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The center of my universe (An Unfinished DRAFT from October 9, 2014)

I was poking around and found several unfinished drafts and thought “fuck it, send” – some of these are from too long ago for me to even remember where I was headed with them, so I am just publishing them as unfinished chunks of my life…


I mean, I miss my kids – but I would have regardless of whether I was married or not. It just happened that my empty nesting happened at the same time that my divorce did so it’s a double-whammy. But I’m so much happier than I have been in ages! Even on the days when I feel depressed, lazy & unproductive I am making my own way and doing things on my schedule for me. Yes, there is also a new man in my life. One who has taken on a significant role and whom I now live with. This is GREAT – I love it and I want him here, but sometimes I worry that I went from one man to another as the center of my universe. Which is why I insist on being spoiled rotten. To put myself first as often as I put him first. To let him have me be the center of his universe regularly & often.

This is a weird one. I don’t remember writing it at all. Who starts a blog entry with “I mean”?? Maybe it was something that was developing as a separate topic from another post??



Self-fulfilling prophecy (An unfinished DRAFT from January, 17, 2014)

I was poking around and found several unfinished drafts and thought “fuck it, send” – some of these are from too long ago for me to even remember where I was headed with them, so I am just publishing them as unfinished chunks of my life…



I’m going to try to write about something that seemed very clear late last night in that muzzy, post-coital time between orgasm and sleep. So clear, in fact, that after having the “ah-ha moment” I even rousted myself enough to send myself an email reminder to blog about it. This morning, however, the thought seems less clear and not nearly as focused.

I’ve been doing this a lot – thinking. Perhaps it’s my English major background that makes me feel that I need to come to a solid conclusion in my writing. Not having one seems to keep me from actually putting my words down. Yet not using the outlet I have here to write tends to make me over-think things and create this circuit that I fear will lead to self-fulfilling prophecy.

I’ve got a lot of experience with that. Which is why I’m trying to behave differently. It’s an interesting paradox, incidentally – valuing and uplifting your awesome self while trying to break ages-old bad habits. There’s this tendency to say “this is WHO I AM – if you don’t like me then FUCK OFF” yet, if you are a reasonably self-aware  person who is honest with themselves and in their inter-personal relationships, you know that you could do better. By the time you are my age you ought to have at least a fair knowledge of your bad habits and hopefully, some interest in improving. At least I do. But I feel like I can only take that so far. I can only examine myself and my motives, interests, habits, faults, insecurities & mistakes for so long before I say “you know what? I’m a good person and I try really hard so please accept me – warts and all.”

Which brings me almost to my fears about self-fulfilling prophecy. I’m currently in a really good relationship. We started out casual, fun, polyamorous…and it got hot, heavy and intense really fast. It’s still a lot of fun, mind, but fucking soon became making love which and saying “I love you”, sleepovers quickly turned into living together, poly quickly turned into primary, I stopped dating others, his relationships ended with his other two girlfriends and boom – the holidays brought about lots of “are we X or are we Y” questions in me. Let me clarify: though all this natural progression I’ve been very happy. I’ve resisted the urge to try to define or control what was evolving in our relationship. From the start we’ve been comfortable and natural with each other and I decided to just love each day we had together and not add the pressure of a label.

My fear was that if I asked to be


My taco taco!

I started dating my man nearly a year and a half ago and gave him the name  “Working Class Whimsy” the first time I blogged about him. I had done enough dating and blogging at that point to realize that my old system of first initial/age was confusing and I had recently started giving the guys I date more descriptive monikers. It’s funny to look back over the past 17 months of change, growth and increased depth of our relationship and evaluate the cutesy little blog name I gave him & see if it still fits.

(For the record, I recently saw “Brad Pitt” again and man, his blog name no longer matches him!!)

I called my guy “Working Class Whimsy” because he came from a very poor, blue-collar, working-class background. Though extremely smart and witty, he’s also very “simple” in terms of his needs & expectations. While my ex spouse was always concerned with having the newest technology, car, books, music, software, games, etc and never gave a thought to his “instant gratification” spending habits, “WCW” is happy driving an old car that’s paid for, making a simple meal and hanging out in sweats. My ex seemed to always be trying to overcompensate for his humble beginnings while Whimsy seems comfortable in the old neighborhood, ya know?

