one year later


Some may still find me. Some may linger in the forgotten subscriber list, should the cobwebs release this update to the interwebs…

I am writing now purely out of self-indulgence… an indulgence I have not allowed myself in the last year. Denying myself pleasure was within my control–no longer was I subject to asking for pleasure from another, and it has felt powerful to tell myself no–strange so this may seem. I needed to retrace my steps to find out where I had gone wrong, where I let myself be led into stupid, stupid, unrequited love–and for so long. What was wrong with me? I read my own  words here and remembered why, how, and I can’t say that I was quite as stupid as I thought in hindsight. But also, I did have the hindsight this year to find truth elsewhere.

I did. I found my way back up the garden path, this time stopping to notice the small things I had forgotten as I wandered down, down, down, a rabbit hole more than a path,

I will say at this point that home is not quite the way I left it. It never is. For all the wondering of what may have been if we had remained on the straight and narrow, I have come to believe that we can try to be smart about our lives, but in the end, we can all be mistaken in moments of wishful thinking, or perhaps just moments of empathy. I wished for a happy ending. Maybe there still is one, but it is not here. And still, here–all here–is woven into the richness of my life.

On May 29, I will be closing  this blog down for good. It marks an anniversary, as well as a new beginning. It is the right time.

Though I wrote nothing in the last year, I could not bear to extinguish this public display. The pyre has stopped smouldering: these words, my protectors, now ashes.


my love

Dear readers,

Lady Dragonfly has died in the sunlight, the fate of many a dragonfly, sadly.

As they say, sunlight is the best antiseptic. The words I wrote here, everything I imagined and dreamed, were fiction. My own sentiments were not, but the situations were pure fabrications of my own ambitiously romantic mind.

I was bitter for some time when the sun came out, and the world–what I had known of it–was much uglier than I had guessed. I was hurt for much longer, as I caught occasional glimmers of light on areas of my love that had remained in deliberate shadows for so long. The truth was so much more painful than I realized at first, as others came to me, told me what I could not see before. The truth made me feel small, ugly, my dreams and wishes mocked, used.

In the end, I emerge with greater integrity, and realize the strength I have maintained in my life. And the world in sunlight is quite beautiful, after all.

I love my words here, still do. Please enjoy them as you like.

But most of all, I miss you. In many ways, I never could stop loving my lover, because I loved my audience. After awhile, I simply could not write, but i thought my words would return to me.

In truth, I realized that I do not want to exist in dishonesty. Some may argue that fiction itself is a sort of dishonesty, but I disagree. I feel that in our words, the purity of truth always rings true.

I am a Midwesterner in my roots. I learned early on that if you can’t say something nice, say nothing at all. And it is here that Lady Dragonfly ends.

I will be publishing in clearer waters now, and as I do, I hope to trip into some of you again. You all have wicked, wonderful imaginations, expansive minds, accepting spirits–and many of you have talent far exceeding mine. I hope to win your admiration as I transition into words with more grace.

I wish all of you a fond adieu, and hope to find you on the other side.


the former Lady Dragonfly


end of a beautiful friendship

Oh, readers, I been absent for so long, I know. Not because I didn’t want to write, but because the source of my inspiration here was gone.

In the last month, our relationship has unraveled completely. After some degree of ranting, and ultimately, reacting to my point-blank question about whether he was seeing someone else, my lover threw out a few accusations to me, none true, nor do I even think he believed what he said to me. Projection, a good friend suggested. But no matter. He picked a fight, and I chose not to fight back. He is gone. I did not stop him.

In reality, I knew it was over almost two years ago, the day before my birthday, an intense day when I told him I loved him. All was flying high with us, I thought, but at the point of my dewy-eyed expression of long-time love, he could muster only that he had known for a long time how I felt. The days that followed were no celebration, but filled with his worry and dismay at my decision to confess feelings that I had hoped were mutual.

I told him then, a few weeks later, with coaxing from a sex therapist, how much I wanted the everyday small pleasures of life with him. He reacted with an anger I never before believed possible in him. His anger changed my love for him, made me sad, despondent, unsure of all we had experienced together. And  I could no longer write about him. Hence my long silence here.

Our relationship could go nowhere from there but down, and down down down it went. He stuck around, and so did I–foolishly. But he went from expressing admiration for what I had accomplished to pitying me for having had to rise from a very difficult place. In truth, I realized that he thought–perhaps always HAD thought–of me as a lesser person.

True enough that he helped me, many times quite generously. I would have helped him, too–could have. I was thankful, yes, and still am. For a long time, I took these gestures as words that he could not say, but evermore he spoke of me as a person he was trying to rescue, as though he could see nothing else in me but a breaking down house and a burden. He disappeared for stretches, but was angry when I didn’t ask him for help. And yet, he guarded his own needs so carefully… was sure never to put himself in the place of ever letting me help him. That hurt perhaps the worst. And yet, there was pain to come: I learned over the last few months outright about this, and that in fact, Lady Dragonfly was a creature much submerged that my lover had never been honest, that he has had many other lovers while he was with me. Oh, no, I care so little about flirtations, sex, but he lied and let me keep loving him. He took my trust, the best of me, and I ache to have that back. He knew of my dreams. Where I thought he was ignoring me, he was cataloging my desires, denying me. Left me to wonder why he could acknowledge her publicly but not me. But not tell me. Oh, oh, it is all so painful. And yet I think back… how delightful my submersion was, when I blindly believed in him…

In truth, I knew my lover had misgivings about loving me right from the start, no matter what his actual feelings might have been. In all that time, I assumed much, but the slap of reality made me doubt. He was not in a rather privately agreed-upon open marriage, but in an elaborate infidelity… I was unaware of it for a long time–only realized recently that the whole game was incredibly well played. But I should have trusted my gut instinct–never in my life had I stuck with someone who was unable to express his own love for me. And I was sick from it all, not myself once I stopped making up these stories. Oh I cherish what I thought I had, and the creative energy I enjoyed in making Lady Dragonfly, and my dreams.

