Poly Nirvana

Love, Life and Rational Polyamory

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This is Damien Rice, who is an amazing, literary songwriter, and who is one of my favorite modern artists.  I had three videos ready to share, but I think my one favorite song is enough.  Okay, maybe two.

Today has been a high stress day.  Tomorrow may be the same.  Nothing spectacular, simply a cluster of small things, and a lot of rain on top of it all.  Tomorrow SMF and I are having dinner with my Dad, and then, I hope he is sleeping over.  I could really use a sleepover.


“…your elbow in the appropriate place…”


“…let me out of this hell when you’re around…”



I don’t like being scared.

I don’t enjoy fear; the anticipation, the sweaty palms. I hate being startled, and the knowledge that something is coming for me, keeps me away from haunted houses and out of scary movies. I find it neither entertaining nor fun to feel that adrenaline surge …my heart racing…and yes, possibly a little wet spot in my panties and no, not at all in a sexy way.

But… There are monsters under my bed. They watch patiently, silent and still. They wait for me to touch my toes to the floor, so that they can grab me, their twisted fingers wrapping around my ankles; their long yellowing claws piercing the skin as they pull me underneath the bed.

My monsters are the things that terrify me, the things I am most afraid of. These things creep out from under my bed when I least expect them, keeping me awake at night, worrying. What if?

There is this small but hideous beast: I’m not a good parent.

This demon has my mother’s eyes, and creeps out from underneath the foot of the bed and slides its face right up to mine, looking straight into my eyes, and whispers,Your children would be better off without you. What ever made you think you could raise kids? You can’t even get your own shit together, let alone the endless amounts of shit these tiny humans bring to the table. You are a failure.

I hesitate, but then I look into the familiar blue eyes of this devil and smile. I softly start to hum a lullaby, the same one I sang to my babies. His eyelids begin to droop, and though he fights for a minute, eventually he drops to the floor, and curls into a sleepy demonic slumber as my song comes to an end.     

Some nights it’s the worry about money. I will never have enough.  

I hate that one. It’s a useless creature, and accomplishes nothing. It scurries gleefully around under the bed, giggling every so often, and it says to me, in a melodious little voice, You are never going to get ahead. There’s always another bill, and more groceries and guess what? The car will need a new fuel pump this month! Wheeee!

There’s not much I can do to quiet this one.  When his maniacal giggle fills the room I close my eyes, I breathe, and the panic begins to recede.  I mentally recite the things I am grateful for.  A good job. People who love me. A bed to sleep in, food to eat, coffee. And with the thought of coffee, I begin to forget the laughing monster, and I make my way to my kitchen, where the coffee waits.

There are a few lesser fears, which flit around like mosquitoes, easily diverted with a flick of my wrist, but annoying nonetheless. These are the whispers ofNobody likes you. You are difficult. or You laugh too loud. When their buzzing becomes unbearable, I swat them away, and they fly across my room, meeting the wall with an abrupt thud.    

And then there’s this one: What if he leaves me?

And there it is. I can smell him before I see him. I don’t want to look, but I have to.  He crouches, sneering at me, muttering under his breath: He loves her more, you know. He loved her first and he loves her most. He’d walk away from you in a heartbeat, all she has to do is ask. He’ll leave as soon as someone better comes along anyway, wait and see. You are a stupid, silly girl, and he can’t wait to find someone better.

This monster has a twin brother, an evil and malicious thing, who spews ugly words at me, You make me sick,he says. You are worthless and disgusting.  I can’t stand looking at you. You make me want to vomit. His eyes dance as he continues his tirade. He gleefully plays the role of the playground bully, making me feel, for just a minute, small and scared and helpless. Then I remember.

I am not small, and I am far from helpless.  It is true, sometimes I am scared. But I am strong and brave and I am determined to beat down these monsters that want to eat my soul away, one small mouthful at a time.  So fuck you, I say under my breath, to the two brothers. “Fuck you!” I say, louder this time. “Do you hear me, motherfuckers? FUCK YOU!  That’s not who I am.  I am wonderful and fun and loved, and nothing you can say changes any of that. Now go away.”  The twin creatures gaze at me, and I meet their eyes without fear. “Be gone,” I say calmly, “I am done with you.” They seem to fade a little, their edges softening, and I patiently wait until, within a few minutes they are simply not there any more.  I am alone.