The “Whimsy” part comes from the funky artist and funny, goofy, inventive romantic who belies his “quiet” and “simple” side to slay me with a creative or romantic gesture, stun me with the depth of his understanding and leave me speechless with the intensity of the words and actions that he chooses to show his love.

This man has never bought me flowers but he eats my pussy like he’s being graded on it and has done so about 300 of the past 365 days. I mean, come ON! I can buy my own flowers!

So I wanted to share with you a moment of silly sweetness displayed by my whimsical guy last night during sexy time.

The chill & rain of fall is upon us here in the Pacific Northwest. I’ve just broken down and turned on the furnace. Still, last night our room was cool when we went to bed. Our loving turned to his giving me some intense and delightful oral ministrations and despite the way that he warmed my core, I was cold and made mention of it. Immediately he sprung into action using two heavy blankets to swathe my legs, feet, breasts, shoulders & arms on either side of my body – leaving an exposed strip of bare flesh down my middle. I was laughing at the absurdity and cleverness of this – I was snuggly warm and nothing was exposed anymore except my crotch which was covered with his face and warm from the delightful friction caused by teeth, tongue, beard, mustache and fingers.

Giggling, I said that he made me a taco and then laughing, I said it was my “taco taco” because he left only my lady bits exposed and the rest was wrapped in a warm “shell” of blankets.

Well, between enjoying the “all-you-can-eat taco buffet” and silly remarks about “hot sauce” and “extra sour cream” we both rather enjoyed ourselves!


Someone needs to explain to Greg Abbott where babies come from

I know that I usually write about sex & dating more than politics, but this is about love, sex, dating, marriage, sex education, safe sex, responsibility, acceptance and civil rights – all really important and current stuff!

Be educated. Be kind. Vote.

Margaret and Helen

Margaret, I hear the fall colors up there in Maine rival the beauty of my spring wild flowers down here in Texas. Well, I find that hard to believe ’cause our wild flowers are mighty pretty. Maybe we’ll have to agree to disagree. But do you know what else I find hard to believe? That Texas could have a Governor more stupid than Rick Perry or even George Bush.

I shudder to think that Tweedle Dee followed Tweedle Dumb in our State Capitol, but this confederacy of dunces is only going to get worse if we elect Greg Abbott this fall. (For those of you who don’t live here, he’s our esteemed Attorney General who is running for Governor against Wendy Davis.)

Yesterday, Abbott argued that the state’s ban on same sex marriage would reduce the number of babies born out of wedlock. Evidently, heterosexuals won’t have unprotected sex as…

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Have you ever dreamed of blogging?

I know. The title makes it sound like an ad in the back of a travel magazine! “Have you ever dreamed of living in Alaska?! There has never been a better time!”  Yeah. Not that. I dreamed about my blog for the first time.

I dreamed about my blog? “Gee, Risqué Rivorcée, you used to write about fun stuff like dating and sex and boys. Now you’re just so lame!”

Hold up, hold up! I dreamed that I was having naked-time with an ex and discovered that he had tattooed my name on his body. I was so shocked and conflicted by this that in my dream I was already imagining and organizing how I would formulate the tale into a blog post. I even had determined how I would change my name in the blog to make the story still work and protect my privacy. My plan was so real that when I woke it actually took me a few minutes to change the “writing plan” that I’d developed in my sleep. At first I was literally going to write the story like it had actually happened – not like a dream. As the haze of subconsciousness faded into consciousness, however, I realized that I always tell you guys the truth. Duh.

The dream was just so real that the plan to blog about it seemed like the truth until I fully woke.

