I have this “friend” who is a devout Christian.  She ain’t no virgin, but several years ago she joined a church and un-joined anything resembling sex.  In her almost 50-year old fairy-like mind, she’s saving herself for her husband.  But she had a 20-something hottie throw a monkey wrench her way. She said that he was just a friend; he had become her confidant and it made her fall for him.  I called bullshit.  This dude is still into racecars, videogames and Instagram models.  Truth is, she was sexually attracted to him and was scolding herself for it and tried making into more than attraction. Her mind was telling her no but her body was screaming, GIRL GET SOME DICK.   Instead of admitting that she wanted to throw that as in a circle with him in a middle, she made herself super-friend and was beating herself to a pulp with disappointment, a broken heart and a sad suzy.


Self-inflicted bullshit.  Sexual attraction is as natural as soul attraction.  You can reach cosmic levels of connection with a partner who does not have to be your husband.  He can be a very compatible, consistent pussy pleaser and that is just fine.  This whole thing about needing to elevate everything to relationship or martial status is bullshit too.  Why can’t the connection be a good fuck?  Why can’t reaching orgasmic quasars and planets together be the perfect connection?   We’re too old to be playing rubic’s cube with our truth.


Did I tell you all that Nola Darling is my spirit animal?  I try not to be repetitive in my post, so when I do just consider me your sometimes senile auntie.

But anyway,  if you’re not familiar with Miss Darling, she was the 27-year old bite-sized hotbox of sexual freedom in Spike Lee’s movie, She’s Gotta Have It.  Miss Darling acquired four lovers.  A married man who took care of her;  an arrogant hot throb who was very easy on the eyes and magnificent in the bedroom’;  a goofy, cool, nerd with a heart and dick made of gold;  and a woman who stole her heart and blew her back out.

Now, I’m a bit more mindful about energy than Lil Nola was and don’t welcome everyone into my loving bed easily, but that does not mean that I won’t slide into theirs if I’m curious enough.   But when I do welcome a lover into my bed,  I have headboard full of love charms and evil eyes to thwart anything that I may have missed in clouded judgement.   What was iconic to me about Nola wasn’t her balancing act of lovers; it was the unapologetic transparency of her free spirit.  She owned her preferences and did not give a damn about what the world thought.  She didn’t have to scream it to anyone or put it on a t-shirt.   Her world was tailored to her liking.  She didn’t adjust or minimize any part of her big Self.  Her big, sexual Self.

That part.

I’m a very sexual person.  It’s like walking or drinking water for me.  It’s who I am and I make no apologies.  I’m not out here spreading and dipping with every penis that points in my direction, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t always considering a thing or two.  All of this waiting for the right one is a beautiful thing for someone who desires it.  But that someone is not me.

There was a time in my life when sex convoluted a lot things.  I confused it with love, shit in most cases I confused it with like too.  But that’s back to that disconnect that I told you all about a few posts ago.  Whole point of this blog about pussy.   I was out of sync with my spirit, my coochie, my mind.  I lived very robotic and detached.  I missed the fun and freedom in sex because I was too busy trying to elevate sexual connections into relationships, because that’s what I thought I was supposed to do.  But I knew better.


When my kids were younger, someone asked me if I ever felt like men wouldn’t want me because of them.  I replied, “Why would I be worried about what someone who doesn’t want me thinks?  Anyone who wants me, wants them too.”  All these notions to make us feel bad about having pussies, using them for something other than bearing children and enjoying it.  Mind-blowing orgasms don’t equate relationships.  They equate staying in touch so that you can keep coming back for mind-blowing orgasms.

I don’t get into the whole “well, men do it.” thing either.  I’m not a man, I’m not worried about how they do whatever it is that they do.  What I won’t do though, is make apologies for something that feels good to me.  And that it was it’s all about.  Freakin’, hooking up, whoring around; so many dirty names for living your best life.  Right here would be the perfect time to insert a safe disclaimer.  You know the one where I tell you that the ultimate goal is to find yourself a good, wholesome partner to have good sex with.  Be free with your man, save your cookies for Mr. Right.

Don’t hold your breath waiting on it.

I’m not anti-relationship. I’m just anti-rules. I’ve always been clumsy with things that break easily.  Rules break too easily.   Things get messy when we put rules to shit because we think we have to.  Right here is where I’ll insert this disclaimer: Do you. And do it good.  Do it in a way that makes you cross your legs at work when you daydream about the previous night.  Do it in a way that puts a sneaky grin on your face when that text message pops up.  Do you in a way that makes you jump out of your sleep to answer the phone and say, “No I’m awake, I was just laying here watching tv.”

Good sex is gratifying.  It keeps your juices flowing,  keeps that inner vibe vibin’.  Why would you allow yourself to feel bad about something that feels so naturally good to your spirit?


Do not make apologies for only wanting sexual connections.  Keep yourself centered and clear.  Don’t bring unhealthy people into your sexual zone; make sure those muthaphuckas are living right because you definitely do not need that heavy energy hovering over yours. But do you.  And let me reiterate,  do it good.


One thought on “Girls Can’t Say They Need It. But Women, You Betta!

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