Jan 262013

I have a strong masculine side that I’ve been exploring over the past couple of years. I don’t feel any less feminine, it’s just that sometimes I feel more like a boy. I’ve needed to pay attention to some pretty deep stuff. It’s confusing to acknowledge a piece of me that is so different.

At first I considered more of a butch persona. I appreciate butch women, but I don’t feel like one. At least part of the time I am a man. A gay man, who doesn’t want to be gay. I call him Jaxx.

There is a sexual component. I want to have sex as a man. Strap-on sex becomes more important, but not necessary. Jaxx is not as mature as I am – perhaps late teens or early adulthood. I have all of the sex drive, teen angst, and body image issues.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t look like I imagine myself to appear. I guess no one does, but it’s hard to figure out what kind of boy I am. How do I dress? What are my mannerisms? Who are my role models? How do I fit those things with my current limitations?

For example, I have large breasts – G cups. I have a compression vest to try to minimize my chest, but it still tends to be a problem. I need to layer shirts. I don’t have the chest I want to have as a boy. However, I can use a soft pack to give myself that all important bulge in my pants.

I’m still trying to figure out how I want to look, and I’ve only been brave enough to go out in public once, but I’m starting to own this part of me. I’m slowly feeling more confident as Jaxx. Ultimately I am who I am, regardless of gender. Here are a few photos we recently took of him…


Jaxx lighting up

Paxx Jaxx


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Sinful Sunday

Jan 192013

Pure fantasy can be a fun game… Let’s pretend that I am in the library, unwinding after a long day at work. I’ve stripped down to my fishnets, heels, and your dress shirt and tie. I’m going to read a little Keats, imagining that you are kissing me. I’ll let the scent of old books soothe me until you appear in the flesh to take me…

Reading in the library

Yes, you

Researching dangerous curves

Aching with desire for you


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Sinful Sunday

Jan 182013

DormantTomorrow I turn 40. Today feels like New Years Eve at the millennia – I’m ready to leave my past behind me and journey into a brave new future. I know that things will change, and inevitably some things will also stay the same. The past decade has already been a time of intense change and action for me. I’m ready to settle down and enjoy the fruits of my labors.

40 feels so final somehow. The end of my youth. I am wading through an internal dialog I didn’t know I had. Things like, sex ends at 40, which I consciously know to be untrue. I have internalized a bunch of societal messages that say I should try to minimize the lines around my eyes, stop wearing bikinis, lose weight, wear sensible clothes, and stop dying my hair purple. I try to ignore any thought that starts with “I should…”

Looking at my 40’s, if I buy into how our culture tends to handle sex after 40, I’ve only got a few options. I can start lying about my age, perhaps pose as my 21 year old’s sister rather than her mother. I can start trying to seduce her friends. This option involves wearing a lot of makeup and tight clothes, saving up for plastic surgery. Or, I can lapse into obscurity – say farewell to my sexual self and devote my energies to something real, like volunteering at school events, where I channel my bitterness and frustration into backstabbing the other moms.

I like to think that there are other options. Infinite options. Where people get to be who they are and want to be, regardless of age. Regardless of any identity that might seem to limit expression.

I started writing publicly about sex and publishing sexy images of myself at the age of 32, after having four children. At that point, although I was following my heart, I felt that I was probably too far past my prime for anyone to be interested. I decided not to worry about it. I’ve always written from my soul though. I’ve shown myself as I am, with all of my flaws.

This is how I try to change the world – just by being me.  We need enough people to stand up and say, I am a mom and I’m sexy. I am fat and I’m sexy. I have stretch marks and I’m sexy. I’m naked and I’m not wearing makeup and I am still sexy. I am who I am and that’s sexy! I’m over 40 and I’m sexy!

Not everyone is going to find me sexy. Even if I fit my idea of perfect, not everyone would be attracted to me. The important thing is that I feel sexy. Being confident and secure in my sexuality will give others permission to connect with me on a sexual level. This is one of those things that being another year older isn’t going to change.

EmergingBeing sexual after 40 isn’t tasteless, embarrassing, desperate, or indecent. It’s normal. I am blessed to have many role models for what a healthy and active sex life looks like. And most of them happen to be over 40.

If there is anything that I am taking away from this birthday, it’s that turning 40 is helping me to free myself from a bunch of myths and limitations that I didn’t even know I was carrying. I see this next decade as a time of personal depth and security for me. A time where I will very much enjoy sexual freedom with elegance and grace. Or fishnets and butterfly knives. Whatever.

Jan 122013

We have a problem with beavers. (Yes, it’s a never ending source of jokes!) The beavers have caused some flooding on our property, so we had to buy a pair of hip waders to muck around in.