The guy in the dream doesn’t exist. To say that he isn’t my type would be an understatement. He was young (early 20s?) very fit and extremely active. I know that women joke about fantasizing about hot, young hard-bodies but I swear that I don’t. I have actually written a number of posts about my general discomfort concerning men that are “too young” or “too hot” being interested in me. In several cases I have thought “what’s the catch?” It’s an interesting reflection on society, fat-shaming and my own insecurity that I have a general distrust of sexy young men that find me attractive. Admittedly, it’s the “young” part that I struggle with as much as the “hot” part. Generally, I tend to be attracted to men who are closer to my own age and who have a little bit of meat on their bones.

No that I haven’t had some one-time experiences with varying degrees of young, hot & skinny fellas, but for a long-term relationship I have to feel comfortable in sweats, no make-up & no bra, you know? Interestingly, the “dream guy” was an ex that I had lived with. In the dream, he had been traveling around the world having adventures (mountain climbing, hang-gliding, exploring the Outback,) and was back in town.  He had let himself in to my apartment with his key in order to shower/rest and had crawled into my bohemian hippy futon bed with me, naked. He was spooning me and exploring my body a bit when I woke (in the dream) and realized it was him and had a sort of friendly “what the hell are you doing here” exchange. He was clearly someone that I cared for and felt affection for, but who was an ex and it was long over between us. There was no sex, but there was definitely nudity. We seemed to be quite comfortable walking around naked.

Interestingly, not only was I nude in my dream, I was also fat. I mean, I am fat, but the images of myself that my subconscious provides in dreams are often either hazy or of me with a thinner body. In this dream, I was my very full-figured, saggy self with all the lumps, bumps and stretch marks. I was comfortable with it. So was the guy. We had clearly known each others bodies at some time in the past.

In his nudity, I noticed that he had added to a developing tattoo sleeve of colorful countries and continents that he had visited. The various map representations also had different bits of memories, pictures, quotes, images or city names marking his experiences. In the dream, I was shocked to see my name standing out in relief on Australia. He explained that there was a region there that was called the same as my first name and that he spent several weeks there and thought of me often which is why he had “HI VICTORIA” (that’s a place, right? Not my real name – duh,) tattooed across the region in big block letters. He said that every time he heard the name of the region he was in that he thought about me and smiled and would look up at the sky and say hi.

I told him that he was crazy to have put some woman’s name on his body. I teased that he must not have heard the rule that you aren’t ever supposed to get a tattoo of someone’s name and he said “well, I didn’t get your name in a heart or anything stupid, I put your name in here with all my other beautiful memories that I want to celebrate and remember.” In the dream, I was gobsmacked by this revelation and couldn’t wait to blog about this sweet gesture and even sweeter turn of a phrase. It was so real that I had a really hard time coming fully aware of the fact that it was a dream.

Of course, it may have felt particularly real because I really did have a sexy man wrapped around me & holding me during the dream. My guy also shared some pretty deep and heart-squishing words about me last night, so perhaps that’s where the inspiration came from!


Coming out


Someone inadvertently outed my blog on my personal Facebook page this week. They posted no links and didn’t give away the name of the site, but they did mention “your blog” in their comment.

I decided to leave it.

I am not ashamed of this blog or the acts, feelings or actions described herein. But they are still private. There are very few of my “real life” friends who know about it (including my current love,) and there are a few folks whom I regret having shared it with.

I have a tattoo on my Risqué Divorcée icon on my shoulder. My kids, ex and family have seen it. Anyone who asks is told that it is a “chubby pinup caricature of me.” Which it is. But it’s also The Risqué Divorcée! Anyone who looked very hard could probably discover it. Hell, my ex recently asked me to go into my photo files on my phone to send him a video. My heart stopped for a second, but he seemed to ignore it.

I’ve shared a lot with him about dating. We are friends and we talk. But there’s stuff in my blog about the awesome sex that I’ve had SINCE him and how unhappy and unsatisfied I was WITH him and I don’t really need to hurt his feelings like that. I’m actually a pretty kind person.

Yet one thing I do notice? My blog is really fucking ugly and not very functional.


I want to fix it.

I should probably file my taxes and finish some laundry first.

But it’s really tempting to call my ex or my oldest (both computer guys) and ask for help.

