Sixty Nine and Still Sexual

How Sexy Is Breast Cancer?


2016 was a hellish year for me — no doubt about it, the worst health year of my life — jam-packed with high-octane events beginning in early January, when I experienced a stroke affecting my left and dominant arm from which I mercifully made a full recovery. In the spring, a retinal exam revealed a worsening of the sight in my left eye, due to dry Macular Degeneration. During the summer I discovered a gum infection that threatened to jeopardize the future of my four lower front teeth.  This necessitated a root canal in September, which didn’t help the situation and a flap surgery in November, which actually worked. 

After almost an entire year of struggling with health maladies , I couldn’t help but wonder what might go wrong next — obviously a big mistake.

The final medical test on my agenda for 2016 was a mammogram, prompted by a tender spot in my armpit . Imagining it a benign breast cyst which had troubled me in my premenopausal days, I underwent a mammogram and an ultrasound in mid-December. I received the diagnosis on December 23rd, my husband’s seventy-fifth birthday — happy birthday, dear Sir — when the radiologist called to inform me that I had a modest sized, malignant tumor in my right breast.

Breast cancer? Me? Surely there must be some mistake? I was a near  vegetarian who’d even banned cheese from my post-stroke diet. I was a light drinker and had quit smoking cigarettes three  decades ago. I’d never moved beyond a little pot in the drug-taking department . I’d never taken hormones as a means of birth control or to ease menopausal symptoms . I used cruelty-free, environmentally friendly  cleaning products in my home. I was a writer who loved my work and enjoyed a low-stress lifestyle.

But my husband, who’d held my hand during the Ultrasound, saw the dark mass within my breast, himself — and no, there was no mistake, the mass turned out to be a malignant tumor. The newest of my ongoing list of maladies was breast cancer.

Isn’t life just crammed full of surprises?

During the consequently somber holiday weekend, my nineteen-year-old grandson told his dad how deeply impressed he was by my show of strength. Poor kid, his other grandma, also in her early seventies, died of cancer the week before my diagnosis. He must have been terrified that his grandmas were dropping like flies. The least I could do was exhibit courage under fire — although truth, if I thought falling apart might positively impact my health, I’d have given it a go.

What a blessing to be surrounded by family during the holidays . Our older son’s employment in Portland Oregon ended when the building he managed was sold , and opted to seek work in a drier climate for the sake of his own health. His plan was to stay with us temporarily, while he sought work in the Palm Springs area. But given my health situation and my husband’s increasing lack of mobility, he decided to remain with us for the foreseeable future . He couldn’t have come at a better time to brighten our spirits and would make much-needed repairs on our home during his stay.

We occupied ourselves with family activities during the holiday season, until our grandson’s return to college, and our younger son and his partner’s return to their home in Brooklyn in early January. A stand-out entertainment for me was treating us all to an evening at the Exploratorium in San Francisco. I hadn’t been there since my sons were young.

What fun that was! I enjoyed myself so much , I actually spent the entire evening, and was in the car, on my way home before remembering I had cancer — and when I did, I cried. Since then, my emotions have run the gamut from unbending intention to regain my health, to sobbing like a child.

Being an optimist by nature, I tend to stay strong and do what I must to not only survive, but thrive. In spite of my incredible run of negative health luck, I visualize myself strong and healthy.

On January 5th, my husband and I met with a surgeon at St Mary’s hospital in San Francisco, to review my options. She confirmed that I had stage 1 breast cancer, and offered the choice of a lumpectomy or a radical mastectomy. The thought of having my entire breast removed was so terrifying; I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Instead, I opted for a lumpectomy, and the removal of the Sentinel node and one other node. If neither proved to be cancerous, the recommended follow-up treatment was a course of radiation, and the estrogen-blocking pill, Tamoxifen, to be taken for five years — after which I’d be considered cured.

And although my surgeon informed me that each cancer was uniquely individual, she  advised, as well, against Internet searches on the subject of cancer, and seeking out the medical experience of other women.

But that’s not my nature. I was raised by a gutsy woman who’d protested the spraying of alleged “wonder chemical” DDT on food crops in the early 1950s, and was an outspoken critic of the fluoridation of the public water supply as a means of preventing dental cavities. She purchased organically grown flour and other products from Walnut Acres Farm, one of the first organic farms in the country, when I was a small child.My mom read environmentalist, Rachel Carson’s book, Silent Spring in 1962, the year it was published. She and her two closest friends  who joined her in protest all lived to be over ninety, while enjoying healthy bodies nourished by organic food.

