When you go out into the woods, and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree.
The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying ‘You are too this, or I’m too this.’ That judgment mind comes in. And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.
-Ram Dass
In January, I met Birch.
As a butterfly, Birch was everything I had hoped a tree might be, even though I still continued to float rather happily between both Sequioa and Elm. And of course I could never leave Oak out of the picture for too long. There had always been Oak. And Sequoia was technically chronologically first, but none of it really matters since time is an illusion and I’m in different forests these days.
Anyhow, this is a story about Birch.
A snowstorm was predicted to blow in later that evening so I had planned to go home and write while I sat by the fire with the kitties and put some Cincy chili in the crockpot. A cozy night it might have been, but I had other things on my mind. Namely, Birch.
I picked up my phone to a new incoming message as I was toweling off after a shower. I smiled genuinely. I looked at myself in the mirror, so proud of the strong, fit, and sexy woman I was again becoming after all I’d been through over these past years. The surgeries. The scars. The pain. I’d never be the same and that was okay. I was beginning to love me.
I slipped on some black lace panties and matching bra and snapped a few selfies for Birch and my other trees.
Unlike most of the schmucks I’d encountered lately, I really liked Birch. He was good looking, adorably funny, successful in a way that he’d come by honestly, and generous to his family. We had been texting for about a week and he did that thing I like — he made me feel really clever and witty. He gave me the impression I did the same for him. It was uplifting and made for some delightful interchanges.
But as two basic beasts with carnal desires burning within us, we began the typical adult back-and-forth that goes down an overtly sexual path. I had relatively recently become aware of this particular dating pitfall, so I cautioned him against over-doing it (which men tend to do often). Exhibit A:
Let’s get some thing straight: No matter who you are with or trying to get with: Rule #1 of dating should be to avoid rape language. Rule #2 of dating should also be to avoid rape language.
But Birch gets that. And I appreciate it.
After the brief yet necessary exchange, he asked what I was doing for the evening. I told him I intended to stay home because of the coming snow.
“Would you want to come over?” he texted.
“Like, ride out the storm together?” I teased, my interest piqued.
“Yeah,” he replied.
I threw caution to the wind and said to myself, “Why not? You only live once, you’ve done way crazier shit, and you really do like this guy.”
I grabbed my bag of already-packed every occasion clothes (a skill I’d learned in my days of being a travel writer) and jumped into my white Jeep after teasingly texting to Birch, “Wouldn’t a snowstorm be a good time to murder someone?”
A few hours later, I pulled up outside Birch’s beautiful blue house.
As he arrived at the front door, Birch appeared nervous to meet me but eager to show me around the large, old Victorian-era home he’d lovingly restored. His immaculately organized closet was a sign that he was either very neat and tidy or had people he paid to build that illusion — either of which was fine by me because I despise disorder. Birch could be an anal retentive neatfreak psychopath, for all I cared. So long as he wasn’t going to murder me.
Which was still up for debate.
Birch settled my fear of being carved up in bits with stimulating conversation and a few (or more) glasses of Merlot. We sat on the sofa and watched the snow begin to cover the streets outside. We kissed. My chenille sweater started shedding all over the (probably very expensive sofa) and we laughed about it. One of us suggested taking it off already.
“Are you getting hungry?” he asked, breaking our mutual desire to just rip one another’s clothes off.
Alas, we ordered an Uber to a pizzeria a few blocks away and had more riveting conversation and split a pie while the snow fell harder. We talked about divorce. Death. Politics. Despite the bitter cold, I noted that warmth and coziness of the pizzeria and the company in that moment was far superior to the productive night of literary solitude I had planned. He agreed. It felt nice to be wanted and desired.
He paid the bill (as I still believe a man should on a first date with a beautiful woman whom he intends to bed), and we arrived back to his house moments later.
What Birch did to me sexually that evening was not nearly as important as how it liberated my senses. He was tender in a way that broke down my old beliefs about what a woman should and shouldn’t be sexually and helped me find the goddess within me. It was a natural extension of the gifts that both Sequoia and Oak had given me, and helped guide me toward loving myself again after trauma.
And it was really fucking hot.
But let’s talk specifics….
Read on for adult content and photos at OnlyFans.com/ggvvddvv