suck it


new urge


My darling muse,

I thank you so much for all your help in putting together the ending for my latest story. I must tell you, however, that although you favor the ivory angel, I’m going with the bitch in black—she was always my favorite. Anyway, it’s going to be awesome. I’ll be sure to let you and the girls know when it becomes available.



photo credit: new urge editions  / new urge is the marvelous publisher of erotica that has been kind enough to share 2 of my stories.

New Urge Reader 1

New Urge Reader 2


don’t do this !!!!!!!!!!!!!!




The exclamation point—give it up, already!!!! I recently read an email where every single sentence ended with an exclamation point, and another mail where one sentence ended with six exclamation points—and neither mail had content worthy of that emphasis, nor does emphasis need all that clutter. It reads like an illiterate cheerleader on steroids. Edit the exclamation, damnit!!!!!!!


ps – and I bet at one time those exclamation point abusers dotted their “i’s” with a heart. Gag me.


photo credit:


slaughter beach


deccosoon (1)


He was beyond textbook narcissistic, an individual that would make sociologists and psychiatrists cream their pants with joy should he ever to walk into their offices. She had been having an affair with him for close to seven years. He was charming and charismatic and racist and ridiculous, but she chose to ignore the negative characteristics in exchange for outrageous sex, and because he made her feel desirable when she saw no desirability within. Their ending began quite some time ago, they both felt it and expressed it in different ways, but they held on to the fantasy of them for as long as they could. Slaughter Beach was their getaway, a remote and humble waterfront at the mouth of the Delaware Bay. They had many large fights there, but when the lights dimmed they began to touch, and their mutual attraction and hunger became one—a single, ruling deity.

Their last visit to Slaughter Beach was not good. Marcus was fixed at the computer writing political mail and Nicole wanted his attention. She pouted and then purred, but could not move him from his focus. His emotional distance from her had been increasing as of late, but this was an all time high. After hours of writing, he asked for her help with navigating online, help in getting his letters out to the appropriate people and she obliged. Unfortunately, Nicole saw a few offensive words in his text and a fight ensued, which held over until the lights dimmed. But before he consumed her, before she lost all sense of reason and propriety, Nicole remembered that she had the password to his mailbox, and for some reason, perhaps because something in her unconscious said, “wise up, Nicole,” she made a point of remembering it. And weeks after their last visit to Slaughter Beach, weeks of little to no communication between the two, and without a hint of remorse, Nicole went into his mailbox.

She knew about one girlfriend but didn’t know about the second. Marcus had told her several times that he and girlfriend #1 were no longer romantically involved, but really, there was a lot of mail from #1 with lots of heart emojis and no point in believing anything he said anymore, anyway. And then there was mail to girlfriend #2, asking her, as Marcus had asked Nicole seven years earlier and again more recently, to please send him some intimate piece of something with her scent on it. That son of a bitch. Nicole wrote in her email to him that he should change his password, and she hoped that he didn’t get the scents mixed up.

There was good news—after all this time, after all the head scratching of her friends who knew of the affair, after all of his offensive and evasive and manipulative ways, Nicole became the fool—and fool was the operative word, and fool was a fantasy she would not play. He was appalled by her behavior but she didn’t care. His charisma had turned to creepy, and while his arrogance remained intact, he certainly couldn’t play the integrity card. Nicole had once told him that she could find cracks in his façade, that she knew a way to reach his heart, but that the way in was getting harder and harder to find. He told her it was because arrogance was all he had left, that no one could see the turmoil of his insides or his life, because were they to do so, they would see him as nothing more than a sham—and a very bad investment. Marcus made his money off of the wealthy. Nicole came to believe the façade didn’t matter anymore—Marcus had nothing on the inside.


Slaughter Beach is short story in progress. Will keep you posted. – pn


photo credit:



music is therapy


Yes, I’m heavy into lyrics right now. This is poetic, please read.




