Review: Overflow: Tales of Butch-Femme Love, Sex, and Desire

Miel Rose’s Overflow: Tales of Butch-Femme Love, Sex, and Desire had me in its grasp from the get-go. Anything dealing with butch/femme will inevitably draw me in. But Overflow is a whole lot more than just a catchy title with a pretty cover. It Delivers. (Capitalized because this book delivers in a major way.)

The book’s namesake was one of my favorites–all witchy and woo…right up my alley. There was also how it opened with talk of acupuncture and the pericardium. I happen to have a heart condition that affects this very same protective layer, so it spoke to me on a variety of levels. But no matter the state of your heart, you’ll undoubtedly find something that works in this story. It quickly heats up, tugging on more than just your heartstrings.

“My cunt was all fire and water, burning and sloppy wet. Her fingers drummed against the roof of my pussy and I was getting lightheaded from the lack of air and the overwhelming feeling that if I didn’t come soon I might explode. Tarn shifted her hand, her knuckles finding a new and glorious place inside me. Her hips started thrusting faster, driving her fingers deeper into my pussy, and I could tell she was close, so close. I rocked my hips back at her with all my might and slipped my hand between my legs.”

I had read “Farmhand” before in The Harder She Comes. Loved it the first time. Adored it the second. I appreciate the fact that Rose, a fellow femme, chose to write from a butch’s point of view in this story (it’s not always easy to put yourself so thoroughly in someone else’s shoes…or boxer briefs, as it were).

“My hand flew to my clit and started stroking with a hard, vicious intensity. I watched Taylor’s face as she watched me rub my cunt, and that alone could have pushed me over. But I also had her fingers pounding my asshole, her other hand putting increasing pressure on my wind pipe, her filthy whispers in my ear telling me to come.”

The rawness of “Love Letter” really struck me. It truly reads as a confession–to the point of almost inducing a sense of guilt into the reader. As if you shouldn’t be privy to such private thoughts. As if you’re actually reading a love letter not addressed to you and the recipient might catch you any moment. Rose gifts her readers with quite the gaze into a fiery romance that perhaps burned too brightly. A voyeur’s ultimate wet dream. And, as someone who communicates so much non-verbally, mine as well.

“For awhile there, so much of our conversations had nothing to do with words. The words were just a structure for all the feelings that we poured out through our eyes at each other every time you met my glance. I wonder if we could still communicate like that. I wonder if I packed this whole letter behind my eyes and radiated it out to you, simply saying, ‘I’ve missed you’, if you would understand.”

I find it incredibly beautiful how Rose doesn’t shy away from vulnerability in this collection, drawing the reader in deeper. Nor is Rose afraid to infuse politics into her smut. Because when isn’t butch/femme political? Surely much of what we do in bed are some of our most radical political acts. And then there’s how we exist in the outside world as well.

“You being willing to fight for femmes, you trying so hard to stay on top of the misogyny that threatens to rip us and our community apart, this is what made me powerfully in love with you.”

My very favorite story had to be Second Date. Not only because it’s about Daddy/girl play, but yes, largely because that’s the dynamic that these two characters delve into so tenderly, timidly, and provocatively.

“I have not told you about how this kind of treatment has the tendency to open this deep and vulnerable rawness inside me, cracks me open like a pomegranate, my red jewels spilling everywhere. Because, baby, it has been awhile since I let a butch touch me like this and it is only our second date, and I like you way too much for the small amount of time I have known you. I am not ready to be cracked open for you, all seeds and red juice…I do not want to be that girl who gives you access to her pussy and her heart on the same night.”

I have been that girl. I know precisely how that feels and was a bit short of breath reading how accurately Rose describes these feelings throughout the whole of this touching and blazingly erotic story.

“My ass is moving against your palm in anticipation, and then empty air as you raise your hand and let it fall with a loud smack on my bare skin. You repeat this again and again, the pain hot and sweet, sharp and then diffused in the moments I am allowed to process it. I am counting in my head and then losing track as you begin to concentrate on my sweet spot and every slap of your hand sends vibrations deep into my cunt. I have never been so close to coming from a spanking before and when you stop so abruptly I cry out in protest.”

