late night calls

Three years of calls usually on Friday nights at 2 AM and many promises of a visit. Letters and stories filled with lust, love, longing, and passion exchanged through the years. Excuses turn into weird 4 AM calls on various nights that last less than five minutes with excuses of going to bed when I was the one awoken. It hurts my head and heart.

my office mate

I met Bob while I was in the middle of chemotherapy. I had no hair & chose not to wear a wig. Instead, I wore beanie hats. To be certain there was no confusion, I informed him that I might be vomiting at some point or another and explained the situation. I think we talked about breast cancer and women he knew who went through the treatments. I recall that towards the end of the day, he felt completely comfortable and inquired about the extent of my hair loss while slowly gesturing from his head down towards his private area. I just replied that I was as bare as when I was twelve years old or something like that. (He insists that he waited a week before asking the question.)

That's what I like about Bob. I never have to worry where I stand with him. He cuts to the point which is sometimes difficult to hear, but I find his directness refreshing for the most part. We can talk about most anything and we do. It's miracle that we haven't been busted considering one of the big bosses uses the office next door when she's in east county.

I cannot even get angry with him when he gets all the male attention.

no gym = insanity

Typically, I process all of my nagging thoughts and insecurities while working out at the gym. Due to my extended illness, all of those thoughts and issues have cabin fever. It is driving me insane!! I have not felt like this in a long time and I really have no other coping mechanisms that I can remember. Sleep is calling.

I don't fit in,

I never have. I'm always standing on the social circle line, but never step inside. I am friendly with everyone, but am close with only one or two.

Mirage

The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
Was but a dream; and now I wake
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream's sake.

Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;
My silent heart, lie still and break;
Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed
For a dream's sake.

Christina Rossetti

She has been one of my favorite poets since high school. I've always loved this poem. There are more that I enjoy, but this one has always remained with me, the words tattooed on my heart.

When I looked up this poem, I found my prom picture holding the page. My date ended up being Craig, a friend and a junior. He had a girlfriend (and I had a huge crush on him), but she allowed him to go with me as I was the safest girl to send a boyfriend with as I never talked and was dreadfully shy. (Craig saved me when my first date bailed a week or two before prom.) I was disappointed when he didn't put up his mohawk and didn't ask questions about the bullet holes and blood stains on his tux. I was so nervous, I spent the night cursing in such a manner that a sailor would have blushed. I was so completely obnoxious. Years later, Craig told me it was one of the best times he had ever had.

I prefer my men

sober and slightly anxious. Playful, intelligent, affectionate, and tattooed are traits also high on the list. Words affect me. I like men who use words like 'arduous' and 'travail' in everyday conversation or correspondence. I also enjoy learning new things so it is always a turn on when someone introduces me to something new especially artists, literature, or music. I don't need the flowers or generic symbols of adoration. (That's not to state that I don't enjoy them when I get them.) I've had several lovers write me poems. I've been serenaded in private. It's the everyday details that excite me. A man who can remember that I drink tea (not coffee), love dark chocolate, and prefer stargazer lilies (to roses) is going to impress me. He has to be able to make me laugh, as well.

lymphedema

I have to wear a compression sleeve and glove on my right arm. People often think I have carpal tunnel syndrome or that I am a burn victim. The sleeve and glove are an ugly beige color. I keep hoping they will make them in hot pink or black, at least. I have suggested that they make one that has tattoo designs on it, thus a 'full sleeve.' Both pieces keep my arm and hand from swelling with lymphatic fluid as I have no lymph nodes in my right armpit.

When my hand first started swelling, I made jokes that it would be great if I was a lesbian with a girlfriend into fisting. (My hand swelled up to twice the size of my left hand.) I also joked that I felt like Dave Grohl in the 'Everlong' video where he has the huge hand.

Most often, people do not even notice that I am wearing sleeve as I often wear cardigans to cover it. Lately, I have started telling people that I have a spanking injury and have to wear the sleeve to support my fetish (but only if they are cute).

blindfolds

Even when I was young, I often was fascinated by the image of someone blindfolded. The scarf/material folded neatly or not, cushioned against the eyes, and the wearer relinquishing control to another.

As an adolescent, I was enamored by one of the Whitesnake videos. My sister accused me of being a lesbian, but I never admitted it was the blindfold that had me enthralled. I guess I thought it less perverse to want women rather than admit a blindfold fetish.