Intense silence
As she walked in the room
Her black robes trailing
Sister of the moon
And a black widow spider makes
More sound than she
And black moons in those eyes of hers
Made more sense to me
Heavy persuasion
It was hard to breathe
She was dark at the top of the stairs
And she called to me
And so I followed
As friends often do
I cared not for love, nor money
I think she knew
The people, they love her
And still they are the most cruel
She asked me
Be my sister, sister of the moon
Some call her sister of the moon
Some say illusions are her game
Wrap her in velvet
Does anyone, ah, know her name
So we make our choices
When there is no choice
And we listen to their voices
Ignoring our own voice – Sisters of the Moon, Fleetwood Mac


photo credit: pinterest


poker face




I wanna roll with him a hard pair we will be
A little gambling is fun when you’re with me (I love it)
Russian Roulette is not the same without a gun
And baby when it’s love, if its not rough it isn’t fun, fun


I won’t tell you that I love you
Kiss or hug you
‘Cause I’m bluffing with my muffin
I’m not lying I’m just stunning with my love glue gunnin’
Just like a chick in the casino
Take your bank before I pay you out
I promise this, promise this
Check this hand cause I’m marvelous lady gaga, poker face


photo credit:


an unfortunate conversation at the antique shop


black and white chandelier painting


Right after I opened the antique shop this morning, I received an urgent text and phone call from my dear friend, Diane—her sister’s son, age 30, had a stroke. Fucking 30 years old. The sister, Carole, is a former best friend and roommate of mine—we had a falling out, we have a history, and Carole will always slip in and out of my mind and my life. The 2 sisters and I go way back. I was off the phone but definitely still rattled when a customer came into the shop and headed straight to the counter where I sat. I recognized her immediately, recognizable because she was somewhat difficult the first go-round. She had purchased a custom fitted chandelier, wired and painted beautifully by the owner of the shop, and I remember clearly her fussing terribly over the packaging and the transport of this piece, which was really not an issue. She was sweating and agitated as she came up to the counter this morning.

“There’s a piece missing. The electrician was at my house to hang it, the box had been moved, the plaster repaired, we were all set to go and he tells me there’s a piece missing.     When will the owner be back?     Seriously?     Can you call her?     Text her?     Are you going to communicate with her at all?”

I was gentle and apologetic and as professional as I could be. The owner was to be reached for emergencies only (fire, theft). I tried to find the missing piece and apologized again.

“This is a problem,” the customer stated firmly.

I looked at her and took a deep breath. “Please, please forgive me if I’m being rude, but my friend’s son, age 30, just had a stroke. That’s a problem, yours in an inconvenience.”

Her face fell before me. She almost seemed to inch backwards as she apologized. She humbly left the store with my guarantee that I would tell the owner as soon as she became available.

Thank you, Bill Creeden, former Headmaster, Severn School, for the lesson on recognizing a problem.


art credit:


lust letters #1




From the first, she had touched him in ways that few women (and there had been many) had. Though they had never met, a chord had been struck that vibrated harmoniously and he was ever aware of her. There was a spoken yet unspoken understanding of shared tastes and fantasies, unexplored territories. Sometimes he wanted her so badly it was like a physical ache. He spent hours almost every day imagining their time together, their mutual explorations of each other, the anticipated pain and pleasures, the fantasies, the delicate boundaries they would push. It was like an ever-pulsing engine that was in him. Yet, despite the crazy lust he had for her, he felt a soft desire, and was in no particular rush to their first encounter, content to let it build, perhaps to an even greater need. – The near Transformation of Claire


photo credit: unknown


how do you spell relief?





I have been sober for so long, I actually don’t remember if my last drink was 1990 or 91. Not drinking is not a problem for me, I have no compulsion to drink, but must say that there are 2 pictures planted in my mind where drinking looks mighty good: 1) after a very hot day of working in the yard, stepping into the air conditioning and fixing a vodka and tonic…ahhhh, and 2) sitting at a high heeled, uber sexy, red and black bar with a bourbon on the rocks…dang. These are just fantasies, mind you (I never even drank bourbon)—there is no need to, have to associated with these pictures whatsoever.

