My ex-boyfriend is a pain in the ass, a pain in the neck, just a pain.  No matter what I do I can’t get rid of him. If I was a dragon, the mere mention of his name would be enough for me to breathe fire and burn his aggravating ass to a crisp.  I don’t hate him. If I see him I wouldn’t hit him with my car, just a light tap on the shins with the front bumper; nothing that would do any permanent harm.  All I want is to be left alone and in peace. We’ve both moved on but he’s determined to keep our lives intertwined which makes me want to scream and show him my fist minus the four fingers; yeah, I want him to f*%# off.  The fact that he can still make me angry makes me wonder if the relationship didn’t leave me with irreparable scars. Am I damaged? Does my life read like an old Danity Kane song?

Unlike the song lyrics I’m well aware that no man can fix me. I’m a product of my past. The lessons I’ve learned about myself from old relationships live on. If I want to be happy and whole I must forgive myself for yesterday’s mistakes. I think I have….sometimes.  The problem is that if my ex still has the power to make me angry doesn’t that mean that I’m damaged? If I was an electronic devise I would be refurbished. Meaning I look good as new but previously I’ve had some difficulty. It would mean that to all but the discerning eye, I would seem fresh with all my original packaging. I look sellable but my warranty is a lie.

The reason people are reluctant to buy used cars or electronics is that although the exterior looks good, the inside, the heart of the machine has a past. The product has suffered from previous wear and tear. People are no different. When we have experienced something traumatic we are tempted to pretty ourselves up, slap on a new paint job and put ourselves back on the shelf.  But the tag of refurbished or previously owned was made for a reason.  Manufacturers must include this disclaimer because it warns the new owner to buy at their own risk. All is not what it seems. It warns that the product may suffer from some inconsistencies and problems because of the previous owner’s neglect.  I’m fixing myself, dusting off the past and going in for regular soul servicing.  I’m not new but I’m worthy of a test drive. If you don’t believe me I have my carFAX.

Did a previous owner leave you damaged but you’re passing yourself off as brand new?

Are you damaged?

Without shame, guilt or remorse I admit that the Super does not always practice what she preaches. I’m not as positive as I seem. I’m not the best black friend everyone needs. I fall short of being the über confident and uplifting woman I claim to be. In person one might be a little surprised by my demeanor. Instead of possessing a brash and bold in your face over the top energy, the Super is quiet and serene. I do not bubble, I percolate.  I do not shine, I beam. I should be an optimist but I’m firmly grounded in reality. I’m all that I claim to be and I’m a fraud. I say this now to save myself later from crying on Oprah like my pretend friend Iyanla Vanzant. I admit this now just in case Wendy Williams exposes my identity one day and sells my story to TMZ. Ah yes, delusional I know, but one can dream.  My point is this, like Iyanla we all have sides we show to the world.  As a millionaire mentor, writer and spiritual coach Iyanla took a terrible fall from grace.  Like a lot of successful people her public persona could not hold up under the weight of her personal lie. Like myself and many others, her public face was like the Picture of Dorian Gray in the attic staying beautiful and perfect while her real self grew ugly and old. We all have ugly representatives who we use to hide the truth about our doubts, fears and the secrets that we are afraid to share. To hide, we put up a front for our friends and paper our pain with a life of fantasy. Often we make our representatives take over but we must resist. If we are growing we must grow, if we are learning we must surrender to the process with the knowledge that we are all flawed. We don’t always have to like the women we are but we must love the women we can be.

The Super does not practice what she preaches. Instead I preach and then I practice. I strive to live up to the picture of the best me. I endeavor to be as good, as smart and as special as I claim and then I do the work to make my ambitions a reality. It’s not a crime to pretend. Pretending is like dreaming. You dream one day you will be the best woman, friend, mother and daughter that you can imagine and then one day you will be. Success is about seeing yourself clearly.

Are you all that you seem or are you living a lie and pretending?

Are you real?

