, you can treat women like people. They even actually are people. I know that is hard for some folks to grasp, but it’s true!)

Naturally, Jerk Number One wrote back:

“Ur ugy anyway u fat cunt.”

So that’s one more swing and miss for me trying to civilize the masses one guy at a time. I honestly don’t know why I try. I should just ignore them like most girls do.


P.S. It’s hilarious how some guys whine “I message girls all the time and they never respond.” See? That’s how you know they are a jerk. They send nasty messages all the time and women ignore them because most women don’t respond to abusive dickwads. If they were nice guys, women would respond. That’s how that works. 

Jerk Number Two:

This guy actually started out perfectly nice, and said he’d like to play scenes with me.

Normally, anyone who will talk to me nicely gets coffee at least. However, I noted that he was 65.

Now, I was molested as a child, so I have a thing about not dating older guys (and this one is ten years older than my father!) I am just not okay with it. If there are girls out there looking for a “daddy to spoil them” then more power to them! You do you. But I personally don’t do older guys.

I very nicely said that I am on the younger side of the 30’s (as indicted by my profile) and that I am uncomfortable dating older men. I offered to get coffee anyway, saying I am always happy to meet new people.

So what does this guy do? He writes back telling me that we’re all the same on the inside and that age doesn’t matter. Apparently it’s all a state of mind and I am a judgmental bitch.

Now, I doubt that he would have responded kindly to a 90-year-old woman hitting on him. So, I would submit that he is likely judgmental and prejudice about age himself; but only when the woman is the older party.

So that reminded me how much I hate dating, and how sometimes creepers hang out on these days just harass women. I hate that. I like to think of the kink community as a bunch of really nice people who all want to at least be friends. I like to think of us as inclusive and connected as a group by common weirdness.


And yet, so often lately it seems like real world interactions ruin my hopeful views.

What happened?

I have been part of the kink community for 20 years and I never had to deal with the type of assholes that are around these days. Is this just how men are now? Have they all become total losers?

I mean, I never used to get harassed this much. I used to meet nice people through Hell, I met my husband (who is my very favorite Pet) through! I feel like nearly every message I used to get resulted in a friendship, and I still think fondly of all those amazing people I used to meet around munches and fetlife and fetish proms.

And yet, lately it’s nothing but penis pictures and guys saying “Wut up slut.”

It’s like the quality of available males has diminished in the last decade to the point that there simply are not any more worth talking to. I haven’t met anyone worth my time in ages, and that is disappointing.

So maybe the person I love in Arizona is right. Maybe it’s time to give up on dating for awhile. At least I will always have my beloved Pet, so that is something!


Happy Halloween!

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I don’t normally post personal pictures on my Magically Delicious Super Slut blog, but I just love Halloween so much that I wanted to share pictures from last Halloween with you.

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This year, I am in on vacation for Halloween.


But while I am away, please enjoy my Mummy Meatballs, Candy Corn Cookies, and even a chicken from “50 Shades of Chicken” (A book my friend gave me.)

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This one is tied up with bacon! It was totally amazing, although I definitely had help with the chicken. (The rest I did on my own.)

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It was a great party, and the first time I actually made food of any kind specially for Halloween.

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I’m not really the sort of person who sees a thing in a magazine and then tries it, but in this case, I did.

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Halloween is my very favorite holiday, so I hope all you kinky kids have something special planned.

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I can’t wait to come home in November and tell you about my adventures on my trip!

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I Am Not A Hooker


Recently a very rude man named Fabian Riley sent me this message:

“Hello, i read your review on club Desire. I would like you to accompany my girlfriend (Korean) and I (American).”

That is an exact quote of the entire message.

So first: Do not slip in that your girlfriend is Korea when talking to a white girl who has lived in Korea.

Yes, we know your girlfriend is Korean. We know you talk shit about white women who are “too bitchy” and you love your submissive and obedient Korean. We get it.


