How do you find love, passion and yes, more sex, now that you are single?

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High noon blazed across the barren landscape of my bedroom. My opponent and I stood stiffened spine to stiffened spine. Now that I was single, the bedroom showdown had begun.

Like a cattleman’s whip loneliness stings my curiosity and I turn to the brutal crack of reality.

My opponent turns low, palms sweating, hands drawn and twitching, matching my speed, my centre-part and right-cheek mole.

Yep I’m playing Cowboys and Indians, in my bedroom mirror, alone.

Single and no chance of any Cowboys or Indians on this horizon. Not anytime soon. Damn!

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What was my first thought when I found myself ‘single’?

I would like to say my first thought was gracious and altruistic.

It was not.

It was, ‘Oh no. No more sex for me’.

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Then I remembered the ‘super secret’ tucked in my bedside cabinet. 

Sunlight probed the tortoiseshell cabinet and with one long fingered nudge the drawer shuddered open.

To reveal one bar of chocolate and one gaping space. My vibrator was gone.

Between moving house, tossing the – ‘things that no longer spark joy’, down-sizing my relationship status and child -proofing mummy’s side of the bed-I had rubbished my vibrating friend.

I tore open the chocolate bar and popped it sideways into my mouth.

On my tongue the sweet slide was … wanting.

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I know vibrators have limitations … they come without Ryan Gosling six-packs and their midday shadows will never loom tall, with Clint Eastwood smiles, swaggering ‘do you feel lucky, well do you?’

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I needed a replacement. But how? I was enroute to Uni and my morning class with hot lecturer.

A little bit of History: Today more than 70% of women own at least one vibrator. 

Just think, we owe our favourite buzzing companion’s invention, to the over worked hands of 19th century Doctors. 

Medical hand jobs were the only cure for 19th century ladies suffering from Hysteria. 

Unable to keep up with the demand and with chronic hand fatigue – Doctors required assistance.

Ask and it will be given – a gift from the gods.

Squished on a peak hour train, fast-track to Uni, between Miss Unfriendly and Mr Too Friendly a sign from the gods’ flutters on my nike airs.

The newspaper’s red letters leap – SALE/BUNNINGSsavings on bulk purchases of AA batteries.

A grinch like grin stretches the slick of my Chanel lacquered lips and sneers off all leery lurking commuters.

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My eyelashes batter off the armpit tendrils of  Mr No-Deodorant-Wearing, Hairy Armpit.

I whip out my phone and tap purchase.

I raise my phone triumphant above my head to screen save my checkout basket.

Lit from above, an unearthly fluorescent-pink-sheen illuminates myself and all my fellow commuters.

We stand, bathed pink, by the formidable full screen selfie, of my new vibrator.

I wish I were Spock calling Scotty, ‘Beam me up Scotty, to a galaxy far, far away’.

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The number one reason I found myself single: I forgot to love myself first. She loved life and it loved her right back.

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Once I remembered who I was,  I forgot about looking outside of myself for love. 

In being alone I remembered I loved being me.

 Yes I found love again but if we want more love, passion, pleasure and sex in our lives, we must learn to love ourselves first.

 

  All images from Pinterest. You can find me on Pinterest here.X

Yikes! I have just arrived at my first school-parent’s party. What do I do now, when I discover I’m on the menu?

 

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Somewhere in Bondi, on a street leading to the ocean, a black lacquered door throbs with music and a golden doorknob beckons.

Navy silk fringing falls from my hips, skimming my thighs and falling to my knees. A band of navy Italian lace covers my hips exposing my midriff. I suck my belly button back to my spine, check my boobies are still bound inside the navy lace bandage top, shoulder roll my men’s pinstripe blazer and reach for the curve of the golden orb.

The golden knob slips from my grasp, as the door swings wide. My eyelashes tremble under the welcoming wink of an oiled navel and golden G-string.

The greeting is unexpected and magnificent.

I offer up my invitation in the sobering event that I am definitely not expected at this party. I have been invited by parents of a five-year-old friend of my daughters, our daughters new friends at a private co-ed school in Sydney. I don’t think golden knobs and G-strings are part of the mixing and mingling at that party.

PARTY INVITATION

On a smooth high gloss 9 by 20cm photographic card dance three naked woman, texture and movement supplied by their 70’s styled pubic hair fullness.

Dress code: Sexy cool

Theme: 007 meets Barry White

Champagne pops on a tray offered by the almost naked, black doorman.

I’m in.

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As the bubbles prick my nose the unexpected magnificence just keeps giving.

My eyes widen at a Melbourne train carriage (life-size) embedded flush in the cavernous rooms right wall. The hosts parked dining room.

I pad over the candle-lit, wide beam Japanese black-oak floor, aware I really don’t want to puncture the floorboards with my heels. I am excited and nervous all at once and I shiver like Christmas Eve with silent promise for the night.

The World is Not Enough

Bond: “I was wrong about you.”
Christmas Jones: “Yeah, how so?”
Bond: “I thought Christmas only comes once a year.”

Beyond the room a sail clothed canopy hangs above an outdoor DJ, circling a tinkling bar with a throb of clustered bodies.

A dancing lunatic pulls me on to the dance floor.

I am completely ill at ease.

A handsome stranger rescues me.

I am completely at ease.

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This shot of me at a North Bondi Beach photo shoot,taken a few days before ‘this’ party.

In fact the party is full of throbs of people really at ease. As I get up for breathing space from a group of strangers who are now intimate with the size of my facial pores, under the bench of my brow I watch the room. The room is full of clusters of people, really into getting to know people they have just met.

There are no leery eyed stares, just people enjoying a luxurious party with all the trimmings, fresh delectable canapés, chilled golden flutes of erupting French champagne and two-legged predators with smiles of inarticulate longing.

I look at the wad of business cards that have been pressed into my hand by all of my new friends and contacts at this party.

For some strange reason I feel like the main course.

 

As I walk upstairs to find a bathroom, bedroom doors open to scenes from Arabian nights, without bodies yet. Candle lit water bowls with floating frangipani dot paths to the King size beds.

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A strange little man jumps from the shadows and pulls me towards a bed.

I break free and jig to the stairs – there has to be/there must be a toilet downstairs.

This party is for a select group of people who are aware the rules of the game are about swinging. Swapping loved ones and partners and sharing sexual pleasures with strangers with consent from your other half.

I’ve decided I am not playing and if I had a loved one, I wouldn’t be sharing. I watch the fringe of the dance floor and know I am not the only one feeling this way.

One woman I know is standing in the shadows watching her husband dirty dance with another. She does not look angry or excited, she looks sad.

007 house rules, to kiss without telling and like 007, I leave early.

Sex, is a game best played by choice.

Remember to choose what game you are playing, before the game you are playing chooses you.

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Although I don’t think love was the game being played at this Swingers Party, I cant help but agree with this quote from Johnny Depp.

‘If you love two people at the same time, choose the second.

Because if you really loved the first one, you wouldn’t have fallen for the second’.