But in the eyes of Alcoholic Anonymous, which I fully believe in, I am not sober because I smoke pot. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed or anything—pot (along with cigarettes) is my go-to coping mechanism, but mood-altering substances are not allowed in AA. Nada. Which is poorly worded considering the cigarette smoking and donut dipping that goes hand-in-hand with AA. Even in my rehab sugar was given the green light, and come on, how mood-altering is chocolate? I do not mean to diminish the enormous dangers of alcoholism (which I experienced) or of any addictive substance, but my point is, we all need coping mechanisms now and then. We are H U M A N. The bird doesn’t high-tail it to the berry bush when a hurricane blows his nest away, but damn, I sure went to the liquor cabinet when one hit my house. This is what humans do, it’s okay—when done in moderation and with some degree of knowledge about your chosen weapon. Certainly, there are coping mechanisms that are better than others—exercise, meditation and faith among the purest, all of which require a rigorous discipline that is not hard wired into many of us, and not without their own set of side-effects. But consider all that we do to alter our moods–we eat, we shop, ingest pills, porn, hard drugs, soft drugs, we seek face lifts, therapy, sex, just to name a few.

Stop beating yourself up when you feel the need to alter your mood. Why wouldn’t you want to be in a better mood? But be careful, pick your coping tools wisely. And understand that you are most likely capable of going full circle and coming out on the other side of your not-so-happy-place without any assistance. Or consider an awesome play list, on-line solitaire, a long, hot bath—all favorites of mine, not at all dangerous and proven winners. And pot.


photo credit:



sixty fucking five




I suspect we have all stood in front of the mirror looking for our younger selves, asking the question, how did I get here? Well, we were all going to get here regardless of the path, the choices made, ain’t no holdin’ back time. So instead of pining for a former you, instead of imagining that you are a young person in an old person’s body, perhaps the better question is what do I do now that I’m on the freakin’ edge of old? On this, my milestone birthday, age sixty five, I am only too glad to share my personal pearls on aging. Take ’em or leave ’em, but please read on. In no particular order:


STOP the old chatter, the “it’s a bitch getting old” comments, the “senior moment” shit. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Everybody has aching joints, injuries, ailments, young and old. If that is too often the topic of your conversations, STOP it, it’s stupid. And everybody forgets stuff. When my children were in high school and trying to get out the door in the morning (in the age of pre-online assignments), I can’t tell you how many times I watched them run up and down the stairs  because they forgot a book, their backpack, deodorant, or how many times I had to drive to school with the forgotten helmet, homework, or the lunch they really, really wanted. [I must say, however, that I do play the “old” card on occasion—works great with airport personnel and police officers.]


MOVE. You rest, you rust. In the words of the immortal James Brown, “get up offa that thing, shake it you’ll feel better.”


BE GENEROUS with your time, your money, your love.


BE KIND. You don’t have to like everyone, just be nice to everyone. Unless they run over your dog. Then burn their house down.


SMOKE WEED. Wean yourself off of those nasty-ass pain killers and anti-depressants. Skip the liquor. Nothing bad will happen, no one will jump out a window from reefer madness. I believe that every achey, lonely, depressed senior living/nursing home resident would benefit from pot, and I am hardly alone, nor am I a rebel, in that regard. If you don’t want to smoke it, eat it. The power of the plant.


BE PRETTY. Clean yourself up, get out of the damn mom jeans and buy some trendy clothes, get your hair done, put on some makeup. If you look old, you feel old.


FIND HUMOR. Seek comedy—a movie, tv, book, a funny friend. Laugh at your own jokes and always laugh at yourself. Laughter is truly medicinal, belly laughing one of the greatest feelings on earth, second only to, well, whatever.


FIND RELEVANCY. This is your world, be a part of it. Enough with the past—embrace modernity. I have very little patience with those who balk at technology and contemporary culture. Adapt or perish. And, perhaps related, perhaps not—don’t stress over “finding your passion” (a catch phrase I’ve come to abhor). Be open, be a player in your own world, and passion will find you.


NEVER, EVER be embarrassed by who you are, what you do, what you believe in, or what you look like (even when you don’t feel pretty). You are a singular being, the only one of you—when you’re gone, there’s no replacing you. RESPECT yourself.


SCREW RISK. Really, what’s the worse that can happen? You die? Guess what? You’re going to die anyway.



photo credit: Paula Rubino