When popular products fail companies yank their best brands off the shelves and bring them back to the lab for reformulation. Sometimes our relationships need the same treatment.  It’s necessary at times to break things down in order to build them back up. This is the case with long-term friendships.  I have a friend I’ve known practically from the cradle. We are what I call fighting friends, the kind of friends you feel free to be yourself with. These friends have the unique and often unsatisfying experience of knowing you in the raw. Not naked, nasty, but knowing you without the varnish and polish that society says is necessary. We’ve been fighting since we were children, back in the day when it was acceptable to put your friend in a headlock, push her down onto the grass and pull her hair out. We still have these tendencies but we are adults so we use our words instead of our fists. We’ve had long bouts of silence this friend and I brought on by misunderstandings, resentments and pure unadulterated rage. In these instances each of us has wondered whether a friendship that requires so much work, attention and effort was worth the trouble. Most times after weeks of fraught silence the answer was yes. But as with most things, what worked in the past doesn’t always work in the present. The mini battles, the yelling and the finger pointing back and forth were getting on both of our nerves. Things had to change. We took our friendship back to the lab and attempted to reformulate. We laid down rules, mixed in some guidelines, cleared up old resentments and tried again. It didn’t work.  We were creatures of habit and it was easier to draw on old knowledge than to see each other for the women we’d become. Life experiences change people and we weren’t the same.  With this realization she the consumer and I the buyer rejected the new packaging of our friendship because it contained the same old ingredients. We went back to the drawing board. We spoke, we argued and we had heated debates about what would make our relationship work. We were clear that the breakdown of a lifelong friendship would be the result if we didn’t get the formulation just right. Preliminary results about our strategy are not yet in but we’ve reformulated the friendship and put it back on the shelf.  We’ll see if the new product works and if the brand is built to last.

What relationship do you have that needs reformulating?

Who runs the world? Girls! Black women are exceptional. I know a lot of women who I admire, look up to and try to emulate. They have shown me how to be the best woman I can be. What their encouragement has done is that it has powered my ambition and fueled my self-esteem. I know without being told that I’m worthy of love and all of life’s rewards. Every woman has a gift and something special about them that separates them from everyone else. On my end, from the moment I knew myself I knew I was gifted. I knew that I was extraordinary, different and unique. I couldn’t leap tall buildings in a single bound, I couldn’t dodge a bullet and I couldn’t see the future — no x-ray vision. I had a cape but it was hidden. It didn’t matter. As far as action heroes went I was in the Justice League. I was a super hero and I had a name. My special power was to educate, motivate and to teach. Living inside me where all the action heroes of old. I was Wonder Woman and Super Woman wrapped up into one. I had super powers. I could recover from a broken heart and will the organ to regenerate and heal. Men could hurt me and leave me for dead but I could defy death and live again. I could give birth to Gods, balance the temperaments of the vicious and I could mold the minds and thoughts of others. I could heal hearts with a kiss and I could balance the world on my shoulders without losing my breath. Loved ones could turn against me and I could still find the power to rise as if I was impervious to harm or pain. I was the black Jamie Summers and like her I was bionic. In the twenty first century I conditioned myself to be better, stronger and smarter. I’m not unique. All  women possess super human strength. We’re women of steel and it takes an army of combatants to harm us. Our weakness is our human heart which leads us to succumb to heartache time and time again. To overcome, all women of color have to claim our gifts and powers and announce them to the world. We must release our inner avatar and give our super selves a new fear-fighting moniker. We must release the super heroine living inside of us and let the extraordinary woman out. She should no longer be contained. I’m Super Sistah. I said it therefore I am. No one had to tell me. Own yourself and own the world.  Beyoncé didn’t have to sing a song about it for me to know that girls run the world. As women we have to learn to live out loud.  Let’s start today.

Do you run the world? What makes you Super and extraordinary? Tell me.

Excerpt taken from the upcoming book entitled – Don’t Let the White Girl Win.

Although Barack is generally not my type, I like his style. Nothing is sexier than a man with confidence combined with a bit of swagger.  It’s an aphrodisiac.  Don’t think quick wit and a sweet smile is enough for me to invite anyone besides Victoria to share my Secrets.  I’m old enough to need more than a man with slow hands and an easy touch. A dude that can make the bed springs sing is nice but a maintenance man won’t help me pay the bills when they’re due.  I’m not saying there aren’t men out there with confidence aplenty. In my hood, confidence comes accompanied by men with a preference for braided-back cornrows, wife-beater t-shirts and low hung jeans. Not exactly my cup of tea.  Finding the right balance of charisma and character is tough especially for women who like men with mental muscle. I personally appreciate bulging biceps, a wide chest and quads that are killer but a man should be able to fill out more than a muscle shirt. He should be able to fill out a job application, fill the fridge and fill me up with sexual sunshine when I’m feeling blue. Is that being too picky? My boy G.O.D says the meek will inherit the earth but they won’t inherit the coochie, not from me. I find power and strength attractive. It gives men an edge.  It’s not necessary to turn the testosterone dial up to super high but women like men who take charge.  It makes us juicy. The women walking around with men they can control, bully and beat are not the ones that enjoy men as their meant to be.