I am my mother’s daughter, after all…

I had the first surgery on January 25th, and a second on the same breast to widen the margin for error, a month later. Neither node was cancerous.

Ding Dong, the Wicked Cancer’s dead!

Now, I’m two months past my second surgery. After considerable perusal of books such as Knockout, by Suzanne Somers, recounting her successful recovery from cancer without conventional treatments, and a series of in-depth interviews of alternative medical practitioners, as well as Heal Breast Cancer Naturally: 7 Essential  Steps  to Beating Breast Cancer, by Dr. Veronique  Desaulniers . I also gleaned information from medical websites ranging from the conventional, such as Susan B. Komen .org, and, to a variety of alternative sources such as the lengthy Mother Jones article, The Business of Cancer — and in particular, a nine part documentary titled The Truth About Cancer, featuring alternative medical  practitioners from around the globe.

 This plethora of medical information raised pertinent questions that made me seriously question the wisdom of attempting to heal my weakened immune system by poisoning my body. Radiation for stage 1 breast cancer, with its potential side effects  of nausea, vomiting, appetite loss, and damages to breast, lung, and heart tissue, seemed like a less than idea healing modality to me.   And Tamoxifen, chemical treatment, has its own set of of side effects: common ones listed are hot flashes  and other menopausal symptoms , and a reduce sex drive which I didn’t experience when in menopause nearly two decades ago. Why then, would I wish to experience them now?

Two pertinent facts about cancer have resonated in my brain. Cancer loves sugar and loathes oxygen. With this in mind, I made my gut level decision to heal my body via an organic food diet consisting of lots of cruciferous vegetables, moderate protein rich in Omega 3 oils, such as wild-caught salmon or sardines, low carbohydrates, good fats, such as avocados, coconut and olive oil, and immune boosting supplements, such as mushroom extracts, plus a shit-load of vitamins. In the interest of oxygenating my body, I’ve added twice a week Pilates classes to my once a week Yoga class, with a Zumba class a week , in addition to my daily walk with my dogs,

I was lucky enough to find an MD who supports my decision.  A bold  choice, perhaps, to flout accepted medical treatment — but there’s no lack of boldness in my makeup.

I’m still uncertain about how to monitor my cancer-free state. I’m unwilling to submit to frequent mammograms, which deliver significant radiation to my recovering breast. The tumor I had removed was malignant, but slow-growing. The pathologist said it had probably been inside me for several years before my doctor felt it with a manual exam, and the mammogram  and ultrasound revealed it . I’ve since learned about Thermograms, a modality based on signaling heat from inflammation that are over eighty percent accurate. There are as well, certain blood tests that indicate cancer markers. Perhaps a combination of all, along with regular manual exams…

I plan to resume writing and have with the completion of this new blog post. A dear friend, an editor of erotica, offered to set up my Amazon Author Page, which I eagerly accepted. So far this year I’ve been accepted into three anthologies, and taken second prize in a prestigious literary competition under my legal name.

My sex drive is returning. My husband and I enjoy an open marriage.  My breast — although a bit less perky than it once was — is still pretty in spite of two, inch-and-a half long scars that are healing rapidly. I intend to come through this hair-raising experience with my sense of humor and adventure intact.

My father died of stomach cancer in 1960, when he was forty-nine and I was sixteen. The surgeons cut him open and sewed him back up, saying there was nothing more they could do. Back then cancer was a death sentence, although it wasn’t customary to inform patients of their impending demise. But my father, an editor and translator of technical books, including medical dictionaries , must have realized he was dying.

After his death a poem was discovered among his personal papers, attesting to his deep regret in departing this world, in which he’d found so much to live for. The poem, titled Sunsets, was lengthy. Each stanza dealt with another aspect of the life he was loath to part with — and each concluded with the haunting refrain, There Will Be So Many Sunsets Left Unseen.

Our home faces west. I observe many sunsets. Each time I do I remind myself , there’s another one seen — and wasn’t it lovely to behold.






















































It is my great pleasure to announce my inclusion in a new anthology, aptly titled, Dirty Old Women — an intriguing collection of erotica by women of experience, edited by Lynx Canon

Dirty Old Women know  what they want  and are not afraid to say so.