I lay my head back, my curls spilling over my pillow, and I laugh my glorious, much-too-loud, belly laugh. I close my eyes and sleep.


~Daydream For A Succubus~ (BOAW3 )

This is absolutely NSFW.  


As I have gotten older, I have come to a place where I can reconcile my sexuality with my mainstream socialization that “nice girls don’t”. I was forty-two years old before I discovered the pleasure and beauty of my own sexuality. My sexy. My sex.

My sexy is mine, and mine alone.  There are no rules or stipulations put on me, except for those I put on myself. Pleasure, for pleasure’s sake, is beautiful and lovely and desirable.  I take pleasure in good food, in glorious music, and in the lush desire I feel when I allow myself to be fully submerged in the fullness of my sexuality.  I still argue with my inner nice girl.  Stop, I whisper.  Nice girls DO.  Own your beauty.

~Daydream For A Succubus~

I am a nice girl. A wholesome girl. Little old ladies love me. I am kind to animals; I love herbal tea. I crochet things for people I love. And I have a happy little thought that floats through my mind, countless times, every single day.

I love cock.

Some days I find myself just biding my time until I know I can have it. I try to keep myself busy, but I’m just filling the hours until I get my hands on my very favorite thing. I think about it, I salivate over it, I masturbate to the memory of it. My body simply waits for it; no matter what other distractions come… whether fingers or toys, they are simply a substitute for what I am begging for in my head.

And then, the time comes, and you are within reach. I cannot sit still as I try to make conversation, to engage in proper social etiquette. Your eyes fall on me, and my voice catches in my throat. Underneath my wholesome good girl exterior, I am a panting, breathless whore for you, and I don’t want you to know. Not yet.

You make me wait for you, until every cell of my body is screaming to have you. Finally, I feel you pause against me, barely moving, until my world goes dark and my body has no purpose outside of feeling the whole of you inside of me.

So give me cock. Give me that moment, the moment when my body finally relaxes as you slide into me and I exhale slowly as I am finally given what I love. Take my breath for your own: that single whisper of air that exits my body as you enter it, belongs only to you.



All participants and commenters in this year’s Beauty Of A Woman Blogfest will be entered in a drawing for a 50.00 gift card… Plus you get to read some awesome writing celebrating the diversity and beauty of womanhood as defined by bloggers from all over!  Click on the banner above, the Official start date is tomorrow, February 24th for the Girl Boner edition, and February 27th for the Original edition.  ~Ginger

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Last night a couple of my demons came out from their hiding places, just to remind me that they are still there.  They are smaller, and less threatening than I remember them being, but they still took me by surprise.  Special Man and I had a date which for some reason, was difficult for me to relax into.  We drove several hours up to some hot springs which closed earlier than we expected.  The roads were icy and rough, which made my palms sweaty as I closed my eyes and flashed back on my car accident last September.  SMF and I never ran out of things to talk about, but I found myself tense and worrying.  Later, as we cuddled and laughed about silly things in bed, I felt myself relax.

And then,some time after,  in just a few seconds, something happened.  There was a look on his face, a look I’m so familiar with, a look that makes me feel loved and wanted and needed and beautiful and connected.  And I went from elation, to a great longing to keep that look for just myself.  I felt possessive and territorial.  I flashed on him sharing that look, that moment, with others.

I didn’t like it.  I felt emotional.  Vulnerable.  I didn’t like that either.

It’s a hard thing to be completely bare in front of someone, and I don’t mean baring your body.  Laying your fears and demons out in front of someone you love, and risking rejection, judgement, or worse, indifference.  I wiped away tears.  He held me, kissed my forehead,  gave me sips of water, and when it was time for him to leave, he covered me with a quilt and I was asleep before I heard his car drive away.

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~Some People~

some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I’ll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they’ll find me there.
it’s Cherub, they’ll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I’ll rise with a roar,
rant, rage –
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
I’ll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.