White guys mostly act like all Korean women are the same, too. You hear them say things like “They all look the same and they’re all quiet, so who cares which one you end up with.”

I lived in Korea for three years, and I never got over the total lack of respect that most white American men had for Korean women, and how openly they talked shit about white girls as well. The judgement, the rudeness, and the piggish attitudes sickened me.

Second, I like the presumption that I would have any desire at all to spend any time with some twerp who couldn’t even bother to compose a well-written message to me.

My first response was the obvious:

“I wrote a review of the club when I went with my husband. I am not a hooker.”


Even when I worked as a professional dominatrix back in the day, I never had sex with clients. I hit them. That is what a dominatrix does.

So yes, I have been paid to hit people.

But no,  you can not pay me for sex.

Naturally he then said that he actually expected me to want to go to the club with him and his (Korean) girlfriend just because I am a magically delicious super slut.

I have said this before and I will say it again:

I am a slut. I am actually an amazing and magically delicious slut. But I am not YOUR slut. I don’t owe YOU sex just because I like sex. I chose who I have sex with, and it is absolutely only people who treat me with respect.

It is insane to think that you could send a disrespectful message about how you expect me to want to go to a sex club with you (American) and your (Korean) girlfriend as though I should somehow feel honored that you would ask.


I choose who I fuck, and I only fuck people who respect me. When I do, I assure you that it is mind-blowing and earth-shattering and you will never forget it. I am that good.

But only with people that I choose!

I am so sick on men acting like I owe them my attention. I don’t owe you anything at all. I write this blog about all the sex and fun that I have, but that doesn’t mean I owe YOU sex or fun. You haven’t earned it. YOU are just some guy who can’t see how sexist, racist, and shitty you actually are.

When I declined and said there was no reason for me to want to go, he actually told me “Oh yes, I forget some people are not as much of a free spirit as me.”


He actually said that.

To me.

I swear, some people are so worthless that you just have to write a blog about it, aren’t they? Way to go Fabian (what a douchy name.) You are totally one of those people worthless enough to deserve a written and public smackdown.

Ladies beware if he messages YOU next!


Just to Pester You



I am sure you aren’t that interested.

Everyone hates that one friend who writes books and then wants you to care that they wrote books.

I get that.

But I did write some books… and I would like you to care.

You can find Book One here, and Book Two here.

Book Three should be out soon, and then the trilogy will be done.

I even started a blog to write about the experience of writing novels, because I thought it might help with the publicity thing.

I mean, being an author isn’t a way to get rich.

But it would be cool if you could read one the books. Or at least, pretend you read them and encourage me.

I could use the help.


My Friend the Pedophile


A friend has been pushing me lately to write my story. It’s a running theme in my life, actually. I have often had someone I know push me to write about my life. The excuse I used to use was that I didn’t have time. However, as I have saved up some money to take off work for a year to write a series of fiction books, I am told that I have no excuse for not also writing an autobiography.

This forced me to look harder at why I am always so against the idea of writing about me. As it turns out, it is because my story is fucked up. There are too many things in it that require long and boring justifications. It would be almost no action!

Really; my story would be a book of explanations for my behavior.


I agreed to give an example of this, and so this post will constitute as my example of why an autobiography written by me would be 90% excuses.

Here goes: When I was a teenager, my best friend was a pedophile.

Obviously I can’t just tell you that, and then launch into a description of our many adventures (though we did have a lot of great adventures.)

This is what I mean by “some things requiring a long explanation.”

You may think that no explanation could make it seem okay that I had a pedophile for a friend when I was in High School, but read on and tell me what you think at the end.

Take one step back to get perspective.

First, I want to tell you that my uncle Mike and his boyfriend Dale were wonderful people. They always hosted the white elephant at Christmas, and they made any party fun. Growing up in a family with openly gay members, I was taught that there is nothing at all wrong with men who like men. No one ever made it seem weird or unnatural, and I was told that anyone who thought gay people were bad is someone that I should not get to know. So for starters, I couldn’t fault Mick (my friend the pedophile) for liking men because I knew that wasn’t wrong.

