Moving on out

A couple of months ago Maestro and I were going our separate ways and moving out. Well, circumstances change and while we’re no longer in our beautiful luxury condo, we’re still roommates and FWBs, and our sexy little business partnership to inspire middle-aged women – hell, ALL women – to embrace their sexuality in all sorts of weird and wonderful ways, thankfully continues. Maestro is still the most skilled, intense and creative lover I could have ever imagined. I will always trust him with my most kinkiest of kinks. So our adventures together continue. And evolve. And surprise me. Kind of like the state of my menopausal body. Sometimes I’m swooning with joy and unknown pleasures and other times it’s like I’ve been dropped out of the sky by the side of a freeway (Being John Malkovich style … I highly recommend it! The movie of course, I’m not sure I want to see the world through Malkovich’s eyes. Or literally, end up in a ditch by the New Jersey turnpike.)

So the last month has been a whirlwind of a quick one week trip to chill out in the desert right before all the travel restrictions took hold, followed by 2 weeks of self-isolation in my friend’s basement and then a brutal couple of days of packing, cleaning and moving. But moving is like that, and I am no stranger to moving. This is the 18th place I’ve lived as an adult, and Maestro is my 13th roommate. And that’s not including all the women with whom I shared a hostel room when I lived at my beloved High Street Hostel in Edinburgh for 6 months way back when I was a  young wayward travelling party girl. (And there are stories I’m writing about those days … my crazy early 20s that help explain my crazy early 50s!)

That’s my explanation for why I’ve been absent. But I’m now set up with high-speed internet, my trusty laptop and a comfortable little spot to write. Maestro is hard at work building furniture, designing the sound and lighting, and licking pussy … and soon this house will be so beautiful I won’t want to leave.