But I won’t. One, for obvious reasons (privacy, embarrassment, etc.) and two, because this ugly piece of crap is MINE!! Every single word and every ugly, outdated, difficult-to-navigate page is something that I made all by myself.

And that’s pretty cool too.


Happy Non-iversary

I’ve been blogging so irregularly that I never told you guys…I’m divorced. I mean, okay, I call myself the “Risqué Divorcée” but this started with tales of my separation. I guess the “Saucy Separated Gal” didn’t have the same ring to it. But my divorce has been final for quite awhile now. It came & went without any fanfare or even a mention in this blog. Goodbye 20 + years of marriage. Goodbye joint tax return. Goodbye 25-year relationship. Done.

I don’t like to write about my ex because even before our divorce was final, our marriage was long over. I think it was over for years before either of us realized, actually. I wanted the focus of my writing to be about me and my moving forward. I didn’t want to be the “Bitter Divorcée” blathering about past hurts, what was, what might have been. No, this blog was intentionally meant to be funny, saucy, empowering – a tribute to fat, middle-aged chicks starting over and having fun! While I have definitely had my share of hilarity and adventure, I also have struggles, adjustments, fear, changes, anxiety. Sometimes I wonder how I got here – it’s surreal on occasion to realize that my entire previous identity no longer exists – my house, husband, kids – everything that used to define me is no longer a part of my life. It’s sometimes overwhelming & terrifying. It’s a lot to un-learn.

For example, this week I would have marked my 26th wedding anniversary. Last year I sent my ex a text saying “Happy Non-iversary” and he replied “heh – thanks! You too!” This year I thought about the significance of the date a few times but that was it. I know two other couples with the same anniversary & both were posting photos and best wishes on Facebook and celebrating their respective 20-something-year-old marriages. It’s hard to avoid thinking about the fact that it was also our anniversary.

What am I feeling? Not regret. I’m happy. Much, much happier, in fact. But there’s some weird part of me that feels like I should get credit for having been married longer than most people are today. For making it 20 years longer than the predictions of the detractors who scoffed at me as a teen bride and said we wouldn’t make it. I feel like I should get some credit. Maybe flowers? No. Instead it just came and went without any fanfare. No Throwback Thursday photo. It simply no longer exists. I wonder if my ex thought about it at all.

There’s just so much to un-learn and stop being. Even my boyfriend sometimes refers to my ex as “your husband” – which drives me nuts, by the way. He’s not. We’re not. He was. It’s over. It’s just not possible to un-remember those non-iversaries.



I’m in love with this blog post! Incidentally, the married guy that I saw for several months early in my post-separation dating had a “pyramid pecker” and I actually used to say that it was like a pyramid! It was unlike any other cock I had seen before or since. Tiny little head for licking lolly-pop style, big, girthsome base for filling me pretty nicely & giving that “fat cock” feel even when the tip was tiny. Drawbacks? Sometimes would pop out, seemed to require lots of deep thrusting (though that may just have been a preferred style.) Was very conducive to female-dominant position.

Prior to that, my best experiences had been with a “Side Swiper” that managed to hit my g-spot really nicely on most occasions.

My “current ride” just barely makes it into the “colossal kickstand” category and I have to say, it’s pretty much perfect. A nice, thick, straight 7 inches that fills me, hits the spots and is not too big to “cuddle” with my throat…ahhhhh. Drawbacks? Sometimes I have to ask him to ease up when he’s really thrusting hard because I feel like my ovaries are going to shatter & it’s a real challenge to take in the butt!

I love cocks in all shapes, sizes & colors, but it’s the men that they are attached to that really make the difference!

Crossing Bridges with Jay Ridge

Like a virgin having a wet dream this post was kind of inevitable. Penis.Dick.Cock.Deep-V-Diver.Dong. Are you excited yet? I know I am.carlton

They come in all shapes and sizes and can be so much fun! Schlongs are kind of amazing when you think about it. They can be hard, soft, long, short, thick, skinny…and sometimes they can even taste good!


