I spent most of the last three decades scribbling about traveling, business and dining. Reporting on the tastes, flavors, ideas and sights that deemed worthy to be documented in ink. In that journey, I have become an expert at expressing other people’s passion. Not my own.

When I decided my voice worthy and ready, I wrote a sad book about my sister dying. Then I wrote an equally dreary book about my son’s drug addition.

Again- I found myself the presenter of other people’s stories. I would mantra — “My life has been unusual and full of adventure! It is time to tell my story.”

In my novel queue I have my circus story (I left law school and became a trapeze artist for 5 years), a couple of screenplays about raising 6 foster kids, a teleplay based on a weekly murder and HOA and a grand adventure after my uncle died and left me 5000 animals. Many words tapped, thesaurus consulted and wine gulped, but I never sent my babies into the wild. I kept them in folders and desk drawers waiting for that magical moment when I felt worthy/ready/brave/done.

For my maiden voyage, it made sense to combine sex and food for a summer read and Consumed was born. In this building of prose, I accidentally acquired a muse. In searching sexual and dinning matters our profiles found each other and became tangled like a gold chain left in the jewelry box.

The muse bounced and enhanced my words. I did the same for them. I loved it because the act of writing can get quite lonely and I’m a social beast. Also there was something in the anonymity that brought out an honest bravery I didn’t know I possessed.

In this unusual pairing of voices, we volley sexual and life situations back and fourth. The result is rough, funny and sometimes extremely sexy.

This has become a highly addictive practice. It’s a new relationship bound only by prose and honesty. There are no limits or judgments. Writing is a lonely road and the opportunity to travel it with a compadre made it palpable. Thru practice, it provided the courage I lacked.

We have never met. I don’t know the muses name. They do not know mine. I have been given permission to share using a pen name.

This strange liaison is one of the finest I’ve ever experienced. We chat about everything and nothing. It’s honest, profound and most importantly facilitated my voice. I write for them. I believe everyone should have a muse in their life.

Rarely does this happen. I thought it right to share.

On this blog/space/journal I will share our daily contemplations. I have promised to do this daily, the muse has not. You may recieve my strange brain fevers, or a tapestry of elegance, a dance of two writers.

See if you can tell where the muse voice ends and mine begins. I barely can anymore.


A million school moms brisk past me, progeny safely deposited. A waft of perfume, a doused lure that was administered without control.

An appointment to Pilates.

A coffee appointment with friends.

A sudden selfish grind onto a shower head.

The unspoken helmsman steers the vessels through their short existence.

Like backed up hard drives reiterated in anticipation of their inevitable failure.

A grave and a conception, both full body acts that take the mind from the body for just long enough for the pocket to be picked by an unseen hand.

They wander through the next 4 free hours a ghost of purpose. Some only conquer dust and washing, some mindlessly conversing with the world through online portals. They clasp in their hands electronic leashes that now represents all of their self worth. If a post is not liked, a hashtag ignored, it’s devastating. If snarky or jealous words are hurled at their “dog in a tutu”- it is an apocalypse of their soul.

One of the automatons is not like the others. She cares only for the lust monster. That must be fed daily in order to preserve her fairy tale illusion. The family dinner, car seats and ballet lessons, a kiss on the cheek to the husband, these are her burdens. The dutiful wife when after school and upon the arrival of the bread winner.

For now, this afternoon, she tumbles into a sea of blankets with a lover. This is her tangible existence. He waits for her circadian, a prisoner of the daylight.

When they misstep, he to drive home and stretch his way to an exultation and planting. Wordless exchanges and breathless contractions.

Bareback and balls deep. The twitching head with its blind eye gapes as it traces it’s thickness inside her. Displacing as necessary and causing her to gasp.

The cervix-seeking sentry grazes her almost as admonishment. It stands to attention and solidifies impossibly with each grinding thrust.

Unseen glands are demanded of and slicken as an accomplice. Like a capitulated government yielding to a masterful invader.

Drools of fluid sluice down as the piston drives home repeatedly over the spanning sock of a pink ridge, stretched and wonderfully taut. A pair of pelvis now work as one, synchronized to a shared burden which at once gives as it takes.

The urge of renewing tricked once again into selfish pleasure. The duped willfully playing their part. The sense of primal participation both familiar and horrid, a crime and creation. The most beautiful of sensations or the worst theft one can inflict on another.

The sudden apex rocks through them both and the spasms through one moisture into another.

The brain becomes detached momentarily as a glimpse of heaven is caught in the sight less eyes rolling back in tongue or sockets. He pulls back and slides out of her. His troops drool back at him, everyone a dying man. Slapping into the crumpled linen, the slowly closing lips purging. Thighs drizzled like fresh donut glaze, a musk reaching down their throats and presenting evidence to them of their sin.

Now the knees scream, the dull ache from an overly arched back and a throbbing inside her as is still hard cock evaporates he scent into a faintly sticky wrapping.

Later he will smell his fingers to recall the planting, and as a ghost reliving the patrol, a twitch marks the lay lines which stand still in readiness for a second charge.

Victorious in his servitude of children and groceries, she drank copious amounts of wine and droned on about her laborious tasks in the quest for literacy (she claimed afternoons were spent loving the library).

After dinner, dishes, washing and bed tucking she went to rub one out in the name of theorem and luscious remembrance.

She knew it was the right thing to do. For when you succumb, it is the best thing you can do in that moment. Allow it to take over and cry out her victory.


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