I invite you to come join me for an evening featuring free erotic readings and performance by twelve writers, at the book launch and pre-Valentines day party, on Wednesday, February 8, from 7:30 – 9:30, at the Makeout Room, 3225 22nd Street and Mission in San Francisco.

I hope to see you there!

Story Snippet from Full Body Massage:

Are there any tender or painful, body parts I should be aware of?” Don inquired before beginning the massage.

I lay naked, face down on her padded massage table covered by a light blanket.  I sighed. “That’s pretty much any body part you can name after six weeks in this cast.”

  “Why you poor woman,” she said, in a low, husky voice, “You are in need of attention, aren’t you? Let’s see if I can make you feel better.”  

Don poured a small circle of heated massage oil into her hands and rubbed her palms together, releasing a soothing, spicy smell into the air. She began with basic Swedish massage, combined with acupressure; first working on my tension filled upper arms and shoulders, then moving down my spine to my achy lower back, and to my hips.

I felt the first small twinges of arousal between my legs when Don’s hands, slick with oil, slid over the smooth round cheeks of my ass, stroking, kneading and spreading them apart. The sensations became so exciting I squirmed with pleasure, surprising myself, because I wasn’t into women at all. But Don was tall, broad-shouldered, and somehow manly, particularly in the dim light of the room—and into women or not, this massage was turning me on.

 Don continued to massage my hips—and I imagined, what if those talented hands were to slide between my legs, parting the swollen outer lips of my opening, and delve into the moist tingling flesh within. I waited, barely breathing, barely breathing, but then she moved on to the backs of my thighs and knees to my lower legs, and spent some time doing acupressure on my feet.

 Calm down, Mia, I told myself, what are you expecting anywaya full body massage?


“Mia, you can turn over now,” she said softly. Struggling with the cast I rolled myself over and with the blanket covering me, I  lay back comfortably with a small pillow beneath my neck. Using her fingertips, Don massaged my head, face, and throat, even my ears, and the muscles in my arms and hands.  

“You’re really tense. You need to remember to breath,” she said, firmly, continuing on to stroke my neck, and shoulders, and upper chest.

I was breathing alright, half gasping in fact, with my nipples jutting out at attention, breasts aching with excitement, and the muscles of my pussy clenching and squeezing down hard. Never mind becoming less sexual during menopause—by the time Don reached my lower belly, I was ready, more than ready for anything she wanted to do. But she folded the blanket back over me and her hands moved onto my thighs instead, and continued downward to my knees, lower legs, and feet—and then slowly, deliberately, back up again.

  She paused, when her hands reached the tops of my thighs, with her fingertips almost but not quite brushing my pubic curls hidden beneath the blanket. A hot rush of excitement traveled like an electric current straight to my clit. I gasped with pleasure and opened my eyes.                                    

Don gazed down at me longingly. “Beautiful Mia,” she murmured, and waited, her dark eyes questioning. Speechless with excitement, I smiled up at her and nodded my agreement. Full body massage, oh my god, yes! Please don’t stop now! I thought, and a ripple of pleasure went through my entire body when she set the blanket aside and reached for me.


“Love Sling”– Available in For The Men: And The Women Who Love Them



It is my great pleasure to announce that my story, “Love Sling,” is out now in a brand new, super sexy erotic anthology edited by Rose Caraway, titled For The Men And The Women Who Love Them. Once again I feel honored by the quality writers I share pages with in this exciting collection.  

In keeping with the For The Men  theme, “Love Sling,” is significant to me in being the first BDSM piece I’ve written from a male point of view.  This was an interesting and insightful experience for me,  to get inside the head of a Dominant man and show what goes on in a playroom scene in progress from his vantage point. The story features Wayne and his sex slave dorrie — a well-matched, kinky couple in a hot, amusing romp. I had a great time writing this and am sure I’ve  learned a lot about male/Dom motivations in the process.

Without further ado, here’s a snippet from “Love Sling.” Hopefully I’m offering just enough to whet your appetite and entice you to buy the anthology to read more.