I found myself wanting to excerpt the fuck out of this book, which tells me that Rose’s words speak for themselves (trust me, it’s just something you have to experience), but instead of going on and on…I’ll sum it up by saying that overall this collection of stories is well put-together, the pace and variety were delightful, and it was hot, hot, hot! Not a single one among the bunch that didn’t get me going. Some seriously scintillating sagas. But what solidified my greatest appreciation for Overflow is that I found myself lingering over every word–not just the more salacious text. Rose truly accomplishes one of my own personal goals by putting smart smut (erotica that reads as fine literature) out into the world.

Sprint, don’t run, to get yourself a copy!

Review: Sudden Sex

Who doesn’t love a good work-related fantasy? After all, work is an often less-than-pleasurable activity that swallows up far too much of our time. So who wouldn’t want to mix a little business and pleasure? I’m of the belief that it only adds to worker morale. And apparently so does, Lucy Felthouse, author of The Not-So-Blushing Bride in Alison Tyler‘s Sudden Sex: 69 Sultry Short Stories. Felthouse does something interesting and somewhat surprising for a short short (each tale in this anthology maxes out at 1500 words)–the great majority consists of buildup. The reader is made to wait as the narrator draws out the disclosure of his secret fantasy. One element I particularly enjoyed about this story is that the bride is far from conventional (as you may presume from the title). She knows what she wants. Then she goes and gets it. Without the slightest frill, nicety, or apology. That’s the type of bride I can get behind.

Also included in this collection is a story by the name of Possessive Tense by Raziel Moore. (And if you know me at all, you know I loooove word play, so this was a winner for me right from the get-go–a story dripping with possession.) Moore really cuts to the chase, starting off hot and heavy. (I adore a saga that starts with a well warranted F-word.) And although we, the readers, never quite know exactly what activities are transpiring between the Dom and sub in this taudry tale, this only adds to the allure. Intrique piques the interest. “If she kept sounding like that, so delicious, so vulnerable and needy, I wouldn’t be responsible.” Possession never sounded so good.

Bulging with 69 stories, this steamy anthology surely has a little something (or a lot) for everyone.

Dearest Lovebirds & Those Who Fly Solo

Dearest Lovebirds & Those Who Fly Solo,

Ah, February. That annoying little month when it’s still too cold outside to really be enjoyable; the stores are taken over by everything heart-shaped, red, or pink, and cheaply gaudy; and then, thankfully, it’s all over halfway through this shortest of months. I could take to my soapbox about the self-deprecation inspired by such a ridiculous holiday, but instead I’ll encourage us all to take a more careful, dare I say loving, look at our relationships with ourselves.

It may seem obvious to say, but we are in lifelong relationships with ourselves. Why wouldn’t we want to prioritize this relationship above all others in our lives? As poet C. JoyBell C. wrote, “The person in life that you will always be with the most, is yourself. Because even when you are with others, you are still with yourself, too! When you wake up in the morning, you are with yourself, laying in bed at night you are with yourself, walking down the street in the sunlight you are with yourself. What kind of person do you want to walk down the street with? What kind of person do you want to wake up in the morning with? What kind of person do you want to see at the end of the day before you fall asleep? Because that person is yourself, and it’s your responsibility to be that person you want to be with.”

From approximately the age of twelve until just recently I wore the same ring every day. Never took it off. It was a poesy ring that I received as a birthday gift (after dropping endless hints that it was the only thing I wanted). I wore it with the words (vous et nul autre – French for “you and no other”) facing me. I posed it in that direction as a reminder to put myself first. A visual promise that I was to go against my very nature and prioritize my relationship with myself. It was a private vow to take better care of myself than I do those around me. Through the years I’ve slowly gotten better at it. Just the other day my hand decided that I was done wearing it. I think I’m finally – finally – in a place that I don’t need that daily reminder.

Only through learning how to enjoy our own company, being able to delight in the stillness of self, are we able to truly know self-love. So take yourself out on a date. A nice date. Fancy, even. Take yourself out for a movie. Or to an art exhibit. And then, as songwriter/poet Tanya Davis wrote, “Take yourself out dancing, to a club where no one knows you, stand on the outside of the floor until the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no ones watching because they are probably not. And if they are, assume it is with best human intentions. The way bodies move, genuinely move to beats, after-all, is gorgeous and affecting.” Gorgeous and affecting. Yes.

Have a hot romp with yourself. Light candles. Put on something that makes you feel sexy. Take your time. Do yourself good. Maybe even try out something new – I would love to offer up a juicy list of examples but since this is a PG-rated column, I’ll simply suggest that the internet is your friend. As are the helpful folks who work at fun, local stores such as Frisky Business. Or, something I like to do, read erotica aloud when you’re all alone. Check out my blog for some succulent snippets. The possibilities are endless, really, when you commit to dating yourself.