Now, I’ve occasionally been told that I could make anything look sexy, but hip waders are a challenge. That thick, olive drab neoprene just doesn’t lend itself to sexy. Fortunately, I like a challenge, so Blyss and I went out into the backyard so I could rock the hip waders in 26 degree weather, in the half frozen creek.

Do you think I got it?

Evoe in hip waders

Evoe in hip waders

victory in waders


Photos by Blyss Enns 2013

Sinful Sunday

Jan 092013

Evoë readingIs it possible to have too much sex?

My brain and my sex drive say no way, but my body would like to object. I’ve been trying to strike a balance between the two, finding new and more creative ways to gratify my desire for sex, while giving my more delicate bits a rest. I’m a cheerful mess.

The muscles in my thighs and shoulders are sore – the result of some aerobic fucking. My clitoris is hot and throbbing. Masturbation and vibrator use has quite worn it out. Despite my attempts to stop pushing the button, sometimes the need has simply overcome my good intentions. Experiencing a little bit of a stinging sensation last night convinced me to stick with penetration. All the area of my mons is bruised from too much pressure and impact. There is a dull ache in my lower abdomen, presumably from repeated thrusting deep inside my cunt. My breasts feel overly full, nipples relaying an ecstatic thrill with every random graze of touch.

It actually makes me happy to be aware of my body this way. Sometimes my lust builds on itself, with my heightened awareness of my physical responses turning me on even more. For example, driving a distance home after rough sex and being doubly aroused by the seam of my jeans rubbing across my clit reminds me that I am a highly sexual being who needs release. It’s a cycle that winds me up to great peaks of pleasure.

Maintaining a constant (even low grade) level of arousal can be a lot of fun. Harold and I spent about 24 hours before our last date engaging in fantasy, making out, and a tiny bit of heavy petting. We did our best to inflame passion in each other. He offered to go down on me in a parking lot, but I wasn’t that far gone. I prefer my exhibitionism to be consensual for everyone.

The morning of our date I took a long luxurious bath, reading erotica and chatting with Harold over IM. For the first time in ages I got myself off with my fingers. Then I carefully chose my clothing to fit my mood and the fantasy we had been discussing. Everything helped to set the stage for our time together.

When we made it down to the cabin, I had some idea of taking photos, but we were both too excited. My cunt was soaking wet. I was breathless with anticipation. One kiss led to a big open mouth, tongue thrusting make out session. With every step we took, we fell further down the rabbit hole. Like dominos, each action inevitably brought us to the next, elevating our desire to a firery fierceness. We wrung every bit of pleasure out of that afternoon.

Letting the intensity die down a bit after that, I was able to listen to my body complain about being used so hard. I paid attention. I put antibiotic ointment on my clit because it stung like a fingernail scratch. I took cranberry supplements to stave off any chance of bladder infection from so much oral sex. I used a boric acid capsule in my cunt to avoid a yeast infection from penetration, even though Harold used gloves for digital manipulation. I take care of myself.

Our connection didn’t totally die. When we climbed into bed and fell into each other’s arms I felt the lust surge back up again. I wanted this man, wanted to hold him inside me, wanted to thrust into his soul. He was hard almost immediately and I was ready to go without any foreplay. We fucked for a second time that day, lush and lusting. When we were done I used the vibrator to come again.

butterflyI’m still going through my day feeling mildly aroused. Despite various pangs, I masturbated in the shower this morning. I am walking a knife’s edge between maintaining physical comfort and fulfilling physical desire. If my mind or emotions ever tell me to stop, I will. Sometimes this much intensity makes me feel uncomfortable. Occasionally, frustration over lack of fulfillment makes me break down.

Is this sex addiction? I don’t think such a thing exists. Can you be addicted to love? Or air? Everyone needs sex. It’s true that some people are prone to obsessive behavior around sex. People tend to make the same mistakes over and over, hoping for a better outcome, but addiction? My behavior during these times doesn’t hurt anyone and isn’t out of control. It’s more like living in a favorite erotic novel.

Too much sex? No, not yet enough for me.

Jan 072013

Hand shaped bruiseSunday mornings are one of my favorite times. I get a lot of work done. I usually wake up early, before everyone else. I get a cup of coffee and snuggle into bed with my laptop. Sometimes, like yesterday, I chat over IM with Harold, who is also up early. We just touch base. We tend to get ridiculously mushy. I can’t remember what we were discussing yesterday, but I think it was something that got me kind of turned on. I know I felt happy.