In all of this, though, I realize that I had lost so much of myself long ago, a marriage that could not stand the tragedies of life, the things that may bring stronger couples closer… In our humanity, we sometimes know ourselves so well only in the difficult moments; we define our own strengths and beliefs more than ever in crisis. We also discover the power of love, and those whom we love, and who love us. The real tragedy, then, is often in the dissolution of our beliefs about our relationships, and the trust we have in them. It is usually no one’s fault in particular, but perhaps a difference in vision, faith… and how to cope with situations that some may never encounter in a lifetime.

and before… My marriage was obviously some attempt to recover my own long desire for my father to stop hurting me. After so many wonderful, openly affectionate boyfriends, why else would I have chosen the one man who drew me in, but could never dive into our love without jealousy and control? Damaged he was,  too, and I imagine we were both trying to repair our childhood pain, but I digress.

The lover you met here had shared life experiences with me that we recognized before we ever met. We had faced tragedies, with a parent, with a child. I thought that our common understanding united us in love, as well. Now I think we saw this all differently; I believe he sought a mere respite, an escape–and not a joining of souls.

As for me, I thought I had left the sorrow of my marriage behind, but I realize now that I had not recovered completely when I met my lover. I believed in my lover, but I had not yet uncovered my formerly unwavering self-confidence and ability to walk away when it was clear that he was not available to love me. In the process of letting go of my very appealing lover now, I have remembered at last how to hold onto who I am. I have felt calmer and more sure of myself now than I have in over twenty years.

I have a new creative project now. Eroticism will always matter to me, but my new work has a greater emphasis on truth and expansion of love and loving. Thank you all for all your love and attention here, and please drop me a line if you want to know where to find my creative energy next. I will leave the Lady Dragonfly blog here for now, if you care to read, and dream as I did. I truly did love my lover, completely and without reservation. I love also what he inspired in me.


I loved my world, the one I invented there.

You were my dream, my desire. My foggy filled-in fabrication. 

Stolen moment, round the corner, down the street, behind the screen, not real. Not really.

I look back at the end days, the prying eyes, the assumption.

My silence, my defense. My delay. My sunlight, my truth. 


I was thinking back to that day in the museum.

I was thinking back to sitting in the museum cafe with you. You ordered something with polenta. I was drinking gewürztraminer, but I don’t remember at all what I ate, or if I ate.

All I remember was my cunt pulsing wildly after you fucked me in the men’s room.

It was glorious, you know. I remember sitting in the restaurant, with jeans and no panties, the seams sticking to my wetness. I remember that sudden warm rush as I shifted, and your come gushed from my pussy, soaking my jeans.

It made me hot with want for you then, love. You know? I wanted you then, wanted to take you back home and fuck you wildly all afternoon.

These moments are my museum, you know, these collected works of fucking you. Of loving you.

I wonder how the critics would see these works over time. Would they scoff at the sheer indecency of it now, proclaim it genius later? That is the way, the stereotypical response of misunderstanding.

Or would they find it forever nostalgic drivel? Love is such a common sentiment, after all.

But it inspired me then.

I think of all the moments I never would have enjoyed with you, if I had seen them without the lenses I wore, the ones that cast a pink happiness on everything we were.

You had the best of me, when I loved you.

No. That’s not really true.

You had the best of me when I thought you were the one in love.

pillow talk

My words were wandering, voices inflected, laughter, little more than that as we lay up in the dark room.

He is my friend, one I could tell anything, I imagine. I have. I am telling him my secrets about you, the things that you and I have done together, the things we might have.

We talked about sex parties and old lovers, and rhetoric. The comfort of words, here in the dark, devoid of anything but the warmth that eases them from brain to brain, topic to topic, bouncing and gently swaying sometimes. I thought of you, there, thought of the first star, and the dreams I long pushed down, as if my wishing would make them fade fast instead of bringing them to life. I wish, still.

My face reveals nothing here in the night, I realized, and I could just turn away, quietly. He didn’t have to know, and neither do you.

I realized then what I was trying to say to you, what I told you I wanted.

Not this. Not quite.

I lie in the dark and swap stories with my friend. We could fuck.

We could fuck and still be friends, and lie here in the dark, and it would not mean so much, except that we had fucked and laughed and were still friends.

And still, none of this is what I want with you.

I want context.

I want the dark.

I want the comfort.

I want the quiet and the night, your hand softly brushing mine.

I want to lie with you here, in the dark, and plot and scheme, the words as much the adventure as what we’ll do to invent them. As much as all we did to speak now.

I want to hear what you thought, today, and tomorrow, and what you think about what I thought.

Is it to0 late, for us, for pillow talk?

Were we looking for adventure? to feel alive?

Oh, love, the novelty of the moment is charming.. but it was never the new that thrilled me, you know.

It never was the shimmer on the surface, the fleeting smile that caught my eye.

It was the memory of the shimmer, of your smile back, thousands of nights later, the footsteps we heard, the knock at the door we answered, and invited in, and kept, treasure like the first night, retold, stripped down to this touch so familiar, the breath, so precious, ours.