A day to forget,
to forget to remember,
pearl of nothingness.


Planet Ezzie (11. Inverted)


Photo by Wesner Rodrigues from Pexels

XI. Lust (inverted)

I was gagging for it when I awoke this morning. I put on some sexy pink panties (the only pink in my wardrobe) and warmed up for my rehearsal.

I felt a little odd, and then … wham! I’m menstruating again. A heavy flow destroyed my pink panties. I know, TMI, but it is important. I was never particularly regular, but I haven’t had a period in two years. It was an easy menopause, possibly thanks to my po- po- … you know, what happened before the intercession, interloper, interruption, … um, intervention. I was having a lot, repeat, a lot of sex.

Where did that leave me? Sex was certainly out tonight, but we’ll get to that in a monument … moment. Beatrice is angry with me, but she caused it. Who is she to complain? Anyway, if she wants me pregnant, menstruation is part of the deal. It just means that I’m not likely to be fertile while David is in town. It meant that I had to make a stop to the drug store on the way into the city for rehearsal. The rehearsals went well, and then to dinner with David.

I really do like him. He’s witty and down to Earth, and it has been a while since I’ve met someone new who doesn’t just “love your accent! It’s so [fill in your own stupid adjective]!” Of course, he has the same accent … well not quite, he’s a northerner with an adopted Oxbridge accent, and I’m a douchebag … err, Londoner, softened to more of an Essex accent. A Cockney accent never really fit my personality, and my parents were from Basildon.

So after dinner at his hotel, we went up to his room and stalked, balked, fucked, … um, talked and talked. I couldn’t actually do anything, except … maybe pet, and kiss … things like that, and I confess we did do a little of that before the coup de grace, when he told me he was gay … well, bi, but most of his relationships were with men. He really liked me, but … There’s always a “but”. At least he told me before a 6-year relationship.

What is it about me that attracts gay men?

It didn’t stop the petting, though, at least long enough for him to reach for the stars (adjacent to the unicorn), and become very familiar with said beast. After I had tamed his beast, we discussed the significance of my markings, before I left for home, at the udder … utterly reasonable hour of 3 am. If we have sex this weekend, he knows what he is getting into. We didn’t make further dinner plans, although we are having lunch on Saturday. He flies out immediately after the Sunday matinee.

Am I off the hook? With David, probably, but I now have to worry about the possibility of pregnancy again.

Planet Ezzie (4. La petite mort)


So much for my vow of celibacy.

We had a guest conductor in this week for a concert performance of Alban Berg’s Lulu. Sakari-pekka was blonde, young, and Finnish. He started feeling, touching …. chatting me up even before the first rehearsal. The succ, succu, … you know, she who “doesn’t” poss..ss..ss – you know what I mean – she tried a different tack with him. No spontaneous orgasms (and none since). He was perfect for her (and possibly me, too), but nothing. Still nothing, even as I fantasize about having sex with him. During the week, as he flirted with me, I was desperate for it. Finally, after a spectacle, spectacles, err, specialists, uh, species, … grr! … a spectacular concert, he made his move, and I couldn’t resist.

It was the most incredible sex I had ever had, but there was one problem. He reopened the bite marks on my soul. The ecstasy was trebled by the searing pain of her touch administered by his fingers. The sex was so good that he couldn’t leave fast enough.

I fear for his soul.

I am damaged beyond repair. My vow lasted only a week. She can’t control me physically, but she can toy with my desire.

2. Peace (inverted). Indecision, confusion, information overload, stalemate.

All of those, especially information overload. Rather than satisfaction, in the act of orgasm, she stokes my desire. I believe she took me to the brink of death and let me look at it full in the face. The French call it la petite mort, the little death, and she took me to death and back again. Did I die and return to life? No, but I embraced the grim reaper and lived to tell the tale. Surely, she wants me to tell it, too, as she hasn’t interrupted the flow of my typing since early in my story. I think she was just being impatient.

She gloats in her power. She is Beatrice.

It was only now, after so many months that she has revealed her name to me. Beatrice is the symbol of divine love in Dante, yet in me she is its opposite: damning lust.

She is Beatrice, and I am doomed.