None of this means you’re cheating on your partner if you happen to be coupled. Just the opposite, in fact. Once you learn how to focus on yourself, there will magically be more than enough energy to share with those you love. For instance, I used to go to this yoga class regularly and noticed another woman who went to every class too. One day I was walking out after her and heard two ecstatic voices call out, “Mommy! Mommy!” as they flung their arms out in her direction. Her beautiful kids were just as delighted to see her as she was them. This simple interaction stayed with me. It led me to wonder: What would our world look like if all mothers took such good care of themselves? What if they were centered in themselves such that they had plenty to give healthily and happily to their children?

Let’s all take this approach and work on filling ourselves up first. So much so that the love can overflow all around us, spilling over onto those we love so dearly.

In (self) lust, love, and all things woo,

Kiki

Squealing with Delight

I’m terribly delighted to be kicking off the blog tour today for The Big Book of Bondage: Sexy Tales of Erotic Restraint published by Cleis Press and edited by the prominent princess of pornographic prose, Alison Tyler. I also have a story in this collection (entitled “Just Deserts”) but you won’t be hearing about it just yet. Our fearless editor had the brilliant notion to have various writers review each other’s work from this captivating anthology. I couldn’t help but select Kristina Lloyd’s intriguing piece “The Bondage Pig.”

A story about a bondage pig? Yes. Yes, indeed.

I love this story. All the more because it’s not my typical cup of tea and yet it still sucked me in. Decidedly so. I read book reviews all the time in which the reviewer lays out a caveat about kink not being their thing and then goes on to review a bondage book. If their preface is true, then why not review a book about vanilla sex? Or gardening? Of course you’re not going to be able to find something hot if it’s not something you’re into. That’s always been my philosophy. But “The Bondage Pig” threw all that out the window for me (and subsequently now I have higher expectations of those writers to open themselves up doing better reviews).

It’s true. At the heart of it all I’m a very dirty girl. Quite filthy-minded, actually. So I had a great appreciation for this story from the get-go. (The title undoubtedly piqued my curiosity.) Lloyd starts off innocently enough – a bored couple missing their sexual spark. Hard to imagine that this simple premise quickly weaves its way into being to the dirtiest tale in the book. (Yes, I said it. Quite high praise coming from me.)

One of my favorite passages appears in the story before we’ve even been introduced to the pig. The narrator is jilling off in a warm bath: “When I came, someone paused the universe. I shattered into a million little pieces and was blasted across time, at one with the dinosaurs and space travel and everything in between. Angels danced in my thighs, their revelry light, perfect and joyous.” I so appreciate beautifully crafted writing, especially in erotica. Not to mention interwoven threads of woo. But the rest of this story gets much more down and dirty – my very favorite kind of writing. As illustrated in the following excerpt:

“‘She’s going to come,’ Ralph said. ‘Just a little more. Keep going.’

I focused on the bondage pig, on its cantilever trays and stout, buttoned haunches. The color of the leather seeped into my mind. Such a beautiful color, red-black, like blood and ink. Jack slid a bunch of fingers into me, screwing left-right-left when my swollen tightness resisted him. I wailed to feel the fullness of him. His tongue skittered on my point and then, oh, I was gone, lost, tumbling though crimson skies as my orgasm pulsed and clenched. Over and over I fell, six distinct waves of pleasure coursing through my body.

‘Good girl,’ said Ralph.

Jack knelt up, his mouth shining with my juices. ‘Fuck,’ he breathed. ‘I felt that.’ I stared at him through my post-orgasmic daze. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His lips still gleamed and his eyes were heavy and serious, altered by lust.”

I could pull passages out of this story all day but I don’t want to give away all the juiciest tidbits. (Such as when the narrator first becomes, ahem, acquainted with said pig.) You need to read it for yourself to fully appreciate how Lloyd sucks you into her twisted web of lust highlighting a bondage pig who is described in a myriad of ways including “grotesque,” “a Victorian curiosity,” “feral,” and “hung like a horse.”  I’ll just sum it up like this: A married couple and their boarder are enchanted by this treasured creature – lust-driven, truth be told. All three succumb to kinky temptations – first independently then the three coming together – all spurred on by the mystical sensations a pig has aroused in the air of their home. “This was the bondage pig who’d come to corrupt us, to drag us down a path of chaos and depravity. We weren’t to blame.”