“Love Sling”  by Dorothy Freed

I’m the first one to admit it: I’m a pushover for a clever sex toy. Vibrating nipple clamps and dildos, posture collars, inflatable butt plugs, penis gags, rhinestone studded leashes, well you name it — I just can’t resist buying it and trying it out on my sex slave, dorrie. Poor girl, she knows she’s in trouble when the Fed Ex man delivers the package containing the heavy duty, black canvas Love Sling that I’d ordered online.  In fact, I get so excited visualizing how her naked lady-parts will look once she’s fastened into it, I rip the package open like a kid on Christmas morning, ready to try it out the minute it’s out of the box. 

“You’re gonna love this one, baby,” I promise dorrie, who eyes it with suspicion.

“What insane torment do you have planned for me now, Wayne?” she inquires, rolling her big chocolate-brown eyes at me and folding her arms across her chest. But I just give her the look that reminds her of the rules and regulations of our relationship, and as always, she’s my good girl and doesn’t spoil my fun.

After turning up the thermostat so she won’t freeze her little ass off, dorrie obediently heads for the playroom — where she strips down and kneels before me, knees wide apart and hands behind her head in slave pose, while I set the thing up. It only takes a minute to suspend four lengths of chain from the seven-inch-long eye bolts that I drilled into the ceiling joists, years ago. Then, using heavy duty snap hooks, I connect the four d-rings at each corner of the sling, taking care to adjust it to the exact height of my cock.

“Okay, now lie back into it,” I order, “and scooch forward a bit so your ass hangs out over the sling’s bottom edge.” My girl rolls her eyes but does what I tell her to . “Yeah, that’s the way, that’s my good girl,” I say.

Once she settles into the Love Sling, I secure her in place by cuffing her wrists and ankles  and snap-hooking them to the chains, raising her arms high over her head with her legs wide apart.

“Are you comfortable, baby?” I inquire.

“Sure, Wayne,” she says, sounding just a bit bratty, “I’ve never been more comfortable in my life.”

She’s adorable, I think, ignoring her tone. For reasons neither of us fully understand, being bound this way makes dorrie flush with embarrassment and her sweet little pussy-lips swell up with excitement — and I feel my cock begin to stiffen and my  balls tighten up, as I step back to enjoy the view. My eyes linger on her full round breasts. With an evil grin I reach for the nipple clamps and move in closer. 


That’s all for now. I hope you enjoyed the snippet. Wayne and dorrie move on into a hot little adventure together. I hope you’ll check it out and read “Love Sling,” in it’s entirety. 

For The Men is available on Amazon, Smashwords, and itunes, and will be coming to Audible  soon. Don’t miss it. Order your copy today.










The Day I Met The Suffragette


You can’t see me in this iconic photograph, but I was present among the estimated 50,000 women to march down Fifth Avenue on August 26th, 1970 at the Women’s Strike For Equality in New York City. This was a stellar experience for me and one I remembered throughout my life. On that day I marched beside an original suffragette, who had marched with Susan B. Anthony to win women the vote.  I knew then that someday I’d write about the experience and I did. Without further preamble  here’s the story as it appeared in the Anthology, Times They Were A-Changing: Women Remember the 60 & 70s, published in 2013.


I still remember what she looked like all these years later — a petite woman with a quiet demeanor and a look of determination in her clear green eyes. Her silvery hair, parted in the middle came halfway to her shoulders. She wore no makeup I could see, except a little lipstick, and was simply dressed in lightweight cotton clothing and serviceable sandals — no being hobbled in high heels for her. And she was old enough to be my grandmother — in her early seventies, maybe, but straight backed and fast-moving. I liked her immediately. 

We met on August 26th, 1970, fellow marchers in the Women’s Strike For Equality — a national event, celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the Nineteenth Amendment, granting women the right to vote. The strike called for women across the country to stop work that day to spotlight inequities in the workforce, In politics, and in social institutions such as marriage. That afternoon in New York City, tens of thousands of women gathered on the sweltering streets of Manhattan and marched down Fifth Avenue to the lawns behind the New York Public Library — demanding equal rights under the law.

I was a twenty-six year old housewife. Leaving my husband home with our two sons and joining the march was a personal declaration of independence for me. I’d been married  for eight years to a man who espoused equal rights and justice for all — but at home, as the assumed head of our household he felt entitled to be in charge.

He was okay with watching the kids three evenings a week while I took college classes — as long as I did the shopping, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and the balance of child care, in addition to my schoolwork. But he wasn’t pleased when I joined the National Organization For Women. Or when I read The Second Sex by Simone De Beauvoir and began questioning the male/female status quo. Or when I told him he’d be feeding the kids dinner that evening, because was striking  for equality.