~Charles Bukowski

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I’ve been asked a few times if my little poly network knows that I blog about myself, about my relationships, and about them. I’ve been asked if it affects my writing, if my important people do read what I write.

The answer is yes. They know. And yes, it affects what and how much I share.

I’ve actually debated starting a completely anonymous blog, so that I can put more out there, but I can’t realistically maintain two blogs, and I love this one like a favorite cousin.

I write about me and my perspective. I try to respect my others, and remember that they didn’t really consent to being characters on my Poly Nirvana stage. A few months ago, an acquaintance at our local non-monogamy discussion group, asked CC’s boyfriend, MSquared, how it felt to be famous because he’d made it into the blog that week. (I’m pretty sure MSquared was not impressed by this overblown tidbit.) However, it left an impression on me, and I try to tread lightly. You will not hear me talk extensively about my metamour, CC. I know it would make her uncomfortable.

If I had it to do over again, I might start my blog and keep it absolutely anonymous. Then again, Poly Nirvana has become such an experience and a joy for me, that I’m not sure I’d want to have to keep it a secret, and not share it with my people.

Really, I have no advice as to what others should do when contemplating putting their writing out into cyberspace. It’s a pretty personal decision. For me, it is what it is, and I’m pretty happy with my real life peeps knowing that I write here. It comes back to bite me on the ass from time to time, but I can deal. I’m a big girl.



If you blog about poly, you are an activist.

Some of you know this already. Some of you are thinking, “I’m just writing about my life. I’m not an activist. Why would anyone want to be an activist?”

I don’t know if anyone wakes up one morning and decides to be an activist. I don’t know if anyone says to themselves, “Self, I want to be a poly activist and the best way for me to do that, is to start a blog. Yes!”

Here’s the thing. There’s a huge poly community spread across the world, and yet, in my face-to-face life, I interact with few, truly polyamorous people. I have very few examples of successful, healthy, honest, long-term non-monogamous relationships. I felt weird, and alone, for a long time.

Then I started blogging.

People found me. All of a sudden I was aware of this network of people who were trying to do good poly. I saw kind and thoughtful people who were seeking out others, and who were becoming stronger in their convictions about love and life, as they learned and explored. I made contacts with ethically non-monogamous people all over the place. I began to feel a sense of community.

I didn’t feel weird anymore.

And that’s activism. That’s what all you badass Bloggers have done for me. I read what you write, and I nod my head as I read. I get it. I feel it.

I see you.

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This morning one of my teenagers woke me up with a hug, and said, “Thanks for feeding me so I don’t starve, Mom.” Understandably confused by this sudden display of gratitude, I asked him what he wanted, thinking that he wanted money or something. “It’s Valentine’s Day,” he said, “and I’m trying to be nice.”

“Thanks, honey,” I said and went back to sleep for another twenty minutes before my youngest daughter was prodding me out of bed to drive her and her brother to school. I should have taken a picture of the Valentine’s Day getup she had put together. Pink and white gingham taffeta party dress. Raspberry and black argyle tights. Pepto-Bismol pink butterfly shaped glasses. Her hair was gloriously bendy from the eight braids she had slept in last night in preparation for her school party. She was a fantastic mess; her very own girl, and she was thrilled with how she looked.

I have long learned to appreciate this kind of individuality. There are probably younger parents who look at her and think I’m crazy. I’m okay with that. At 44, I’m a much different parent than I was when I was at 34. Or 24. I look at her and I hope that she maintains that strong sense of self, and that she remains confident in liking what she likes.

At breakfast, my youngest son told me that my nose piercing was “weird” because I was pretty much fifty.

Now I’m not sure what being almost fifty has to do with anything, but I’m only 44, and I’m just me, I told him. And I like it. “But what about getting a tattoo?” he said. “Most people get their first tattoo in their twenties!”

“So?” I said. “I think it’s awesome.”

And that was the end of that. He starts junior high next year. He cares what people think. I get it.

It’s horrible outside: gray and rainy, with an icky wind. I’m rethinking my date to the hot springs tonight. Sushi and then a movie or something inside sounds much (much) more appealing. (And sex. I’m really looking forward to having some time for sex! This once a week business is for the birds.)