Dip-sticks are a marvelous thing when used properly. Therefore, JBlondie thought it was about time to give a shout out to the lap-rockets of the world.

(Obviously every single jack hammer is unique, so this is just an overview). Some I’ve seen personally. Some I’ve just heard of. Others I fear.

  1. Hot Dogs: These are your uncircumcised baloney ponies. They’re interesting creatures who offer more than meets the eye. I personally am not a fan, but I know some women who are…and others I’ve talked to…

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Stealing a moment

I have a lot to catch up on – not the least of which is writing in my blog. I was inspired to try to write a brief post (instead of my normal War & Peace type offering,) when I visited my “Blogs I Follow” page and caught up with all the lovely bloggers that I read regularly. While I was enjoying their posts and admiring their discipline in writing for more often than I, I realized that something seemed familiar about one post I was reading. I felt like I had read it before. The story was brief, shocking, funny and memorable. Which is why, because it felt like a re-run, I figured it must have been something that was re-blogged or forwarded from another website. I scrolled to the bottom of the entry to see where the original piece had been featured only to find a brief bio of the “author” – the same young woman whose name was prominently featured on the top of the page as blog owner. Huh. I peered at her photo for a second thinking that she actually looked to be a bit too young to have been a teen during the time she claimed that this story of her youthful escapade took place. Scrolling further, I glanced at the reader comments under her article and bio. Every single one of the comments mentioned that the article was plagiarized. People called her out for copying the work from a national magazine and for not giving credit.

What the hell?

I’ll be the first to admit that there is a fine art to storytelling and comedy that allows for taking someone else’s joke, experience or story and making it your own or spinning it in a way that makes it more interesting or funny. I don’t mind that sort of thing done for comedic intent. Stating something deadpan and saying “I swear to God, totally true” is not okay unless you crack up and let the person off the hook after the punchline, in my opinion.

People on Twitter are always flapping about “stolen tweets” as if the goal wasn’t to “re-tweet” those 140 characters into anonymous oblivion. Stealing a blog and calling it your own? That makes about as much sense as writing a fake entry in your journal. What’s the point?

As usual, I feel the need to answer myself.

It’s the same wacky “pride” that makes someone give a shit about the number of stars and re-tweets they get on Twitter or “likes” on Facebook. Some people live by the number of followers that they have and monitor their stats religiously.

Obviously this is not me. I have so many partly-finished drafts and unfinished bits that my blog dashboard (and actual desktop) is littered with messy little pieces of myself. Just like a real diary.

The idea of stealing someone else’s words and posting them here as my own? A repugnant thought and gross violation – for both of us.


Creating & defining family (An Unfinished DRAFT from July 17, 2014)

I was poking around and found several unfinished drafts and thought “fuck it, send” – some of these are from too long ago for me to even remember where I was headed with them, so I am just publishing them as unfinished chunks of my life…



An expression often heard in the LGBTQ community that I’m also quite find of is “family of choice.” Sometimes, as we fail to squeeze into pre-determined roles and to meet the expectations of others, we lose relationships & family. Tell the folks you’re gay – they disown you. Stop going to church – grandma writes you out if the will. Decide to live “in sin” with your partner – your sister no longer allows the nieces & nephews come over. Tell your brother that you’re poly and he tells you that you are going to hell and won’t be reunited with your dead mother in heaven. (True story – happened to me!)

The expectations of family & society can bear incredible weight. Many people succumb to the guilt & pressure of what they are “supposed to” do and who they “should have” been – or measure themselves against the accomplishments & norms of other people. This is particularly true when your family of origin has expectations of you – like go to school, become a doctor, get married, buy a house, have 2.3 perfect children, stay married to the same person for 65 years, go to church, carry on the family name honorably. I didn’t finish my degree, I’m divorced. I rent. I live in sin. With a man who hasn’t married or produced children. Oh, and we’re poly. Well, poly-ish. We do what works for us.

Last year, when we had only been living together for a couple of months,

I may work on finishing this one. I think I remember where I was going with it & it’s kind of a funny story…