Dear Future Lover,

There are a few things that you need to know about me if you want to give me my Hottest Sexual Movie. For me, intensity is the name of the game. This means that during sex, I enjoy when every part of my body becomes super sensitized, when there is so much heat and energy in my pussy, inside my chest, and on my nipples; when every touch, word, and gesture that you give me drops me deeper and deeper into my arousal and my desire for you; when there is so much uncontrollable energy moving in my body that even kissing me or licking me in a non-sexual area, like my wrist or ankle, feels like you are eating me out.

In order to get here, we have to start at the beginning…approximately 3-5 months back, when we first meet, perhaps at a get-together through mutual friends. We are both in an upbeat mood and your vibe is chill, lighthearted, and friendly. Maybe you’re a jokster. Towards the end of the night when you are driving me and a few of your friends back home, I say, to no one in particular, “It’s a bit chilly, huh.” You stop the car in the middle of the street, take out your jacket from the trunk, and hand it over to me. I am a bit surprised and turn red in the face because other people are there and I didn’t ask you to get me a jacket. But to be honest, I enjoy the special care and concern you show towards me. I also enjoy the fact that you don’t care who is there to witness this. For the next several weeks, before we even kiss, you surprise me with little actions that show me you care about the connection we have. Contrary to how everyone sees you (a laid back/ easy-going person), there is nothing chill or laid back about your attitude when it comes to me. When you say, “I will pick you at 6. I can’t wait,” you are outside at exactly 6pm, ready to spend time with me.

See, I have a Core Desire of feeling cared for on an emotional level, regardless of how that makes my lover appear to other people, so when you stop the car to get out a jacket for me in front of your friends, you touched on this Core Desire. I also have a Core Desire of feeling special, so when you behave different with me, as you did when you became attentive towards only me in the car, I felt special because I’m the only one you are attentive towards. Another Core Desire I have is to feel safe, so when your words, actions, and feelings all align, as it did when you picked me up at 6pm, I felt safe, like I could trust you.

Consistently, and enthusiastically, touching on these 3 Core Desires over a period of time is what will open up my heart to you. And since my heart has a direct, one-way connection to my pussy, consistently touching on these desires is what will make my pussy melt for you, forever.

Please note: I mention a one way connection from my heart to my pussy. There is zero connection from my pussy to my heart, so attempting to do all kinds of tricks on her, or attempting to do any of the things I mention below, before opening up my heart, will not give me my Hottest Sexual Movie. Also note that the examples I mention above are only examples; there are many ways for me to feel that your words, actions, and feelings all align, there are many ways for me to feel that I am cared for on an emotional level regardless of how that makes you appear to other people, etc.

Now, once my heart is open for you, meaning I feel intense heat inside my chest and tingling sensations on my nipples and my pussy every time I see you, hear you, or even think about you, I am ready to dive into bliss with you.

So far, nothing in our conversations has ever implied we will be having sex— nothing has been said, either overtly or subtly.  Our time together has not been lusty. It has been cute, sweet, and cordial. But secretly, there has been a passionate longing brewing inside me, one that grows every time you brush upon one of my Core Desires.

One day, I am at home working and I tell you, “You look so cute today, I could just eat you up.” Something inside you goes off and you decide today is the day. You notice that I am still busy and decide to let me finish up what I am doing before you take over the situation. You have a lot of patience and you know how to contain your erotic energy.

When I am done working, you tell me you want to cuddle on my bed. We sit on the bed and I kiss you on the cheek for the first time. My pussy and my heart melt and I accidently moan. You don’t even kiss me back. You quickly push me onto the bed and look deep into my eyes with a possessed, almost angry, look. “You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?” I let out another moan, this time deeper and louder. I see you taking off your shoes and moan again in anticipation. At this point I’m so loud that the neighbors think we’re having sex, but we’ve yet to take off our clothes. Actually, we’ve hardly even touched (what they are hearing are the sounds of someone whose heart has been touched long before her body has been touched).

You quickly rip off all of our clothing except your briefs. And I just can’t take it anymore. Every inch of me needs you so bad. I watch you take off your briefs and my head falls back as I gasp for air. My mind, body, and soul are no longer under my control. They’re yours (I’m all yours). You forcefully bring my body closer to you and start talking dirty to me. I’m surprised at your strength and at the way you are talking to me, telling me you want to fuck me and give it to me so fucking bad. You look at me like I’ve done something wrong and I’m really gonna get what I deserve now. Seeing this animalistic side of you makes my pussy melt even more; I’m now shaking and gasping as the tip of your cock touches my pussy, as you gift me your precious cock in the most beautiful, tender way.

