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Welcome 2015! My Sexy New Year's Resolutions

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It’s that time of the year again, when we wipe the slate clean, throw out the old and ring in the new. New beginnings. New goals. New ideas. New, new, new. Yes, it’s the New Year and this year is gonna be different.
I resolve to keep learning as much as I can about shit I don’t know. I’ll tell ya, I always get a thrill when I learn something that I didn’t know when I take my head off the pillow in the morning. When I see someone doing something that I can’t figure out, like working on some hidden pipeline as I walk down the street, I ask them what they’re doing so I can learn even more about what’s under my feet. They are always sharing knowledge with me that goes into yet another fold of the grey matter between my ears.
Why? Because there’s too many things happening not to be! There’s an app to do just about everything, new places to discover, new restaurants to explore, new people to meet and new things to learn.
I resolve to be out there more. Yes, BE out there more. As in be in touch with more of you to spread the word about the wonderful world of sex. And motorcycles. Yep, motorcycles. More on that in another blog… And yeah, sex toys… I can’t love ‘em enough! I’ll review more, post more, post more videos and get more yummy tidbits out there, just for you. And please feel free to share…
But back to sex. It’s such an amazing thing, it really is, and has been such an integral part of my life for decades. I have experienced so much and only feel that I’m just beginning. Like 2015. And I’ll share those experiences with you and of course, change the names to protect the not too innocent!
So here’s to a fantastic 2015. I know I’ll be adding lots more here, having special events, discounts, tidbits and stuff posted. Just the way I like it – connecting with you and sharing true tales of sex, sextoys, lust, love, motorcycles, Grand Opening! and anything else that comes to mind. Please join me!
Lots of love,
Kim

Boston Commons in Autumn

The Growth of Trees

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October 1, 2013
Here I am, visiting Boston for a few rushed days of motorcycle riding with my beloved club to throwing out a Facebook invitation to whoever reads it to meet me at the Boston institution, Doyle’s, in Jamaica Plain and ending up seeing two dear friends there. The air has the crispness of a New England Macoun apple and the leaves are just beginning to twirl down to earth in their annual autumnal dance. It is fall. It is Boston. It is New England.

Boston Commons in Autumn

Image Source: Zach Den Adel


Sometimes I feel compelled to drive past where I lived during my 26 years in The Hub, as it’s known to locals and the world. During these few past days, I got to go past at least three of them, one in Jamaica Plain where I lived for almost 10 of those 26 years before the infection of condoization coursed its way through my below market rent apartment building. I was on the subway when the rickety train of the southbound orange line rumbled past the industrial loft I lived in for a year. Hated it. No cappuccinos within a mile from the place that was adjacent to a chop shop everyone knew about but no one said anything as if it wasn’t really there.
And then there was the third place. Not that I lived in only three places during those years, no, no, no. It was more like nine different places I called home. But this one place is the one that makes me reflect on 26 years in basically the same hometown. One glance of it and I realized how big those years were in the timeline of my life, almost half of it, in fact.
The trees. The two decker house was a mere 100 yards from the MassPike extension that slices through the middle of the state then makes it’s way into Boston after coursing through the western suburbs. When I moved there in 1984, the trees were thin and the weeds were short even though they really weren’t maintained, just that the cold, harsh winters would kill any pesky new growth that would crop up year to year.
But the trees would stay. In the 3 years I lived in that house from 1984 to 1987, I had moved in with my husband, once had sex with a friend while both of our spouses were separately sleeping in other beds in other rooms, had my Maine Coon cat run over on the nearby busy street (the REAL Maine Coon that I had driven up to Bangor, Maine to get – he’s buried in the back yard and is probably no more than mulch at this point), brewed home brew beer with my husband and founded Boston’s first home brewing club (The Wort Processors, who are still in existence, thankyouverymuch), gone through the physical pain of sex with my husband which got diagnosed as endometriosis, stage one, did 6 months of steroids to stop my period to make the endometriosis “go away” only to figure out many decades later with my sexual awareness that it was actually the manifestation of the pain of my dissolving marriage since I’ve never had it since, separated from husband, continued to work at my commercial art job designing logos and lettering for shoe insoles only to realize that I was restless after being there almost 7 years and, having gotten officially divorced during that time, decided that I would leave Boston and New England and live in the camper that slid onto the back of a ¾ ton pickup truck that my father bought me because he realized I had dreamed that I wanted to get away from it all. And I did. For a mere six months only to return to Boston.
But the trees remain. The trees. Now so tall, now so thick with branches that they’d be impossible to count. The trees that have grown so big they block the view I once had of rumbling cars heading into Boston for their daily commute and the cars heading back home to the suburbs with their tired drivers behind the wheel. The view that I had to be able to tell what time of day it was, whether it was a weekday or a weekend, whether it was darkness or light.
The view is gone because of the trees that remain as reminders of how long ago the past is. How long ago it’s been since I was married. How long ago it was since I felt the tinge of pain of losing a beloved cat. How long ago my life was there behind the trees. How long ago I was there.
The trees tell time in a way my mind does not and they will be there forever after I’m gone with their roots firmly planted in the ground where mine no longer are.