My husband shook his head at that. “If you women had to deal with the serous issues men do, you’d stop complaining fast. Well, be home before dark. The streets aren’t safe at night.”

I sighed. His  comments irked me, but I kept silent, not wanting to argue. I kissed my family goodbye and left the apartment, promising to return before dark.

How can we be equal, I wondered, if half of us can’t go out alone at night?


Filled with excitement and sense of resolve, I rode the subway downtown, exiting at Fifty-Seventh Street and heading east toward Fifth Avenue. The Strike began in the late afternoon and would continue on into the evening, to allow as many women as possible to participate. I was stunned at how many of us there were. Approaching Fifth Avenue, I looked out at a sea of female faces: women of all shapes and sizes, all colors, all ages, married or single, gay or straight. Some held signs  bearing messages: Women Unite! Equality under the Law! We Are The Fifty-one Percent Minority, I Am Not A Barbie Doll! And the slogan of the day — Don’t Iron While The Strike Is Hot!

THE TIME IS NOW!” someone yelled, and the mass of women began moving  forward. This is it I thought, and thrilled by my own daring, merged  with the crowd. When the march monitors on our block passed along  that we would be taking the entire width of the street — not the half  we’d been allotted by the city — we surged forward, arms linked, and with cheers of victory took Fifth Avenue from curb to curb unchallenged by the police.





Observers lined the streets: women with baby carriages, office workers, shopkeepers, tourists. The majority of people I saw were women, with a sprinkling of men, We were cheered and given the thumbs up sign from the office of a liberal congressional candidate. There were boos, jeers, and loud shouts of “GET BACK IN THE KITCHEN YOU BRA-LESS BIMBOS!” from a crew of construction workers we passed. 

Among the leading marchers were women of achievement: Betty Friedan, strike organizer, first president of NOW, and author of The Feminine Mystique: Gloria Steinem, political activist and founder of New York Magazine: Kate Millet, author of Sexual Politics, and straight talking, peppery, Congresswoman Bella Abzug, tireless champion of women’s rights. I felt honored to be among them.


But the highlight of the experience was my encounter with the silver-haired  woman. Somewhere along the way we fell into step together. I smiled at her, impressed that a woman of her age would be marching. Linking arms we walked side by side.

 “This is my first march. I felt I had to come.” I confided. “And you?”

The woman told me that half a century ago when she was twenty, she had marched with Susan B. Anthony to win women the vote.

“I was scared to death by my own daring, The world didn’t take kindly to uppity women back then.” She laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners, and shook her head  at the ways of the world.” My family was scandalized and my gentleman friend left me over it. But I marched anyway,” she said.

And in that moment, I realized I was in the presence of a living, breathing, direct link with history — and that this courageous woman and others like her had put themselves on the line for something they believed was simple  justice — for everyone. Now I was part of the link.

I felt overwhelmed by emotion. “Thank you for my right to vote,” I whispered. “I won’t ever take it for granted — or any other right.”

Our eyes met, an understanding passed between us. We hugged goodbye when the march ended at Bryant Park. Intending to head straight for the subway, I began weaving my way through the throngs of women who stood  listening to the speakers. But I, also felt compelled to stop and listen myself. The sky was darkening as I walked away from the crowd on my way home. My husband would have to understand.


So, Happy Woman’s Equality Day — we’ve come a long way baby, as the slogan for Virginia Slims cigarettes once said. But let us not forget our sisters around the world who are enslaved, genitally mutilated, denied the right to an education, and even the right to show their faces outside their homes.  Let us not forget either,, that although Congress officially recognized August, 8th, 1971 as Women’s Equality Day, The Equal Right’s Amendment has still not been ratified in Nevada, Utah, Arizona, Oklahoma, Illinois, Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, Florida, North and South Carolina, and Virginia. Also that political and religious factions, committed to stripping women of their hard-won rights to choose, and so many other rights, are hard at work right now. And finally, that Hilary Clinton has shattered the infamous glass ceiling, and is the Democratic presidential candidate for the election of 2016.  

Remember to vote wisely in the election to come. Yes, we’ve come a long way baby, but we still have a long way to go.        






