Playlists on Repeat

Music fuels me.

My words, my movements, my sensuality, my writing.

Most of the time, I know nothing about it, the type of music I am listening to, the singers, the bands, the artists, I just know I like, me like it very much.

My core clenches in pleasure with it, or my throat relaxes in the climax of it. Or I follow the beats or the rhythms of themthem who play and sing…

Music that touches me, makes me want to do three things:

dance 

write 

fuck 

…sometimes all three at the same time. 

And sometimes I do it, all three at the same time. 

Even though the writing is like a recording of the moment in words in my own head, a narration to self. 

Some songs are played in repeat, over and over during writing times. Each song for each mood, for each piece, for each book.

I created these playlists as the book “Rule of Ten” was pouring through me… Sensual Playlists

Young Buck’s Death by Dancing

I inhale his scent, his warmth, his youth, his deliciousness and know that for a few seconds I’m facing no one, so I can close my eyes in the wrongness of this rapture.
His body is against mine, in a vertical expression, as the music sings that if dying of love is possible, of it, I shall die.
This isn’t love, oh no, with this young buck, this is not exactly lust either.
It’s a sensual profound desire to show him the heights of pleasures I could take us to… Ah he could be so green.
But he moves with me in perfect harmony, the hips sway in absolute enticement, the hands keeping me captive, one on my back; the other keeps my right hand on his heart, I can feel it, the drumming against my palm, the soft touch of his palm against the back of my hand. And then he turns us and I face the crowd, the other dancers, no longer safe, no longer, my face is hidden from judgement.
I open my eyes to pretend it’s a normal dance, that he isn’t killing me, that there isn’t a dragon perched behind my neck, full fletched wings, the spam of three worlds opened, breathing fire over us.
Burning me, killing me, I’m falling.

Taste of “Rule of Ten”

He rested his forehead on mine and with the tip of one finger in each hand traced down my arms, a light touch until he reached my hands and interlaced his fingers with mine.
We stood like that, breathing heavily, number nine and I, for a while, his nose resting lightly on mine, eyes closed, breathing each other’s air. Letting the moment sink in, getting to experience each other’s skin, scent, energy. I felt his body through every point of contact, his thigh against mine, his belly against mine, his fingers in between mine, the velvet of his skin forearm with forearm. The heat radiating between us.
Our inhaling and exhaling matching, intensifying, deepening.
Then he moved his face and went for my mouth and his tongue danced with mine. We travelled to the centre of the Earth in those moments, before the door was opened and we were interrupted.

This is little taste of “Rule of Ten” a book that will come out at Amazon in the next couple of months, comment if you like it, so I know I’m on the right path.

An empty dance floor

You wonder what you look like, this middle aged woman, with round edges, wild hair, grey roots showing, walking shoes, bright yellow and blue shirt, dancing in the rain, in the middle of an empty park as the storm approaches. Arms to the sky, music only in your head.


You can’t look in, it’s been too long, away from big mirrors, dance schools, dance shoes.
All you know is that this is what happens when the dragon’s wings spread wide. You dance in the park. The country’s deluge is a blessing. No one is around, the floor is yours.


You give yourself to the goddess and receive her blessings, not caring one bit what you look like. You dance like no one is watching, but you secretly wish someone is.

Don’t give me the Sublimation Bull

Taking a risk, with a clear, albeit chaotic, mind, is interesting. I have decided to “poke the dragon”.
With a short stick, here I am, allowing my beautifully, previously peacefully dormant sexual energy to awaken, along with the awakening of my peri menopause too.

This shall be interesting! I wonder what this new dragon will be like. The last time I had a lover I was another person, another body, another dragon.
At that time, to put it to bed, I had to sublimate the hell out of it, wrote an erotica from it, maybe this dragon’s cycle will see it published. There is a chance the awakened energy will attract the knight. Risk: there’s a chance it won’t.

If it doesn’t, I’ll be left with the roaring dragon, spitting fire, razing villages, enchanting the sky, the piles of treasure. I just desire, desire. No sublimation shit. Yes, my powers of sublimation aren’t bad, and my treasure chest of alternative resources is always full, but there’s no substitute for skin against skin, smell of the dip of a neck, you know that spot, bellow the ear, when you give a hug, sometimes even one that should be innocent… That inhaling, when there’s chemistry, that tells you and your cells everything you need to know.

Words on a page are my reason for living, but for the fiery dragon, poked and awakened, they do not replace the moment that a splayed hand holds above your belly button, and eyes look deep into yours as they claim for your extasy.