Take one more step back, and let’s get a little more perspective.

Next, I want to tell you about where I was at the time (in my head). I was fourteen and my breasts had just grown in. I went from thinking the world was a nice place to hating it in the span of a single summer.

Once, I had enjoyed going out in public because people asked me how old I was, and what I wanted to be when I grew up, and what my favorite color was. I was treated like a tiny person, and I liked my fellow humans.

After I grew breasts, the world changed. I stopped being a person and became an object. An object, I might add, that men of all ages hit on.

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Men where always leering at me and trying to find excuses to touch me. I got cat-called on the street and the men said such awful and embarrassing things to me. My dad’s friends somehow looked at me in a way that made me feel dirty when we were at pool parties. At my job as a waitress, old men would pinch my butt. If I complained, my boss would say “He’s just a nice old man. Remember you want a good tip, so smile and bear it.” Old women told me that this was just how life was. My female friends were all having the same experiences, and everyone told them it was normal too. And all this created an impression.

I hope women will understand this, although I know many men probably won’t. The transition from “girl” to “woman” seems to happen the moment you physically mature, long before you are legally or emotionally an adult.

The point is; I developed the impression that it was acceptable for old men to harass me (as a teenage girl) and think of me as an object of sexual desire. Everyone told me to get used to it. So, I got the impression that it must be okay, no matter how dirty it made me feel.


With my friend Mick, he liked boys my age. But unlike the old grandfathers who grabbed my ass at work, Mick was young. He was only 27. Plus he was very cool. He was a bartender, and he knew how to make so many wonderful drinks. He didn’t have wrinkles, and he wasn’t losing his hair. Plus, he wasn’t lewd. He was polite. If he liked a boy, he didn’t paw at them and make nasty comments about having sex with them like the old men did to me. Instead he was coy and shy and giggled like I did when I liked a boy. It seemed way less gross to me.

On top of that, you should remember that I was fourteen. My friends were drinking 211 Steel Reserve that they had to shoulder tap to get. But not me. My friend the pedophile brought me bottles of booze and turned them into wonderful things like Mudslides, Margaritas, and Tequila Sunrises. I had the classiest High School parties you can imagine.

But it wasn’t just the parties, and that Mick had a car. It was that he treated me like a person. I was being sexualized by all the men I met. And, I hadn’t learned to brush it off yet the way that older women do. It still hurt deep down somewhere every time I was cat-called or someone touched me in a creepy way, because I wanted to be seen as a person like before. I wanted people to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up or what my favorite color was. I didn’t want them to be fantasizing about fucking me.

And Mick was not fantasizing about fucking me. He did ask me questions and talk to me. He treated me like a person.


Looking back, I know that he was only my friend because I was a very attractive young girl. I know that he liked to be around me because of the endless parade of boys who wanted to be around me. But it is a grown-up mind that can see that. I couldn’t see it at the time. I was arrogant enough to think that Mick liked me as a person and enjoyed my conversation.

When I found out that he had been to jail for pedophilia, I was surprised.

He had been nineteen, and the boy had been thirteen.  I considered the six year age difference, and I thought about the fifty-year-olds always hitting on me at work. I couldn’t see the problem, unless the boy had not consented. But, Mick assured me that he did consent. So of course, teenage me brushed it off.

After all, what is a six year ago difference really? Old men are all over the media and out in life with their young “trophy wives.”


Years later, Mick had taught me how to keep house, entertain company, and keep a conversation going. He taught me to make lots of different kinds of food, and how to bar tend. I was nineteen then (the same age he had been when he went to jail.) By then, I was starting to see the issue. The last five years had been like a lifetime to me. So, while fourteen-year-old me thought that a nineteen-year-old and a thirteen-year-old didn’t sound so bad, I had an uncomfortable feeling the older I got that it was that bad.