“You like when I give it to you like this, don’t you?” And I lose more of myself, hearing you narrate my thoughts. You try to remain dominant but it feels so good that you can barely make out complete sentences,

“so warm…”

” …and wet”

You begin to slow down, making sure to meet me deeper and deeper, and making sure

you watch my body

do things. It’s never done before

say things… it’s never said before

feel things it’s never felt before

Your hips are rocking back and forth,

back,

and forth

swayingupanddown, up

anddown

And I’m now in a trance of sayings and wordings and feelings and inches and inches of you

I open my eyes to see your body moving rhythmically; to see how you gently kiss the bottom of my feet and then put my toes inside your mouth because you want more of me. My pussy can’t help but to get more hot and more wet and more tight for you. We are totally attuned to each other. Totally in love and totally uninhibited in expressing our passion, desire, and love towards each other. Every one of your words, your gestures, and your caresses sends me deeper into ecstasy. There isn’t a single part of my body that isn’t alive and in bliss. We’re at the point where there is no word, no caress, no gesture, that will stop my heart and my pussy from taking you in and exploding with pleasure–not now, not today, not ever. You love that you hold this power. And I love that you’re gentle with it.

I also love moments that are impossible to capture because they are something that die at the same time and place they are born. Moments so massive, that remnants of it remain sprinkled inside my body and throughout my soul. Remnants that will remain with me for a lifetime. I’m singing about the time you make me both yours, and free

like this

The creek is not necessarily a place to relax, nor is it a place for big thrills.  You can walk along a creek because the water remains at, or slightly above, the ankles. You can see the organisms that live beneath the water because the water is clear and transparent. You can sit on a rock in the middle of a creek without fear of being swept away. And since the creek is made up of fresh water, you can even nourish yourself with it.

The creek provides the right amount of stimuli and variety. There is movement and flow of water but it never overpowers, like a waterfall, or rages, like the ocean at night. When visiting an ocean or a waterfall, the main attraction are precisely those bodies of water—the ocean and the waterfall. But when visiting a creek, there is no main attraction. There are rocks, there are trees, there are fish, there is grass, there are mountains. And there is a soft trickling flow of water in the background.

At the ocean, especially at night, the waves are so loud that you cannot hear your own thoughts. At a lake, life is too quiet, too still, so that your thoughts seem to be louder.  But at the creek, you find a perfect balance between your physical body and your wandering mind. It is the place to bring your curious self, your pondering self, your somatic self, your full and centered self.

A caterpillar is born unaware of all the wonderful surprises its life will have. It is born at the bottom of the food chain and lives the first stage of its life simply surviving. It crawls on the forest floor, dodging birds, beetles and anything wanting to devour it. The highest point it can reach in the physical plane is the top of a tree, and to do that it must have patience (inch by inch, slowly but steadily).

Whereas most animals are born to master a skill (lions must master hunting to survive and beavers must master building a dam to do the same) a caterpillar is born to evolve. The main event in a caterpillar’s life is the metamorphosis it will undergo—the once in a lifetime event that will change its life forever (and for the better).

A caterpillar will go from being a prey to all animals to being the source of aesthetic pleasure to humans. It will go from crawling on its tiny, sluggish legs to floating in the air with its extravagant wings for all to enjoy and appreciate. Even its palate will change. It will go from eating plain leaves to drinking sweet nectar. By the end of its life, it will know two completely different worlds— that of the earth and that of the skies. It will go from interacting with worms and ants to interacting with birds and bees. It will know what it means to be confined to one place and then having the whole world suddenly open up because it now has wings to go anywhere it pleases.

What other animal exists that undergoes such a drastic change in its life? A tadpole may physically transform into a frog, but in what other ways does it evolve?  

The broad range of life experience makes the caterpillar beautiful, the fact that it seeks out its own transformation makes it admirable, and the fact that its change is so drastic is what makes it the epitome of hope.

It is the color of the ocean and the color of the sky—the depth of emotion and the vastness of thought. Clouds and waves. Way up high and way down low. It is flying and swimming, or sometimes, soaring then drowning.

It is found in your sleeping dreams, but also in your waking ones. It is duality and consciousness. Like when you consciously decide to either put on your feeling cap or your thinking cap, as opposed to Red, which represents force, reflex, and involuntary action.

Blue is quietly strong.

It can be sadness or serenity, depending on its shade. It is all forms of water and it is the visible veins under your skin—it is life. And it nourishes, and it soothes, and cools, and calms.

Gentle but powerful. Blue is purpose, clarity and infiniteness.

My stomach knows things I don’t.

-I can’t believe you’re actually coming

– Ugh, I know, right? What a drag.