Happy National Orgasm Day




July 31st, for those not in the know, is National Orgasm Day. In honor of the arousing occasion I offer a forty-year-old image of a sculptural collage of an ecstatic moment of my own.

The piece of artwork was created in the mid-70s,  when as a visual artist, involved in creating a series of plaster bandage sculptures of female body parts, I engaged in collaboration with a fellow artist (and lover) in casting my upper body; long flowing hair and all.  This necessitated my being nude to the waist and coated with Vaseline — so as not to lose body hair when the plaster mold was removed.  

I lay comfortably  on a faded , old rug in my art studio, wearing paint-stained denim jeans, and nothing else. Outside, cold rain spattered the roof and ran down the windows. Inside the heat was turned up so high the room was almost tropical. Jerry, half-naked as well, held the handle of a water bucket in one hand, and a shopping bag containing towels, a jar of Vaseline , and a huge box of plaster in the other.  He looked down at me and grinned. “This art form  has possibilities,” he said, ” it’s very hands on.”

Squatting, he unscrewed the lid of the Vaseline jar and began coating scooped some up with his fingers, and began spreading it over my exposed skin  I closed my eyes and concentrated on remaining motionless while Jerry coated my face, neck, and head with the slick, dense stuff. My hair fell around my shoulders in carefully arranged tangles. He smeared it over my face and throat and ears and over my shoulders — smoothing it evenly, in slow, circular strokes over my breasts, My nipples hardened under his touch.

“Okay, you’re ready to be plastered, he said. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and tried to relax. Jerry began laying long, thin strips of cool wet bandage across my rib cage. Working slowly he crosshatched them over my breasts, lingering over my nipples, then across my shoulders , over my face, throat, and ears and over my head and hair. I tingled with excitement under his touch.

“Almost done,” Jerry said, and I felt his fingertips gliding over the wet plaster, searching out any weak spots in the mold.  “Okay, looks good.  Should be dry enough to remove in thirty minutes. Don’t move a muscle,” he said, sounding stern.

The clock ticked, Minute passed. I twitched. I itched. I explored immobility in my plaster bandage restraints. Jerry was beside me, his leg pressed against mine. I felt his body heat through our jeans, and smelled his musky male scent combined with sweat  from the heat of the studio.

This is what it must be like to be in bondage, I thought. I wonder if he’s turned to see me like this? Oddly the the thought turned me on too. I imagined Jerry gazing down at me with a hard-on in his pants.

“You’re so hot bound up like that,” he moaned, like he was reading my mind.

“What are you doing?”, I asked, which because I was attempting to speak without moving my lips came out muffed and disjointed.  I drew in my breath as I felt him sliding down the zipper of my jeans, and slipping Vaseline coated fingers inside them, cupping my pussy, moving rhythmically, in a slow circular motion . A rush of heat shot to my clit and I gasped with pleasure. 

I could feel the plaster beginning to dry, growing tighter and more restrictive  the drier it got. Jerry continued to play with me, and in some way I didn’t understand the restriction heightened my excitement.I moaned, clenching my ass-cheeks, longing to grind my hips.  Then he upped the ante, finger fucking me with what felt like three fingers, plunging deep and hard the way he knows I love it, while rubbing my clit with his thumb at the same time.

I tried to say, “No,! You’ll ruin my sculpture!” and remain motionless. But then, he parted my ass-cheeks, teasing my tiny puckered rear opening, and I gave it up for lost.  Moaning steadily, my inner muscles clenched, my heart hammered in my chest, and the exquisite sensations claimed me. Distorting my carefully crafted plaster lips, I screamed as the orgasm built  and crested and washed over me like a giant wave.

And in that ecstatic  moment  — with muscles tensed, chest heaving, shoulders contorted,  head thrown back with a grimace of pleasure on my face — the plaster mold hardened, documenting my orgasm for posterity.

 When I was coherent again and the mold was removed, I lay propped on an elbow gazing at it in awe. Jerry sat looking down at me, a satisfied look on his face.

“Now that was hot,” he said. ” A little twisted, maybe, but hot. Listen, I haven’t mentioned this before, but the whole idea of bondage and discipline in turns me on.” He grinned and kissed me. And after this scene, well I have a feeling you’ll be turned on by it too.”

“You’re right,” I said and blushed, realizing it was true. “But Jerry,” I smiled picking bits of plaster  from my hair, “Could we try something less messy, like ropes, next time?”