"I have a fatal disease," he said

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I thought I would share that quote with you. You know what that fatal disease is? It’s called LIFE. It will be terminal and I’ll pass when the time comes. I guess that’s why they call it “passing time.”

raven and mortality

Source: tanakawho


With every birth there is death. It’s inevitable. I’d like to defeat that fact but I honestly don’t think I can. Sure, I could freeze my body in the hopes that it will get unfrozen someday but since I don’t like cold, I don’t think I’ll go for that. Heehee. I also found out in 8th grade that I’m allergic to formaldehyde. Yes, formaldehyde.
We were on split sessions to ease overcrowding at my school, so when I sat down at my homeroom desk in a science class, the previous students had done dissection and spilled the clear, watery fluid on the desk, leaving it for us underclassmen to clean up. When I sat in my chair, all of a sudden, my eyes started watering to the point of flooding, I raced to the nurse’s office sans hall pass, where it was quickly determined that I was allergic to formaldehyde and I would be unable to any dissections in the future. Lucky me.
But I digress. Since I can’t get embalmed because of my allergy (wait, I think I left my blonde hair color on too long), I decided that when I go, I am going to donate my body to science. I love science strictly as an observer, especially when it comes to sex science but that’s another blog. Hopefully, I’ll make the world a better place even when I’m done with my shell.
But I have no idea when that time will come. I just know it will.
I have a friend who recently got diagnosed with some strange lung disease that the doctor said is fatal. The doctor told him that he has about a year and a half to go and my friend is really depressed about it.
But in a strange way, we have death in common. I have always been one to live each day as if it were your last because you know what? You REALLY have no idea if it is. I mean, people get killed waiting for a bus at a bus stop, thinking that the safety of a 6 inch curb is going to prevent some asshole from jumping it and slicing into them while they are waiting to go to work.
People drive down the highway in their cars, oblivious that the vehicle next to them may have that person’s expiration date invisibly etched onto the side of their car. Or a driver can be listening to their favorite tunes and a concrete construction pipe could roll off the truck in front of them and BLAMO. Game over. On to the next plain without any warning.
Yes, these occurrences really happened. But not to me.
So I live each moment as if it were my last. I ride a motorcycle. I’ve raced hydroplanes. I take chances. I am a risk taker. I appreciate every breath I breathe, every step I take, every time I close my eyes for restful sleep, hoping that the miracle of life will take over when I wake.
I try to share my enthusiasm for life with everyone I know. And those I don’t. I want to share my love of my precious life with my friend with the fatal disease. There is plenty of hard, scientific proof that says that a positive attitude can add years to your life and perhaps in his case, just more time (see, I told you I liked science!). But some people just continue to wallow in sadness and will always be the glum chum to me, no matter if they have days to live or the rest of their life.
So, as they say, live life to the fullest. Go for it on a daily basis… an hourly basis… a breath by breath basis. Appreciate little things, the noise and the peace. Stillness and movement. Seriousness and silliness. Darkness and light.
And when the time comes, you can die happy which to me, is the only way to go.
Now on to my next breath…
 
 

The Perfect Day

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Monday, March 11, 2013 started as a beautiful day. A perfect day! A wonderful day! A day to be outside.
I found that I needed to get out and ride the 30 or so miles from my home in Culver City to The Valley. THE Valley. The one that’s on the other side of the hill so many people cross in a single day through the Sepulveda Pass. In cars. And for us lucky ones, on motorcycles.
It was a beautiful day.

perfect day, perfect motorcycle ride

I cruised up the 405 in my normal fashion on my Honda Shadow ACE as I had done so many times before when I worked in The Valley. The road was clear, the pavement smooth. The perfect ride as I held the throttle at the perfect speed, aware of my surroundings and the coolness of the wind through the vents of my helmet.
I effortlessly rode through the pass, never once needing to squeeze the brakes, then smoothly slid into the high speed lane, the car pool lane, when I made it into The Valley. The left hand lane where the road was free and clear.
I gently turned a bend and noticed the red glare of tail lights began to flare in front of me. I had plenty of room so I knew it was for something else. I saw the blue lights of police cars on the other side of the waist-high divider, noticing the black and white cars were not blocked by tow trucks, fire trucks, and the emergency vehicles that litter the road when an accident has occurred.  The cars to my right were slowing down to crane their necks, to see the accident, to pause for a moment but I had no one in front of me to slow me down.
And then I saw it. The sheet on the pavement. The white sheet. The outline of a crumpled body that lay beneath the white sheet. The white sheet.
And then the helmet near the sheet. A black and white full face helmet. By itself. Sitting there. Belonging to no one that was on a motorcycle. Belonging to the white sheet. Belonging to the one who wore it just moments before. The one lying still as the world continued on both sides of the divider. The one that could have been me.
My heart sank. My eyes swelled with sadness. It could have been me.
Who was this person under The White Sheet. Who? Who’s fault was it? Were they riding too fast? Were they splitting lanes? Were they wearing a t shirt and sneakers? Was it a man? Was it a woman? Were they riding a sportbike? A cruiser? A Harley? Were they a new rider? Had they been riding since they were a kid? Did they have children? Were they speeding? Did they get hit? Did they have on leathers? Did they see anything before their life ended so suddenly, so tragically? Did they have an ICE number on their phone? Did they have a will? Were they going to meet a friend and the friend is now nervous because their friend hadn’t shown up yet and they’re thinking the worst because they know their friend always rides their motorcycle everywhere? Do they know?
Monday, March 11, 2013 was a perfect day.
I rode back along the same stretch of road many hours later wondering how the hiccup in the road just moments earlier would be memorialized. I rode in the car pool lane, the exact same lane that my fellow rider rode earlier in the day. On that perfect day. Today.
There were no marks, no skid marks that I could tell would be still so fresh they would leak the scent of rubber. I couldn’t tell where the sheet had been. Where the body laid. Where it happened. Nothing to mark the place where the throttle was twisted, the brakes applied, the life taken. My gut felt like lead. My tears flowed only to be pushed aside by the warm wind that surrounded my face shield.
A shiny glimpse of glass caught my eye on the left shoulder. Perhaps it was a reflection of the life that had ended on the pavement of the 405. Maybe it was the rider telling me to be careful out there because they did not expect to die on the freeway that day.
On that day. Monday, March 11, 2013.
The perfect day.