Catching on to my sarcasm, you text back:

-Lol. Yeah, can we just get this over with?

“I’m driving to Mark’s place,” I giggle to myself during L.A. morning rush hour.

-I’m here

I get to your place somewhere in Inglewood.

-Ok give me a second

You open your door and slowly walk down the long concrete driveway, smiling and never breaking eye contact with me.

“Eyyy” You laugh.

For the most part I’m convinced it’s you. I will always remember these first moments as you open your gate and we walk up your driveway, several feet apart from each other, looking up and down at each other, remembering each other.

We get to your door and I feel stupid when I hear you say,  “Relax, why you in a rush? Let’s chill outside for a bit.”

We sit outside and you show me your skateboard and explain to me that you recently found this garage apartment. I tell you I’m happy for you.

We step inside your place and it’s dark. With your bed occupying most of the space, we barely fit but we make it work. You sit on your bed and I sit on the chair next to your bed. We talk a lot of small talk.

When you ask me if I want to watch a movie I say sure. When the movie gets boring you turn to me, blushing. “I just can’t believe you’re here,” you jump out of your bed and onto my lap. I pull back. I’ve never had a grown man sit on my lap before. But on second thought, it’s not weird. It’s you.

“Ok, come here you big baby!” I laugh and completely give into your affection.

“You just don’t know what you mean to me,” you stand up.  “I was going through some old stuff the other day and found your papa bear note,” you tell me as you search your wallet.

But you don’t have to show me, I know exactly what you’re talking about— the blue note I gave you with a picture of the Bernstein Bears family. With your big cheeks and your wild, grizzly hair you used to remind me of the Poppa Bear in that cartoon. But now you’re thin, and completely bald, and you seem older than you actually are.

I start to comprehend the lens in which you view me when I see you’ve attempted to laminate my Poppa Bear note using clear masking tape. Memories of our teenage days whirl inside me: the day we met walking up that hill in the Palisades, the first few times we hung out when you were so shy you could barely look me in the eyes, our first kiss in the darkness of the beach.

And now you start dropping bomb after bomb about your life: getting kicked out of your parents’ place, living through a traumatic childhood, your loved ones shutting you out, the times you’ve slept on the streets…

I try absorbing the shock of it all. How did I not know any of this?

“During those times I look at your Poppa Bear note” you confess. “I remember back in the day, I would just melt every time I’d see you. You have no idea. I was all about you. I even had your birthday as my pin number on my debit card.” 

I stay locked in my seat— fixed on you and the words coming out of your lips, hearing your thoughts and your feelings for me for the first time.  And you don’t stop. You continue striking every rusty chord inside of me.

“Whenever I think of you…” you look off into the distance, then slowly and deliberately choose your next words, “I think ‘Damn. I’m not—I know I’m not right for that girl. But if I were… that’d be awesome…’ ”

Suddenly I’m gasping for air.

“Aww, why you cryin’? You’re genuinely surprised and you try to comfort me but every word you speak only makes it worse.  Concerned, you lean towards me, “Karen, what’s wrong?”

I hide my face inside my palms and curl into my own lap. I don’t want you to see (a soul grieving for something, or someone, an era, a lost possibility).

You give me a few moments and repeat your question. I finally look up and see your bloodshot eyes. (I know you’re somewhere else.) “Nothing,” I manage to whisper.

After catching my breath, I tell you I feel bad for not being there for you. I should have been there for you during those hard times. I wonder if your life would have been different had I stayed. You contemplate that thought, as if things could have actually been different for you. I quiver. I break again. And I fully accept the guilt of leaving your life.

When you go into the bathroom I notice things. Candles with the picture of the Virgin Mary, a letter from a hospital, empty beer bottles.

I push myself to ask you a prying question. “Have you been drinking this morning?”

“Just a few beers. Don’t tell me you don’t like to drink a beer every once in a while.”

You tell me of your latest discovery: you just saw yourself in the bathroom mirror and realize you’ve aged quite a bit. You ask me if I think you should shave. You talk about plates flying across your room the other night, that’s why you had to buy Virgin Mary candles. When you start talking about things that don’t make sense I know it’s time to go.

“I have to go.”

“Ok, let me walk you out.”

We step into the morning daylight and you kneel on the ground, “Get on my shoulders, I’ll carry you.”

I get on your shoulders and for a moment you’re 16 and I’m 18 and we–

say goodbye.

-¿Mami ya es hora de trabajar? I ask my mom in the middle of the night.

-No Karen, todavia falta. Duermete.

But I’m too awake and too eager to start our day. ¡Vamos a trabajar!