Maybe my preference for strong men has to do with my own power. Growing up around a wolf pack of boys they taught me to be assertive and quick. If I wanted something as simple as a meal being passive usually left me starving. As I got older I had the false impression that I liked quiet, well-mannered and unassuming men; my libido thought otherwise.  Nothing sent my pulses raising more than a dude that knew when and how to act. The clumsy, the awkward and the shy didn’t stand a chance. They weren’t for me.  I miss the old days when men knew how to steer a ship, wrestle a mountain lion and defend their lady’s honor.  Is that why the alpha males appeal to me?  I’m not advocating the return of the Ike Turner types with their ‘shut your mouth’ brand of masculinity, but confidence is key.  A man doesn’t have to be a thug to embody power and masculinity; Obama with his cool laugh, smile and swagger has many a woman willing to give him some if he would just ask. He’s the intellectual type who smokes, drinks and knows how to handle a strong woman expertly.  Michelle, you got one of the good ones and I’m slightly jelly.

To find a strong man do you have to be the one woman fortunate enough to be Obama’s Baby Mama?

These days eligible men are scarce and the fight to land and lock down a good man has some women going to extremes. In their pursuit of Mr. Marry Me some ladies pull out the big guns and use their booty as bait. I’m not knocking the next girl’s tactics but there is a right way to do things and then there’s just plain wrong. If you’re built like a thoroughbred with a body banging enough to inspire instant lust, I’m not saying you have to keep your best assets under wraps. Get your Serena on if you must but remember the best part of the gift is the unwrapping. If you expose all your wonders to the world what is there left to see? My young female readers are rolling their eyes as I speak. They’re envisioning me at my computer writing with a half-grown-in mustache, chin hair and a long-sleeved sweater despite the balmy seventy degrees.  No, not me. The Super is all for the sexy. If our exteriors are the canvas then we should paint ourselves with beautiful strokes. That said, men are visual and upon meeting us they conduct mental mathematics about our availability based on what they see.

“Pants tight enough to restrict breathing – one date, maybe two.”

“Dress short enough to see my future – dinner consisting of some hot water and then back to my place.”

These impromptu assessments about women are usually wrong but men could care less.  The judgment has already been made and they will treat us accordingly. In my teens I once wore a hip-high semi-see through shorts set. I paired my attire with knee-high boots and a black bra and panties that showed more than a few hints of skin. Yes, I know what you’re thinking: straight Ho bag who needs a citation from the fashion police. I beg your forgiveness for my fashion faux pas, but hell, it was the nineties and I was a teen. I got the attention I was seeking but it wasn’t the good kind. Instead of attracting the interest of the honest, humble and educated men I was seeking, instead every freak, sneak and player set his x-ray vision on me. Back then I thought the body was made for revealing but the attention I got was the type I didn’t need.  As I walked the streets that day strange men attempted to pinch and prod me making me wonder what made them think that they had the right. Just because I was dressed like a stripper didn’t mean I was one. Hell, I had the grades to go to University. I was smart!  That didn’t stop me from also being stupid beyond imagining. Wearing the shorts which the Jamaicans call Batty Riders, the Americans call Daisy Dukes or Pussy Printers for those that live anywhere past Jersey, didn’t guarantee me the man of my dreams. Instead, it attracted the dudes that were only interested in the place in my shorts that formed a V.  These men admired the shape of my ass instead of the shape of my smile. They were attracted to the exterior with little to no interest in the real me. No one wants to be loved for their body parts and no one should be.  I’m not opposed to the split in the dress, a low neckline or the dress that hugs the figure just right. Accentuate the positives but allow men to see beyond the V.

Finding a good man is hard. Is it now necessary to use our bodies as bait?