Of course they weren’t.

Check out the rest of the tour in the coming days for this amazing book! Ms. Alison Tyler’s webpage boasts quite the impressive line-up and having devoured the majority of this delicious book already myself, I can only imagine what’s to come.

Hearths of Heart and Home

Dearest Hearths of Heart and Home,

Winter is speeding our way. Time continues to slip past us all the quicker. The world as we know it is changing at dizzying, uncontrollable velocities. What better time to focus on getting one’s house in order? To release that which we cannot control, that which no longer serves us, and pour our energies into creating something beautiful that will in fact serve us the best.

In Homer’s 24th hymn, he invokes Hestia, calling upon her to come into the home and “bestow grace upon my song.” What would your song sound like bestowed with grace? Does your heart long for such a melody? What changes could you make to steer your life in the direction of that sweetly graced song?

Now is the time. Time to build up your hearth’s fire. Metaphorically, literally, or a combination of both. Purification can be found through the flames. You can write a letter of everything you need to purge from your mind, old habits you want to break, ways of relating that don’t serve you, anything you would do better without. Then light your fire and burn the list to release these thoughts.

The process begins by clearing out and making space for the new. Rituals like these clear up headspace and heartspace. And they free up much needed energies to commit to that which is treasured. That which has always been precious but somehow became neglected. Once we make room in our hearts, more beneficial elements in our lives are able to surface.

Go through every bit. Take stock. Weed out what you don’t need. Anytime we release something that is not serving us, it’s a clear message to the universe that we’re ready to let in that which will bring light to our lives. We say we’re willing to receive that which is meant to be. It feeds our souls. Fuels our flames. Deep, previously neglected parts of us now get nourished.

Sometimes it means making hard sacrifices. They might even be painful. But that’s part of the human experience – opening ourselves up to feel everything and experience the entire spectrum of emotions. If we keep a bravely, boldly open heart, there is so much beauty and growth that rises up out of the pain.

That work of releasing might be challenging at first but can become a meditative practice eventually. And once in that state, the song of our highest paths begins to sing more loudly. A whisper that crescendos into a lucid melody.

As time continues to accelerate, there couldn’t be a more ideal moment to clear space in our heads and hearts, to make space in our lives, to manifest that which we most desire. To put energy into something simpler and set us on our highest paths. Your highest path will sing to you with such radiance and grace that it’s undeniable once you start to set off in the right direction.

Once you’ve made space, go back and set your intentions. Get clear on exactly what you want and need and then make it happen. Be specific about your desires and act as though they are already a reality – it will come just as soon as you’re ready. But not a second before. Remember the universe doesn’t work with conventional timelines, so just keep living every day like it’s the most blessed one (because it is!) and keep stoking the flames in your hearth. Tend to the fire in your heart and home and before you know it, more of what you don’t need will fall away and everything you do will be welcomed in.

Begin to make new rituals. Bless both your outer and inner landscapes. Focus on your inner landscape and do the work to make sure everything is well cared for and ready for any climatic changes ahead. Once you’ve looked after the hearth in your heart, turn to that in your home. Nest and create the space you’ve always deserved. What will make it most feel like home? Tend to the hearth. Even if you can’t build a big fire you can always light candles, call upon the magic of your sweetly graced song, speak your intentions aloud or even just give them voice in your head. Spend time being quiet and listen to what speaks around you. Say blessings and prayers to seal in the sacred, to infuse your space with all things divine. Then take a deep breath of gratitude and realize.

You’ve come home.

In lust, love, and all things woo,

Kiki

The Beauty of Loss

   Dearest Readers Who Know the Beauty of Loss,

  A few weeks ago I had a dream that my grandmother transformed into a dragon and was flying through the sky giggling and without a care in the world – free from pain or any worldly concerns. I awoke smiling deeply yet with the sense of loss heavy in my chest. That morning I sat by my phone and waited for the call that she had died. It didn’t come until just recently – synchronistically the day before my birthday – and I realized just how well my grandmother knows me. She visited my sister in a dream too, the very night before she passed. It was like she was doing the rounds and she knew that I needed a bit more time. 

     Time to process, to ready myself. For that I am eternally grateful. I clearly needed it and by the time I got the call, I was ready. 