When it’s time to get up, I’m so excited that I almost forget the order in which we do things: first get dressed, then pack our things, and lastly brush our teeth. We’re going to Malibu, I jump on the bed, reaching for the ceiling. We’re going to Malibu!

The bus-ride is grey and gloomy. We must’ve changed busses somewhere because we’re now on PCH riding along the misty ocean. When we step off the bus we’re in a different world. The roads are wide, quiet, and clean.  Slowly, we start our silent ascend. There are no cars in sight and when we hear one my mom says

-Stick out your thumb

I turn around and stick out my right thumb to the passing truck. We’ve already walked a lot because I see the ocean and bus stop are far below us.

When I turn back around I notice that neither my mom nor the truck have stopped and I run to catch up.

—

Inside Robert and Amanda’s house I touch and explore everything. My biggest amazement is how the kitchen connects to the hallway, the hallway connects to the living room, and the living room connects back to the kitchen. I run in circles through these rooms, over and over again, passing my mom at the kitchen sink with each lap.

But the real fun starts when Robert and Amanda wake up. Robert is the one who eats his boogers and Amanda is the leader in our group. I run back and forth between the siblings and my mom, asking my mom to translate their phrases. At some point I give up on the translations and simply do as they do. We try petting the fishes in the fish tank. When that doesn’t work, we pretend the dogs are horses and attempt to ride them.  When the dogs run away, we run all around the house, making a mess, and making sure to give my mom plenty of work.

We get to Robert’s room and Amanda puts a white cloth over my head. She starts singing. Something, something…

-Holy matrimony! Now kiss!

We laugh hysterically.

We watch sing-alongs, we play with Robert’s toys, we watch Robert put his boogers into his soup, and meanwhile, my mom watches us (and her watch).

It’s been a long day and we’re all tired.

-¿Ya terminamos mami?

-Sí

I jump on her back and fall asleep on her shoulder as she walks down toward the ocean.

It was Sunday afternoon. I know this for a fact because she was in the kitchen cooking for the entire week, and Sunday was the only day she had time to cook. For the next week, we would eat my favorite soup—Pozole. I was at my little black desk writing, when I decided to go into the kitchen.

“Ma, can I have my own room for my thirteenth birthday?”

She was at the sink washing radishes; she stopped for a moment and turned to her left.

“Pleeeease” I hugged her as I looked up into her glasses.

“I’m sorry baby, I can’t give that to you right now. But maybe I can get you your own bed. Do you want your own bed?”

No. I want my own room. I want to bring my friends over and hang out like a normal kid.

“Whatever.”

I knew there was nothing she could do. She’d already told me she couldn’t afford to rent a one-bedroom apartment. Even buying a second bed would be too much of an expense for a housekeeper trying to make ends-meet. I don’t know why I even bothered asking.

I sat back down at my desk and turned my spinning chair toward our living room, analyzing our shoebox apartment. Everything blurred. My face burned and I began to taste the saltiness on my lips.

But this was not the cry of a child—the one a kid cries during a fit because he knows that with that cry, he will get whatever he wants—that loud, hysterical, annoying cry. No. This was different.

This was a silent cry— the type of crying you try holding in because there’s no point. No one can help you. No one can take away your pain. It was my first adult cry.

I stared at the queen-sized bed we had shared since I was born and then to our brown wardrobe, patched with all our family photos. I’m not staying here forever. I slowly shook my head and angrily wiped the tears off my face. I’m fucking not.

When visiting a new city I tend to seek out abandoned houses, dangerous neighborhoods, and written-on walls. I particularly enjoy abandoned houses; I find these intriguing and for many reasons, these places bring a certain calm. Recently, I was able to exchange words with someone who is equally as obsessed with abandoned places as I am. He is a rule follower and said that in his life he feels rigidly controlled and confined by the city he lives in, his job, and daily transactions. There is something alluring about the places where control breaks down. I definitely relate to him, and I think many people can also relate. So then, why aren’t most of us flocking to these traditionally repulsive places? There must be something more.

Visiting an abandoned structure is aesthetically stimulating. Normally an abandoned house will be covered by wild grass, ferns, and animals. It’s chaos. The contrast between a man made object and nature makes for some interesting photographs. If the house happens to be in a remote area, it’s even more exciting because it is guaranteed that no one else will be there. This is the true beauty of an abandoned place. It is also the exact reason most people are not urging to visit.  Being alone, in a desolate area, is not everyone’s idea of fun. I can see how some of these places can be scary or dangerous. Still, the only thing I feel is freedom, appreciation and calmness. That, and a tendency to imagine what was there before- the history of the place, the devastations, tragedies, and the why’s. Why was the place abandoned? Where did the people living there go? What happened to make them leave? And does the place still hold a space in someone’s memory?