Popping up all over the internet has been the question of whether white women are winning in the love game. Here’s my take on the black/white women interracial dating dynamic. I watched a comedy show once where a white comedian asked the all-black crowd why if there was a fat white girl at the party that no white guy would want, that the brothers made a beeline in her direction. The audience tittered uncomfortably but it was a legitimate question. What this comedian really wanted to know was why the white man’s trash was the black man’s treasure.  He wanted an answer. I wanted one too.  It’s been my observation that some black men will meet and marry in white (i.e. Kirstie Alley) what they wouldn’t consider dating in black (i.e. Precious – Gabby Sidibe). Due to racism, bias, brainwashing and residual slave self-loathing do some black men have a complex?  Is everything white given an instant upgrade? There seems to be an argument to support this. In contrast, I think white men are more discriminating when it comes to dating black women. When a white man marries a sister he gets the best. There will be no three-hundred pound black girl for him. She will be the best that Africa has bred. She will be the most beautiful, Iman – supermodel; the smartest, Maya Angelou – world renowned author, and the most accomplished, Susan Rice – Ambassador to the United Nations. When they pick from the cocoa tree they pick the best fruit. When you see a white man with a woman of color you better believe she will have something going on. For him to forgo the Cindy Crawford’s and Gisele Bundchen’s of the world, that black woman will be worth more than her weight in gold. When his friends see her coming and wonder why he chose her, they will know within two minutes why she was the one. She will be nothing short of exceptional.

Men thrive on competition. It’s an ego thing. They’re always after whatever everyone else wants. It’s uplifting for them to win the prize.  They devalue the lack of challenge associated with things they consider easy to get. That’s why they like sports. How this relates to black women is simple. Life is a competition. As far as some black men are concerned sisters are “easy pickins.” They can get one anytime. It’s not like they’re going anywhere.  It’s not like there aren’t millions of them dateless. It isn’t like anyone else wants them. The statistics that say that black women are less married, and perpetually single that we’ve read, they’ve read those articles also. This puts the brothers in a power position from day one. He’s wanted by black women and other women from varying walks of life. He’s on a high. Black women have to shake things up. We love black men but we cannot wait for them. While they’re out dating the United Colors of Benetton some sisters are getting old and grey waiting for their dark knight to appear. This is not the way to even the odds.  Competition is the key. Black women, broaden your circle and your sight. The starting bid for your affection is high and men of all races are welcome to participate. If love is war, black men best enter the competition with their eye on the best black prize.

To win in the love game is competition the key?

Win the woman, win the prize.

*Excerpt taken from the upcoming book Don’t Let the White Girl Win.

I read this quote from #FreakyFact on Twitter – No need for revenge. Just sit back and wait. Those who hurt you will eventually screw up and if you’re lucky, God will let you watch.

Oh Lord, please grant me a front row seat. I had an ex that was so wicked after our breakup that I thought he and Lucifer must have been college roommates. I didn’t do anything to the dude. He cheated and I let him leave. I didn’t argue or fight.  I just released him into the atmosphere and prayed that I would never have to see his ass again. It seemed my Buddha Bless attitude riled him and got him mad. I should have cried more. I should have wept. I should have been so sad that I could have drowned myself in a sea of my own tears.  It wasn’t enough that every morning right before full consciousness coaxed me from sleep that the hole in my chest convinced me that I might have died. Nope. I should have lost fifty pounds or gained. I should have quit my job and lay face down across some tracks. I should have done a Superman off a high-rise. It wasn’t enough that heartache was killing me. He wanted to see the death for real.  In his mind, if the breakup didn’t destroy me then the love didn’t exist. He would have been convinced if I’d:

• Slept with 10 guys I couldn’t stand so they could help me forget
• Gone to bed with a picture of my him tucked under my pillow at night
• Committed myself to a daily 10 minute sobbing session in the bathroom stall
• Drove myself insane by having ‘our good times’ CD soundtrack on constant replay
• Grabbed the Haagen Dazs so I  could eat myself into a coma to stifle the pain
• Called his phone every hour ‘just to hear his voice’

Oh no, motherf*cker, you better bounce with that bullsh*t. I wasn’t going to let him win. The more he did to wound me the more I wanted him gone–Soprano style. I didn’t want to sit back and wait for God to do his thing. I wanted revenge now. The quote, ‘revenge is mine said the Lord’ seemed so wack. The Lord was taking his time. The dude was trying to hurt me. I wanted to defend myself black girl style. A baseball bat to the knee, a slashed tire or a clandestine call to my cousins to deliver a family beat down Brooklyn style. All these plots and plans filtered through my head but didn’t take root. Here’s why. I’d already won. He’d lost me. He’d already failed, he just couldn’t see as clearly as me. I’d already recovered. I thought of him less and less. He saved me from my biggest regret which was to love him long term. I owed him a hug of thanks and an Obama fist pump and dap. I believed in myself so was convinced that no matter how far I fell that with God at my back I would always rise.  His cruel intentions meant he had no such guarantee.  Don’t get me wrong, I still have his profile in my cross hairs but I plan to sit back and wait. He’ll get his one day. I’ve already gotten mine.