     My grandmother knowing me so well makes me feel special. She’s always been the one in my family who would grab my hand when no one else was around and look into my eyes with a sparkle in hers, telling me what a special bond we have. When dementia began setting in and her memory was no longer its best, at the mere mention of my name she would say, “My special one. Do you know she’s my goddaughter too?” Reminding my mother (who selected her for this role) or anyone else who was within earshot.

     Our connection was immediate. There’s a baby photo of me at my baptism and all you can see is my grandmother’s puffy white halo of hair from behind, her lifting me into the air, and me beaming down at her with unbridled joy. Despite not being able to see her face in the photo, I’ve always known that look of pure love mirrored in my expression originated first in hers.

     I’ve been losing her very slowly. A beautiful yet excruciating process of being gifted such a full life, sometimes it takes a long time to die. In her later years, our roles reversed and it was me who had to lift her up, whose expression comforted her and whose eyes drew out the smile in hers.

     When I was a child, she saw me in a way no one else ever did. Imparting her wisdom, an old-fashioned vocabulary, and unwaveringly unconditional love, she played a huge role in the person I later became. I credit her with many of my most positive attributes and not a one of the less-than-desirable ones. (Well, except perhaps my stubbornness and precociousness. But the jury’s still out on whether those fall into the former or latter category.) She was one of my most special people. Now she’s my most special angel. Knowing that makes it easier. But not any less hard.

     Five years ago when I saw her slipping away more and more, I wanted to pay tribute to both the beauty and the pain of that stage of life and what her life meant to me. So I wrote this: 

     My hands are my grandmother’s hands. Mine still strong and smooth as in her youth, both of ours soft and loving, hers creased with wisdom. Skin like petals, delicate and vulnerable. Perhaps it’s because she’s been loved so thoroughly, over great spans of time – not just in sporadic, intense spates but in the everyday enduring way when one is loved so thoroughly, so truly that is almost hurts. And sometimes it does. Because, like the Velveteen rabbit was sagely told, “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.” The sweet of this love is so tender and warm that one doesn’t necessarily give pause to the bitter – an uninvited guest who takes her by the arm now and again.

     She’s on her side, facing the door, her two great-grandchildren – she fears them today. Sensing me behind her, she reaches her quaking hand back in search of mine. This touch intimate and trusting. As easy connection. Her light eyes then search out comfort in the dark of mine. Recognition of the deep pools of sorrow, the trepidation where she once waded. Now struggling to keep her self afloat. I see it all. I give her hand a quick squeeze, the haptic reassurance she needs; place our hands on her heart, a touch that feeds us both.

     Autumn is happening all around us in. Fiery colors taking over the trees, the winds shifting, my favorite time of year. A beautiful time for transformation. I whisper wishes into those winds. Use this time to search out what makes your soul take flight, embrace the uncertainty and take the risk to fly. 

In love, gratitude, and all things woo,

Kiki

Dearest Most Fortunate North Carolina Dwellers

Dearest Most Fortunate North Carolina Dwellers,

femme sparkle on etsy by the delightful RowdyBaubles

I’m coming to you hard on the heels of a huge weekend. Remember my last column? When I wrote about Femme Conference 2012? Well, I just returned late last night, am still sleep-deprived, and yet my fingertips are absolutely tingling with excitement to tell you all about it! So please pardon me if I ramble on…more than normal anyway.

I walked away from this mind-bendingly incredible weekend with so much. Much too much to do justice with just one column. So in this column I’ll touch on overarching themes that for me were synchronicity, gratitude, and a profound feeling of being blessed. I adore Baltimore (and even found myself loving D.C. despite my preconceived notions) and all weekend I felt like I was walking on a femme cloud of love – I reveled in every moment of being surrounded by so many brilliant minds, let alone all the gorgeous, varied expressions of femme. And yet when I got home to NC I rejoiced. We are so blessed to live here. A place with such soul and passion. This place that called to my spirit before I knew its soil. We are rich with culture and community. Big energies and profound magic thrive in our nature. We take the good with the bad, delighting in the splendor while working through the weaknesses. But before I gush too much, let me get to the beginning of my story.

