I find delight through rose-tinted glasses
In my plain cotton nightgown printed with hundreds of rose-red hearts I sit by the window. From here I have a direct view of the church entrance. The bride in her white dress is showered with rose petals and celebrated by everyone around her. I let her radiance catch me. Even though I only came to look at the beautiful dresses. And their shine within them.
No more fear of being too much
As a woman I have always seen escorting through the eyes of a woman. Now I offer escort explicitly for women and it feels more like coming home than starting something new. I had to turn 30 myself to understand how deeply it fulfills me to love women. But at the beginning there was the question: How does sex with women work?
Luckily, women are complex. Luckily, so is sex.
Between girls and women
Girls. We are no longer little girls, but we are not yet women either. We are Girls. Not to disempower women, but to encourage liberation from womanhood. Does our womanhood need attention or does it need a vacation? Being a Girl allows us to have fun. To explore the advantages of our brilliant bodies, instead of moving within the limits that have been placed on us. So hard to break free from them. Alter egos are made exactly for that. There is so much more in us than what we stand for. In us lie many paths we have yet to walk. The Girl is one possibility. Not the only one.
Starting new
Uncharted territory is not a comfortable place. Think of Ariel and rewrite the story with me. She gives up her tail. The water she was born into. She gives up her voice. But not for the prince — to find her own. She dares to step onto land on shaky legs and claims a new world. Uncharted territory is a creative place. There she combs her hair with a fork and writes her own rules.
Let me tell you a story
As a girl I was not alone when I discovered myself. We were at the very beginning, unwritten. Explorers. We searched for what felt good and found it together. Her for herself, me for myself, both of us side by side in the same room.
My friend had a key to her bedroom door. Next to her bed, which served as a sofa during the day, stood a dispenser of hand cream. It masked the smell on our hands on the way to the bathroom. Where we would wash off what only felt wrong beyond closed doors. We knew that the moment we stepped from her room into the hallway, we were where shame lives. I still remember that smell exactly — the way this hand cream mixed with pussy. To this day the memory turns me on. To feel like a girl again, before I became a woman. Without having to be the whore who always wants it, or the mother who never does. Who is supposed to function and deliver, emotionally and sexually. This door we close.
Dreaming already?