I called the piece, Plaster Orgasm. I mounted it on a canvas surrounded by images of naked female figures cut from magazines and news papers. For the record, it was the hit of my open studio show I had years ago.

It was also the title of my first published erotic story, which appeared in the Tenth Anniversary Seattle Art and Literature Festival, in 2012. It was  recently narrated by the incomparable Rose Caraway on her podcast.  Click on the link to listen to her lovely voice make my words come alive.

That’s my personal orgasm story. But anyone who cares to check out the origins of National Orgasm Day on the internet will find a plethora of articles and information on that delightful subject.  Click on the link below to view the homepage of a site called Faces of Orgasm. This is a pay to view site, but the home page is there for all to see the faces of human beings in ecstasy.

So come one, come all, enjoy the day as nature intended, on this designated day — or for that matter, any other.


I Slept With Enough Men For A Small Sex Starved Country

Sigmund Freud

Breena Kerr is the creator of the truthspeakproject , a website dedicated to true stories of female desire, intimacy, and sexual experience.  We met at the reading of Best Women’s Erotica this past January. After hearing that my story, “Two Doms for Dinner” was memoir based, as were most of my erotic stories — and that I was still sexually active at age seventy-one — she requested an interview about my fifty-five year-long sexual history, and I agreed to talk with her.

I suppose the sexual angst I experienced during my twelve-year first marriage, from 1962, through 1974, followed by my sexual quest in the 1970s in search of vaginal orgasm, could be laid at the doorstep of Sigmund Freud. Freud’s ideas on female sexual response are laughable today in light of a growing body of evidence that some seventy-five  percent of women don’t orgasm through penile thrusting alone.

But as a young wife more than a half-century ago, it was no laughing matter to me — because in spite of some knock-your-socks-off orgasms via mouth, or fingers, or vibrator — I believed myself frigid because I was never able to come with my husbands cock inside me. Repeatedly, I’d get close and even closer, but sadly the prize eluded me. My ex-husband, a well-read man and familiar with Freudian theory, was quite bitter about this alleged defect in my sexual makeup. So much so that he put tremendous pressure on me to orgasm in the correct and Freud sanctioned way. 

Being a thinking person from early on, I knew that what was being demanded of me belied the truth of my personal experience about what aroused me enough to come. I wondered if a female psychologist might support my point of view. Big mistake here.

Unfortunately the only female shrink whose writings I could find was Freudian disciple, Marie Bonaparte, who consulted with the good doctor for her own sexual dysfunction of frigidity in the 1920s —  and shared his view in her own writings that in order to achieve a satisfying sex life, adult women must learn to transfer their erotic feeling from their clits to their vaginas. She also claimed that only immature, childish women continued to cling to clitoral orgasms as their primary source of pleasure.  Bonaparte  formed a theory, based on a study of over two-hundred women, that the closer a woman’s clit was to her vaginal opening, the better her chances of coming via penile penetration In the interest of achieving this male sanctioned feat, she had her clit surgically moved closer to her vaginal  opening, twice — and for the record, without success. (Got agony, anyone?)

Although I didn’t resort to such extreme measures, Bonaparte did me some damage by reinforcing my belief in my alleged frigidity. After reading her writings, I gave in to the power of the masculine mystique and began faking orgasms for all I was worth. This lie served the dual purpose of stroking my husband’s ego, and making me hate both of us a whole lot.

My marriage ended when I discovered him in bed with a female friend  and divorced him — leaving me single in an era of unprecedented personal freedom. After relocating with my sons, to the Land of Oz — otherwise known as 1970s San Francisco — my entrance into a rampantly promiscuous lifestyle and the quest for the penis that would make me come, began in earnest.

Fortunately I met Jake, a self-proclaimed sexual liberator of sexually frustrated women.  He became the first lover who inspired me to stop faking vaginal orgasms — in favor of discovering what aroused me most in bed. For the remainder of the decade, Jake functioned as my sexual main man choreographing erotic scenes designed to delight and amaze. He was the only one of all my lovers to know about all the rest.  

Over time and multiple lovers,  I came to realize that my quest for vaginal  orgasm was misguided.  The closest I came to coming via penis-in-vagina sex was with a cock inside me, while using a vibrator on my clit. Was this a clitoral or a vaginal orgasm? I wondered briefly, when it happened — before deciding once and for all, Who the hell cared? 