Synchronicity

My boifriend, Lucas, and I decided to leave for Femme Con a couple days early to relax, spend some time in D.C. with their dear friend, and have a little vacation. On Thursday night, we decided not to fight rush hour traffic the next day and instead have a slow morning. So I leisurely made gluten-free pancakes with organic strawberries (I had been slacking in this act – my cooking of gluten-free pancakes regularly for Lucas was one of the more humorous terms we came to in negotiations when we consciously chose to be in a Relationship – so I needed to up my quota) and I enjoyed bonding with our hostess over all things kitchen-related. Our slow morning turned out to be a bit too slow and Luke and I found ourselves running late for the writers’ meet-up that I really wanted to get to. We made it in time to catch only the last fifteen minutes. But that was enough. More than enough, it was actually perfect.

Due to our timing, one of the very first things we heard at Femme Con was a fellow writer exalting her love of the Stone House, the illuminating work they do there, the 70 acres of gorgeous North Carolinian land it sits on, and how all writers should have the honor of visiting. (Even if you’re not a writer, you really need to experience the magic of the Stone House in this lifetime — check out stonecircles.org.) As Lucas and I have both been on retreats and days of practice at the Stone House, we beamed at each other, agreeing with her as our eyes shone with pride. It felt like quite the welcome from the universe – ushering us into the conference with such synchronicity.

Gratitude

There were a few workshops in particular throughout the conference that got me thinking harder and digging deeper on issues our queer communities face. Far too many to tackle in just one column, so instead of brushing over them in this one, I’ll select single topics for future columns and really delve in. Look for next month’s issue where Lucas and I will write tandem columns on being a good ally. The month after that I plan to take on the daunting issue of “mean girls” that was widely discussed at the conference – that is, femme competition and bad behavior within our communities and how devastating it is for those of us who hold an expectation of femme love and solidarity.

Speaking of femme love and solidarity, Durham’s own Fran Varian performed on Friday night and she represented NC so damn eloquently. As she spoke of Amendment One and how it was a time rife with potential for human compassion and connection that was instead desecrated by some with cheap jokes, I was brought back to the day after it passed. I was caring for a young girl who has two mothers and she recounted a story of how she was left in tears on the playground. Her friend had told her that because the amendment passed she would be taken away from her moms. My heart clenches still as I picture the look of uncertainty in her eyes as she told me in her bravest voice that her friend had lied. I did my best to convince her that it was a lie and we had quite the grown-up conversation about the amendment. While admitting to her that I didn’t have all the answers, I assured her that it was going to be just fine.

And here we are. Months later, we’re still forging ahead, hurt but unbroken. The night the amendment passed, many of us gathered in community to support one another, to lift each other up. Rarely have I felt more grateful for and proud of my community. It was a painful and beautiful night and some of Ms. Varian’s closing words reminded me of the sparkle we saw through the tears in each other’s eyes: “In times of war a femme will hold light so that people can see exactly what they’re fighting for. She will throw that light at anyone and everyone who threatens her well-being and the well-being of the people she loves and she will blind them with it.”

Blessings

The conference’s impact was far-reaching. Many of us participated in (and continue to participate in) difficult conversations outside of Femme Con’s walls. I overheard my housemates for the weekend pressing each other with hard-hitting questions on Sunday morning just as Lucas and I were edging nearer and nearer to our first fight after almost a year of being together. Luke was challenging me to apply the same points of inclusion (that I fought for so fiercely in workshops) to non-femme issues. As I stirred our breakfast in the frying pan, I pushed myself to see things from Luke’s perspective and found myself unfurling bit by bit, moving toward a more expanded version of me. My heart swelled at how profoundly blessed I am to be partnered with someone who challenges me in such unique ways. And in that moment, Lucas came out of the bedroom and wrapped their arms around me, telling me how much they love and respect me – their energy speaking volumes more than words, soothing any lingering rumpled feathers. In a few minutes’ time we went from what could have spiraled out into an ugly fight to experiencing parallel growth. Somehow, after five days of living on top of each other in cramped spaces, rushing around constantly and sleeping very little, we fell all the more in love.

We took off a day earlier than expected, melancholy to say good-bye but eager for the comforts of home. I rolled across the Carolina state line long after my sweet companion began to slumber and I felt as though I was once again stepping on sacred ground. Home. So blessed to be home.

In lust, love, and all things woo,

Kiki 

PS — Damn, I have so much to say about FemmeCon and this didn’t even touch the tip of the iceberg! Some folks have done brilliant mini-summaries of their experiences (thanks, y’all, for doing that!) and I’m kicking myself for not taking more notes (why did I only take notes in two of the workshops?)! But I’m hoping to do my own wrap-up soon (in addition to a couple more columns to come), so please (pretty please?) stay tuned!