As an adult, I am completely taken by the image of a man blindfolded and ready for me. It has never happened except in the many images and scenarios in my mind. I think it has to do with vulnerability and trust issues. If a man is blindfolded, it allows me to relax and not concentrate on my fears about my body image. It gives me the control to act out my fantasy without worrying about machismo actions on the part of my lover. I have no problem stating what it is I want or need, but I am not always heard. This happens in my daily life, as well. I wouldn't mind wearing the blindfold, either. It would be nice to have that kind of trust and belief in another, for once.

Siobhan Ducharme

The name I planned if I had a daughter is now going to be my pseudonym for erotic stories. It is my paternal grandmother's maiden name. I still have to think on this. I may just use my first name: Shana Ducharme and pronounce as it was intended.

Once I write the words,

I feel better. When thoughts or issues plague my mind, it makes me crazy and confused. The minute I get the words out of my head, I can deal with almost anything. I am a listener for the most part. I spend my days listening to other people's thoughts, issues, and stories. I ask questions and respond appropriately. In my daily life, it is almost never about me. That's why I say that I'm invisible. I often wonder if anyone would even notice if I stopped posting or didn't show up places. I like that I can write about me because I believe that no one reads it anyway.

After all, there are no comments.

gdi

I believe Ren gave me the title of goddess of decadence and immorality in the summer of 1987 in the hopes of getting me to attempt to live up to the name. I guess sitting in my room listening to the Smiths and reading were not the most wild things she thought I could have been doing. I've had my moments (and the potential) but I don't believe that I've ever lived up to the title. You would have to ask my ex-lovers. If you read my erotica, you might believe it but first you would have to convince me to let you read them. I don't show my stories to anyone because it always causes problems for me. People are shocked and look at me differently.

I started using the title again to remind me that I'm not dead. Now it just makes me smile and think of wicked things in my mind. I think it's time to start writing the naughty stories again. It will keep my mind off of the issues that have been troubling me.

holding it together

I've been good, but after being ill for over a month I cannot pretend everything is okay. (Yes, I've talked with my oncologist, but he does not know why this is happening.) It may just be my body reacting to the good changes I've made this past year, but my body does not feel right. The fear of having cancer again is taking over and I can't even work out to relieve my anxiety and stress. My closest friends and family are no comfort. They expect me to be the epitome of strength and endurance. They want me to tell them everything is fine. What I want is for someone to hold me and tell me that I'm okay. I won't hold my breath.

lullaby

When I was a freshman in college in rural PA, I was stuck in an all girls dorm with an older (junior) roommate and giggly, big-haired chickie girls on my floor. All of my friends lived across campus in the co-ed dorm. My roommate went home every weekend leaving me alone on the wrong side of campus. I was so shy, I couldn't even call to place an order for a 'boli (stromboli) from the Sugar Bowl. This lead to a lot of anxiety, insomnia, and weight loss.

Every weekend night when I couldn't sleep, I would always listen to music to try and soothe me. (Sometimes, I was lucky and and there would be a Smiths marathon on the college station.) All my albums had been left at home and I had a limited supply of tapes, so I had to rely on the radio. As the hours went by, my mind would tell me that I would be able to sleep if only I could hear 'Nights in White Satin' by The Moody Blues. I would spend hours running the dial of my radio searching endlessly for the song knowing that my reward would be sleep. Eventually, I would find someone playing Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' in its entirety which would inevitably put me to sleep. This was my weekend routine for most of my first semester at Millersville University. The next semester, I ended up transferring to Gaige Hall, the co-ed one, across campus and forgot my late night searchings for that song. I was busy with other things.

Years later, I was having a conversation with my father about my love of the music he played when I was growing up. Both my parents were always surprised that I still listened to all of 'their' music. I ended up telling him the story about my nightly quest for 'Nights in White Satin' and my sincere belief that I would be able to sleep if only I heard that song. He stared at me dumbfounded and asked me if I was joking. I asked him what was wrong. He then informed me that he and my mother would play 'Days of Future Passed' by The Moody Blues when I was taking a nap or going to sleep for the night. ('Nights in White Satin' is the last track on the album.) Wow. I still get a complete sense of calm and contentedness when I hear that song and the little poem thing at the end of it. I would have a copy of the song, 'Nights in White Satin' but my father stole the tape when I moved to California. It's a good thing I don't need it any more, but I may still put it on my list of cds to buy.