A serial diary. Like all best moments - meant to be shared. Brilliantly. 6:47am
My Beautifuls, it is so good to know you are there. That you want to know me. That you want perhaps to see a glimpse of yourself in my life - and have subscribed to the fun of sharing my real life. Because Darlings, I am going to share everything. At least, that is what I tell my pen to write.
· · · The ocean is performing its usual morning symphony - all crash and whisper, promise and retreat. I'm drinking coffee on my deck wearing nothing under my petal pink lace robe. I've earned the right to greet the sunrise however I damn well please.
One from my tribe of Darlings called yesterday. "I may be bugging you but," she said, with that particular tone that means she's been talking to her therapist about me again, "have you ever thought about writing things down? Your stories?" Stories. Such a polite word for what I've lived.
Here's what you should know: I’ve loved often. Declined three marriage proposals with excellent manners. Broken two hearts - including my own. I've made love on five continents, learned to say "you're beautiful" in nine languages, and discovered that the most erotic thing a person can wear is confidence.
That, and what lives in my carefully curated lingerie drawers. I’m still wearing last night’s lace underneath this robe. Not because I planned to. Because I forgot to take it off. But I'm getting ahead of myself. That's the thing about being a woman of intrigue - people expect either shame or bragging. I'm offering neither. Just truth. Served neat.
My name is, well. You know my name. I've built a life most people wouldn't understand. I have a tribe of friends - men and women - who know all (well, most) of my secrets and love me anyway. And yes, I've lived enough romance to fill several lifetimes. And I'm not done.
I never set out to collect lovers like seashells. I set out to live fully. To say yes to connection. Believing that passion doesn't have an expiration date stamped on it like supermarket milk. My body has told its own stories - softened here, strengthened there, written in silver stretch marks and sun-kissed skin. And somehow, I have never been more desired. Or more desiring.
This morning, I'm thinking about that one summer. Or maybe it was autumn? No - it's definitely summer. I can still smell the night-blooming jasmine that clung to the walls of the Airbnb. That was the year everything changed. The year a whole new chapter of what I'd built found its shape. It was a hell of a party.
But I'm jumping ahead again. See this why my Darling friend is right. It's time to write it down. My love letter - to romance itself, to the partners who taught me, and let me be frank, the ones who went to school with me as their teacher, too. To the friends who held me together and helped me write each chapter.
And most of all, perhaps, to the version of myself who dared to choose desire over duty. All while celebrating the women looking for the freedom and confidence to wear something like that plunges high and low - and who didn't know they needed me until they met me.
The sun is fully up now, painting the waves in shades of copper and gold. Somewhere out there, on some day I haven't visited yet, there is another chapter waiting to be written. Or maybe the next great story is closer than I think.
Wait. Someone's at my door. At 7 AM. On New Year's Day. I think I'll change into something that is both more and a tad less, Ladies. I'll be subtle. Pull these shorts on under my wrap. It's never too early to make an entrance. Even if it's in your own beach house.