Much later, after the children were awake, I set aside my work and snuggled up to Joel to wake him. Actually, I rubbed myself all over him, hoping to share my sexual enthusiasm. He’s not a morning person, so that didn’t work so much, but I got some good skin-on-skin contact. When he could see straight, I handed him my photos for yesterday’s Sinful Sunday post.

I went back to working. Joel left to feed and water the children. Some time later, I was suddenly aware that a large bulge was moving toward me under the covers! Little kisses were planted up and down my inner thighs. I struggled valiantly to continue working, but then he shifted my panties to one side and started licking my clit. Who wants to work in this circumstance? I put the laptop down.

It was really some of the best oral sex I’ve experienced recently. The boy rocked me with skill. I was totally into it, too. Normally I am very nervous about making love when the kids are home, but I knew they were safe and occupied. I let myself go into the sensations. Joel pressed a finger to the moist opening of my cunt. I squirmed against him, mightily aroused and wanting him in me.

He teased me, slowly letting one finger slide into my pussy, still making slow even flicks with his tongue. I spread my legs wider to accommodate him. My fingers ran over erect nipples, the fabric of my tank top heightening the sensation. I groaned and ground my cunt into his hand while simultaneously trying to lift my clit closer to his mouth. I wanted more.

Joel gave me another thick finger inside. I felt full, stretched. I shyly asked if he minded me using my vibrator. Of course he didn’t mind. With his fingers and the Mystic Wand I came quickly and long. After experiencing every shudder with me, he pulled himself up to his knees, kneeling between my legs.

I took his cock in my hand, rubbing and caressing. I buried just the tip in my slick folds. His eyes closed as he tipped his head back in pleasure. My eagerness to fuck seemed to inspire him more. We were swift to find the easiest way to align ourselves for penetration. That moment when he slowly and firmly pushed his cock inside me was the most delicious. There was a time (that was both too brief and lasted an eternity) where everything was absolutely perfect.

He fucked me hard, hands griping my ankles tightly. I could feel the energy between us build. My g-spot was getting just the right kind of stimulation. I knew Joel was getting close to orgasm too, so I added as much sensation as I could – touching his nipples, making noise, squeezing my cunt around his cock. When he came, he thrust even deeper inside me and tried hard not to cry out.

I think the whole experience took only about 15 minutes. We felt very smug together, happy and relaxed. We resumed our Sunday activities satisfied, but with little fuss. He went off to check on the children, I went back to work. What an ideal work break! It was only later that I noticed the hand shaped bruise on my leg where he gripped me so tight. It’s a reminder of a good time. Working from bed has it’s advantages.

Jan 062013

Redecorating a segment of the bathroom this week left us with a very odd clean white space. I was quick to hand Harold the camera and jump into the void to see what kinds of fun shapes we could make in the weird little box. Like everything else that we do, photo shoots with Harold are hot! We make love in everything…






What else is happening for Sinful Sunday?

Sinful Sunday

Jan 052013

ThinkySeveral months ago Harold and I were having a passionate discourse in bed. No, we weren’t having sex. We were fighting about rape, which is weird because we’re both on the same side. Discussions about rape were everywhere as Republicans waged their war on women. I was overwhelmed by the media exposure and more than a little triggered. I wanted to discuss some of the things that were swirling around in my brain.

Of course, a conversation has at least two sides. I was coming from an emotional place and Harold was ready to try to solve our culture’s rape problem. It’s also not advisable to try to have emotionally loaded and potentially triggering conversations when one is mostly asleep, but there we were. We managed to get to a good place and go to sleep, but we’ve been discussing rape ever since. It’s frustrating to be at odds when we basically agree, but I think that struggling to articulate our thoughts is helping us to clarify our stance on rape.

Defining rape

I started our discussion with my definition of rape: to be penetrated without consent and to feel violated. It’s become obvious (to me) that we don’t have enough language to discuss rape and the aftermath easily.  It seems that when people talk about rape they are either talking about a legal definition or they are talking about how it felt to be raped. Both are valid, but it makes it terribly difficult to have a productive conversation when people are meaning different things with the same word.

I am mostly concerned with the feelings around being raped. Perhaps when we discuss the emotional aftermath, we could use the term violation, rather than rape. I don’t want to minimize rape in any way.  The physical act of rape is terrible, but bodies generally heal. The damage to the psyche is so much worse.

When people argue about whether or not a certain act is rape they tend to discount the victim’s feelings of violation. It is absolutely possible for someone to feel violated even if the experience would not meet a legal definition of rape. This is why the first reaction to any rape disclosure should be total acceptance. You don’t get a second chance. You can try to decide if the person’s experience “is really rape” at some later time. In the moment, they need you to believe them and validate their emotions.