Is it better to wait for retribution or to seek revenge?

Don't move. I got your revenge right here.

Recently a male friend of mine told me that his girl ‘got to be a freak!‘ I don’t think in my parents’ generation men married women for their freakiness. There was more substance incorporated into the selection process. But all the movies on television and all the rap videos now suggest that maybe a lesbian will make a good wife, a porn star is ideal and a swinger might fit the bill. Maybe a girl that lives on a pole might be just right. Where did these ideas come from? Since when do you have to enroll in stripping class to keep a man interested? Forget the B.A in Education girl; can you take off your top with any kind of seduction? Does it not occur to anyone that the video vixen is paid to look sexy, shake her ass and tantalize? She’s not capable of helping a child with his homework or domestic enough to keep a home. You’re free to marry her trifling ass but you’ll be sorry. Part of the brainwashing process is based on convincing black men and women that they’re not living up to each other’s expectations. Suddenly when we look at each other, because we have been forced fed these mind indoctrinations, we are finding things to complain about in each other that didn’t exist in the past. Watching enough videos will convince the black man that his girl should be a hard ten. She should have the proportions of a supermodel and she should be able to cook a swine better than his mama and his grandmother combined. It will convince him that if she has a mind of her own and opinions, that she’s combative. She’ll suddenly transform into a cast member on the Real Housewives of Atlanta. He will start looking at her with a jaundiced eye and she will no longer be able to fit into the narrow confines he has set out for his perfect mate.

On the other hand, the black woman will be lulled into the idolization of the alpha male. The alpha will be the one that can swing a dick, pick up the check and eat pussy with efficacy. He will be thoughtful and attentive but thug enough to whoop some ass if there is a need. He will be bad ass like the dudes of The Wire with the ability to switch it up and represent like the dude from the Allstate commercial. He will be pretty and professional like Blair Underwood but paid like Michael Jordan. Soon the dude pushing the cart in the mail room while pursuing his MBA in night school will not be good enough for her. He won’t match the personified picture of the perfect man. Brainwashing has stopped her from seeing the worth of the guy with the good upbringing, loving heart and willingness to make and create a family. It’s important as black people that we realize that there is nothing more powerful than when our DNA join forces. It’s a worldwide conspiracy to cultivate dissatisfaction so that black men and women will despise each other. If we do not meet and marry then we can no longer make any Usain Bolts, Malcolm X’s, Bob Marley’s, Oprah Winfrey’s, Billy Holiday’s and James Baldwin’s. Together we are powerful and if we continue to fight and despise each other then our power is weakened. Don’t surrender to the hype. Fight the urge to be your own Manchurian Candidate. Think for yourself and live your dreams. Realize that black love is like poetry – sweet, melodious and created to blend harmoniously.

For Black Love to prosper do women have to be super freaks?

Post excerpt taken from the upcoming Super Sistah Success Guide Entitled – Don’t Let the White Girl Win

She's a Super Freak

A backhand across the mouth is the best way to silence a woman. A punch to the left tit is one way to get her to close her trap. Is she being a little lippy? Threaten to knock her teeth out and see if she utters another damn word. A little beat down never hurt anybody. Say what now? The world is full of bullies. I don’t want to single out a young, high yellow brother with an album ready to drop but if the title fits then let’s point some fingers and throw some chairs.

Some people think violence is the only way to shut some women up. If you’re acquainted with such people I say prepare them for an ass kicking, a beat down and a sucker punch to the left testicle. I can hear cheers from my End-Domestic-Violence advocates; another weak ass man hits the tarmac and its lights out.  I know many women who think that a little slap, shake or shove is forgivable. He didn’t mean it. He was just angry. I shouldn’t have made him mad. These are the excuses that these women throw around to defend unforgivable behavior. If you’re one of those sisters, I’m tempted to slap you myself so you can see sense. I‘ll refrain because you’ve been hit enough already.  The violence and physical abuse against you ends now. It ends with me telling you that you’re enough. That you won’t die if the man you’re with is no longer a part of your life. It ends with me telling you that you’re not alone. I want you to know that although the man you think you love has trapped you in a web of silence, fear and hurt that there is still a way out. The door to freedom begins by refusing to become a Bitch Slap Bride and knowing your value and your worth.