By the time I was twenty, I no longer spoke to Mick. I did decide that what he had done to go to jail was wrong, over time.


However, I had a simultaneous decision that everyone in my young life was equally shitty. My boss who told me to let old grandpas grab my ass was horrible. My mom who said I was being too sensitive was a bitch. My friend’s moms, who told us that getting cat-called made them feel sexy should have been ashamed. And the men themselves, who thought it was okay to talk to a fourteen-year-old girl about how they wanted to fuck her, should have been charged with some sort of crime.

I just thought: There is a clear legal precedent. Men who harass or fuck little girls go to jail. But men who harass or fuck girls who have breasts are forgiven. They are not charged, or if they are, they get light sentences. Society thinks it is okay. Society acts like it is okay. Once a girl grows breasts, she is no longer a person. She becomes a thing. And it is hardly a crime to violate a thing.

One moment sticks out in my mind from when I was young. A group of men were harassing me as I was walking home from work. I was probably sixteen at the time. One said “I’m not sure she looks legal.” Another chimed in with “If there’s grass on the field, you can play.” And a third chimed in with “If she’s old enough to bleed, then she’s old enough for me.”


It made it very clear to me that no matter how young a girl is, once she begins to look like a woman she becomes a target for sexual abuse. And yet somehow, little boys are always people. They never become objects.

So in the case of Mick, perhaps the thirteen-year-old boy was too young to consent. But if it had been a girl, I think people would have said that she probably asked for it. I think people would have said it wasn’t wrong of him to want to “get a piece.” I think that the way I was treated as a young girl taught me very clearly that men think of young women as sex objects, and that society is very permissive about this.

In the case of my friend, I think it was his preference for little boys that got him jail time. I think it was the sole contributing factor.



That’s the story. And you see that it requires a lot of explanation, as do most things in my life. If I wrote an autobiography, it would be nothing but a long litany of excuses and rationalizations. So, enough about me.

Let’s forget about how teenage girls have a rude awakening to sexual harassment. Let’s actually talk about older guys who like teenage boys.

Historically, this has been a well-accepted practice in quite a few cultures, and is still common in many countries today.

Even if it had never been acceptable at any point in history anywhere in the world, and even if it had always been considered wrong, the genetic predisposition would still be there, wouldn’t it? I mean, I don’t believe that Mick had any control over who he was attracted to. I imagine he would have preferred to be attracted to women of his own age, so he could fit in and be normal.

So if we can accept that pedophiles are people, and that they are not in control of how they are, then I think we should be able to accept the idea that treatment would be more beneficial than punishment. Countries like Germany have started treatment programs that focus on keeping the person from acting on any desire that relates to underage people. Shouldn’t we do the same?

As with all things, I think it is safer once you bring it out of the shadows. It seemed like this story was a good excuse to make that point, as it is often on my mind. People often talk about men who like teenage boys as if they are animals. You hear people say that they should all be castrated or killed. But, I think Mick was a worthwhile member of society, and I think with people like him, it would be better to explore treatment options. It’s an unpopular view, but there, I said it.


Reaching Out


My husband and I are planning a trip to South Korea in October as a vacation. We are always interested in meeting new and interesting people, so if you are going to be in South Korea in the last two weeks of October, let me know and we’ll plan to meet up.

When we travel, we always try to go to kink places in that area, so if anyone is aware of a fetish club in Korea, let us know. We have been to Club Desire, and to hook up clubs, but a dungeon would be lovely.

Also, we will try to attend at least one munch while we are there.

Obviously we are going for vacation, so we’ll be hiking in Seoraksan and visiting Jeju Loveland and such, but it’s important to us to try and work a little kink into every vacation. So if you have ideas, let us know!

(As always, if you are planning a trip to Guam, let us know!)