Rape is very tricky. There are too many grey areas. In fact, rape is almost entirely grey area, as it rests in the victim’s feelings of violation and ability to consent. It often comes down to one person’s word against another. I can see why people tend to be terrified of being accused of rape, but right now I am focused on the victim’s perspective.

Feelings of violation

I want so badly to be able to describe what it feels like to be violated. I desperately want my partners to understand how I have been affected. I feel like my soul is stained. I know that I am strong, but I feel shattered inside. Something precious in me is broken.  My lovers have helped me through panic attacks and flash backs, but they cannot understand a thing they have not experienced.

Let me explain it this way… If sex is the most intimate experience you can imagine, a sharing of souls, then imagine someone being that close to you, deep inside you, against your will. That person may be someone you care about, which makes this invasion a monumental betrayal. Or that person might be repugnant to you, someone you would not choose to share yourself with. Or maybe you would have, except that your right to make a choice was stripped from you, as though you weren’t really a person at all.

Being violated leaves a mark. I see that mark reflected in people all around me. I can stand in a crowded room for a few minutes and point out to you which people have experienced sexual abuse, even though people deal with it differently. I see the stain. I think it has something to do with shame, that transference of self-hatred from the perpetrator to the victim.

Ability to consent

The ability of everyone involved in a sex act to consent is a huge part of the rape discussion. Some of it is fairly accepted in our culture, like children being unable to give consent. We slip into legal definition areas in the teen years, where each state has decided for itself how old one must be to legally give consent and how old one’s partner can be for it not to be statutory rape.

Consent becomes fuzzy when people are under the influence of drugs or alcohol. Inhibitions are relaxed and someone is more likely to consent to an act in the moment that they will feel violated over the next day. It is not worth the potential harm it could cause to try and have sex with someone when they are inebriated. Furthermore, I believe that someone who takes advantage of an altered state in order to get laid is indeed a rapist.

The most difficult area of consent is where someone doesn’t say anything at all. This is not consent. The lack of a definitive “no” is not a “yes”. Let me be clear: only a “yes” is consent. There are many reasons that someone might not be able to say anything in the moment. An abuse history may have taught them that their protestations will go unheeded. Fear or a desire to be loved may keep someone from speaking out in an uncomfortable situation. Get positive affirmation from your partner before proceeding. Stop if it feels wrong.

After the fact

I hear a lot of people expressing an opinion that rape didn’t really happen if it wasn’t reported right away. If we accept that feelings of violation are a valid definition of rape, than we must accept that those feels are valid at any time. Emotions do not have expiration dates.

Rape is insidious. There are many reasons that a victim might not tell anyone right away: People often feel that what happened was their fault. If they have experienced abuse in the past, they might feel that sexual abuse is normal. They may feel that no one would believe them anyway. Sometimes victims are so unable to cope with the trauma that they put the memory away for a time. Whatever the reason, rape is still rape, even if it doesn’t get disclosed immediately.

If someone reveals to you that they have been raped, the important thing is to tell them that their feelings of violation are valid. This is not in any way debating the facts of the incident, this is purely and simply stating that they are entitled to their emotions, whatever they are. It infuriates me when people question the validity of a victim’s experience rather than supporting them.

Rape Culture

Rape is the only crime I know of where most people respond with doubt. I could tell you that my house was broken into or my car was rear-ended and the majority of people would be sympathetic and supportive, but mention rape and the response is often, Are you sure? Did you do something to bring it on?

The inability to get a compassionate response when disclosing abuse is nearly as traumatizing as the experience itself. Our culture is so busy denying that there is a rape problem, that we fail to support the people who need the most help. We need to create a safe environment for abuse reporting.

Yes, I get that a world where heinous sex crimes exists is a difficult place to live and you’d rather not acknowledge that abuse happens all around you. It seems easier to blame the victims, but by denying their stories, you are creating what you fear. When you fail recognize feelings of violation, you are in fact supporting rape culture.


Going back to my discussion with Harold, we have come to believe that the solution to our culture’s rape problem lies in open acceptance of people’s feelings of violation. We need to be able to say, openly and without fear of judgment, when we feel violated. We need to be heard and supported in those feelings so that everyone everywhere understands that it will not be hidden. Rapists will not be held accountable in our culture until we place emphasis on the emotional harm inherent in this crime.

Once we can have a dialog where victim’s emotions are given weight, then we can have a conversation about “what actually happened.”  A truly open forum for discussion is going to benefit everyone— not only people who feel violated, but also people who feel wrongly accused of raping.  And if our whole culture hears and understands how much rape hurts, it will be harder for anyone to pretend that it’s ever “justified” or “excusable” or “provoked”.  Until that time, though, we’re all complicit in perpetrating the secret world of sexual abuse.