A man is not worthy of your time or affection if he:

• Communicates with punches and backhands
• If name calling, belittling and humiliation is a part of your daily routine
• If feeling less, inadequate or unlovable is standard when he’s in the vicinity
• If memories of the last time you were happy are vague
• If the physical pain inflicted is just the surface of your wounds
• If you tell more lies to yourself than anybody else

Remember that the more we let people destroy our spirits, steal our dreams and rewrite our histories the more we are abandoning pieces of ourselves to heartbreak.  Don’t let any man use your face for a punching bag. Summon the strength within for which all women are renowned and get out! Love shouldn’t hurt.

Can you love someone who shows affection with a five finger fist?

The Super celebrated a birthday yesterday. Yes, superheroes age. We get older, we slow down and we get things suspiciously looking like laugh lines. Ain’t a damn thing funny about getting old. In protest I decided to wage a war against my age.

I still have it. No one can tell me otherwise. To prove my youth I conducted a personal test. There are a lot of puppies in the world but this old dog still has a few tricks. I can dance, so I stripped down to my unmentionables leapt in front of my full length mirror and started to sway, shimmy and whine. Yup, with the reggae music pumping in the background I attempted to recreate my best dancehall queen moves. I went down with the agility of an eighteen year old stripper on her first night on the pole, but my hips got stuck on the ascent. I had a hitch in my giddy up to quote my boy, Bo Jackson. I wasn’t pleased but I wasn’t deterred. I had a point to prove. Next task. I use to like to run. I had endurance. I could run for miles without even being out of breath. This was back in my teens but I’m Super, I can regenerate. So the next time I was at the gym I set my sights on the little blond with the bouncy ponytail. She would be no match for me. As she took off on her 3 mile run I decided to keep pace. I blew past her on the treadmill, my speed mocking her steady jog until…my lungs gave out and with shame I adjusted my speed to a fast walk with an incline. The blond kept running but she did it with a smirk. I wanted to type in a new speed on her machine so she would fly face first into the plexiglass. I resisted because my actions wouldn’t change the facts.

Truth is, I can’t do everything I use to. My knee hurts from early forays into aerobics with women wearing fluorescent leotards and headbands.  But there are 5 things that offer real proof that I may be seconds away from old age, dentures and Depends.  All of them center around my taste in men. For instance, I know that I’m getting older because:

(1) I no longer respond to men who try to get my attention through any sound resembling a howl, woof or a growl. I’m not a pet.
(2) I no longer think the greeting, ‘what’s up shorty’ is a suitable opening line. What am I twelve?
(3) I can say with certainty that I’ve matured past the point where I think the response, ‘I hustle’ is a reasonable occupational description.
(4) A date at Red Lobster is no longer a fancy restaurant and his ‘good’ clothes have graduated from a throwback jersey and a clean pair of Air Force Ones.
(5) A man wearing his pants at his waist as God intended is no longer a turn off. I don’t want to know the color of a stranger’s drawers.

As I get older I want different things. Not  all of them bad. Getting older has its perks and its drawbacks. I just wish I could have the wiser and smarter me installed into a body that can still leap tall buildings in a single bound.

I have no intention of growing old gracefully. Despite being under 40, which is only considered young by people over that age, I have plans to wrestle Father Time to the floor and kick his ass. Will you fight with me?

Have there been any changes in your life that made you realize that time was chasing your tail?

In Dog Years I'm Dead

For some, having sex with themselves is almost as much fun as having sex with men.  My take? I rather have the real thing. Pleasuring myself is like cooking a four course meal, spreading the table, lighting the candles, popping the cork off the best champagne and then sitting down to eat alone. Not my thing. For those who veer in the opposite direction, they argue, who better than themselves to know where on the body to touch? They know how to use their hands, fingers and an assortment of toys and personal tricks to get the job done. It requires skill to know how to massage gently in some areas, add pressure and friction in the next, when to be quick with the movements and when to move really, really slow. For those who are unfortunate enough not to know the joy of having regular orgasms, (Super! Put your damn hands down people are watching), the state is usually found by knowing the pleasure points on the body intimately.

I say, that while the body is an adequate receptacle for all this loving, you have to make love to the mind just as diligently. Having mind sex involves tasting the tang of the sweet things you say to yourself on your lips. It requires pushing past the tight, painful barriers erected in the sub conscious that stops you from giving yourself praise.  It means gently rubbing away the painful sting of self-criticism.  But most importantly, it requires knowing the mind intimately so that you can give it everything it desires to perform at its best. Not to be crass but the term mind f*%k has a whole new meaning. Sometimes making love to your mind is all you need for a successful release.

Are you having sex with yourself?