Not long after this insightful realization I took a giant step back from my casual sex lifestyle and began focusing my energy  on developing  the art career I’d longed for — and thinking that one day, when the right man came along, I’d take a chance on love again.

Read about my thirty-two year-long relationship with my with my Sir, my husband and BDSM top — and what it’s like to be 71 and still sexual, in TruthSpeakProject’s next post.



The Kiss Me Quick’s Erotica Podcast — And Me


Earlier this month the most exciting thing happened to me. Rose Caraway, The Sexy Librarian, and her husband and business partner, Big Daddy Dayv Caraway came to my home in Half Moon Bay, where I’ve lived with my husband and Sir for nearly thirty years — traveling all the way from their home in Sacramento, where Dayv set up a sound studio in our living room, while Rose interviewed me for The Kiss Me Quick’s  Sexy Librarian’ Erotica Podcast!

I can hardly express how honored I feel that my erotic journey begun in the mid-70s — and the sex-positive way I’ve chosen to live my life from then on — is deemed inspirational to others, and a story worthy of being told.

I met Rose and Dayv twelve days after suffering a stroke, when I attended the reading of Best Women’s Erotica , Volume 1. The reading, which took place appropriately enough, at the Good Vibrations sex toy store, on Polk Street in San Francisco , was an amazing experience. I was frankly thrilled to realize I was sharing pages in a book with an incredibly  talented, diverse group of female writers, in an outstanding anthology that I have no doubt will make its mark in erotica history.

But the highlight of my experience — aside from sharing a stage with BWE editor, Rachel Kramer Bussel. Jade A. Waters, and my Erotic Reading Circle buddy , Amy Butcher — was meeting fellow writer, Rose Caraway, with whom I felt an instant sense of connection. Although Rachel read my story for me, as the light in the room was too dim for my eyes, I joined the others on stage afterwards for interaction with our audience. I also managed quite nicely by signing copies of our X-rated book with an X placed beside the title of my story, since my left and dominant arm had been weakened by the stroke.

 When the signing concluded, my 74 year-old husband who’d attended the reading with me, chatted with Rose and Dayv, expressing that I’d felt I’d earned the privilege of being there that night, and stroke or no stroke wouldn’t have missed the event for the world.

(In my view, the difference between a coward and a hero is the hero is not stopped by fear, and I’m delighted to report I was not.)

I’m as much of a talker as my Sir is a strong, silent type. I shared a bit about my three-decade long erotic relationship with him. The relationship resulted from a personal ad I placed in the late San Francisco Bay Guardian in late 1983, seeking a husband/Dom/life partner all rolled into one — a first date so dynamic it went on all night. At age 71, I’ve had sufficient erotic experience for a small sex-starved country. (My story in BWE, Two Doms For dinner, was  real-life inspired, as is much of my erotic writing — a pleasure to experience and write about as well.)  

Rose and Dayv expressed genuine interest that I’d written a memoir, now submitted to publishers, titled PERFECT STRANGERS: One Woman’s Journey Through The Swinging Seventies, about being a swinging single mom in an era of unprecedented personal freedom. They also appeared to enjoy our old-time tales of being a BDSM couple back in the 80s, and on into current times. By the time we’d parted company that evening, Sir and I felt we’d encountered a couple  who mirrored us in their obvious love and dedication to each other and their chosen lifestyle. We left feeling we’d just made new friends.

I was thrilled when Rose contacted me soon after, requesting an interview for her podcast about my lengthy sexual history. Even more so when she expressed that my erotically adventurous nature had inspirational value to others, too important not to be shared.

So far I am loving my fifteen minutes of fame. It still amazes me how sadly undervalued erotic pleasure is in our culture. Enjoying the pleasure of the flesh has long been considered a traditionally made domain. But in recent years erotic literature written by strong, self-directed women has risen to the forefront, expressing sexual interaction from the female point of view. I want to shout out an enormous thank you to the Caraways. If my erotic adventures serve inspirational purpose and in any way enriches the body of sexual knowledge existing in the world — then Rose and Dayv’s brilliant and insightful documentation of those adventures has equal value as well.

And I ask you; if sexual delights were not meant to be enjoyed by women, what then would be the purposed of our having clits?