The Curious Case of a Facetious Sequoia: Part One (of Many)

January 2019. Sequoia.

As I grieved my mother that winter, I sank deep into depression. I had just lost so much.

I fled my home in Nevada out of fear with only my Jeep and 2 cats. I came home to Ohio broken and mourning not just my mom, but my marriage. My health. My career. My dreams. My stuff. My sense of hope. I was drowning in loss.

I sat on a park bench and searched my memories for the day she might have first told the story, I recalled my mother’s advice when her father died: “I went to the priest and told him I couldn’t stop crying and missing my dad all the time. I asked him what I should do to make it better. The priest took my hands and he told me a story about a woman who came to his office that morning. She had arrived home from college to find her whole family had been murdered. Someone always has it worse. While it’s hard to watch another struggle, it helps us appreciate our own pain in a new way. Empathy sets us free.”

Sequoia wasn’t polished with a renovated half-million dollar home the way Birch was. He didn’t come by success honestly, or even dishonestly for that matter. But I liked him. I liked him a lot.

I arrived at Sequoia’s tiny, disheveled house with a refrigerator on the front porch,wondering if I made some grand mistake. But we’d already had one very good date that resulted in a delightful sleepover at my place, a thing Sequoia posited he never does on a first date… but probably always does. Regardless of my skepticism, I was very much looking forward to continuing where he and I had left matters.

“A caveat,” mentioned Sequoia as he peaked out and swung open the front door to see me standing there with a bottle of wine and trepidation that I’d just walked into an episode of the TLC series Hoarders. It was… a lot of stuff. A lot.

“My parents both passed away last year and my house is now crammed with all their stuff. It’s everywhere,” Sequoia explained, attempting to distract me from the gargantuan mess before my eyes by pouring me wine and showing me things. All the things. I found it sweet and comically refreshing that instead of peacocking for his potential mate by presenting himself as wealthy, knowledgeable, impeccably neat, sophisticated, or worldly, Sequoia won me over by being a genuine mess.

Wine, weed, and blues from an old record player provided the backdrop for what would be the first of many times Sequoia and I would have sex. On this night, we navigated through the sea of his family’s unwanted heirlooms upstairs to his bedroom, which was only slightly less of a disaster.

He lit a candle. I pulled my sweater off revealing a red lace 1-piece teddy underneath. He took a moment in the flicker of the candlelight to appreciate it, lamenting, “You’ve been wearing that this whole time?”

I nodded and giggled as his hands began to explore my curves and we inched closer to his bed. I felt electrified as he kissed me, each fine hair on the back of my neck saying yes to him silently. I gave Sequoia every single non-verbal hint that I knew to tell him to ravage me, but then he did something profound that I didn’t expect.

He asked me.

In all the years and all the instances where I’ve been presented with sex (not that I’d ever tell you that number), I’ve only been verbally initiated a handful of times and they’ve been notably awkward. But this was not at all the break in the mood I’d experienced before. It was oddly seductive to be looked at in my eyes and asked, “May I fuck you now?”

Nothing is sexier to a woman who’s been through some shit than actual consent. And that’s the difference between tacit approval and verbal communication. And it’s important.

And then came the fun part, which will be detailed on OnlyFans.

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