It doesn’t hurt anymore, though. Good to know I’m not allergic, just feeling stupid and sorry that my fierce little honeybee had to die to teach me a lesson. There is nothing I can do to bring her back, no offering or apology. All I can do is learn from experience. I should not have gone into the middle frames at all. Delicate stuff, making babies. It’s life or death in there. I should have respected their inner chamber. That’s where the magic happens.
One month since my bees moved in and they are a thriving busy hive. I’ve seen a drone, a male whose only job is to fuck the Queen with his endophallus, pop off into her Queen V, then die shortly after. A queen typically gets gangbanged and creampied by up to 20 drones in an afternoon. It’s enough cum for her to lay eggs the rest of her life.
Queen Puabee is productive and beautiful! Her all-female worker bees are attentive and protective. When I went into the two middle frames a small army attacked me. I was wearing a beekeeping veil and jacket, but one of the worker bees stung my thigh right through my skinny Levi’s. I suck at making a smoker so I had no smoke and I don’t want to smoke my bees out anyway, so I walked about twenty feet off and lit my smoker again and surprisingly it worked and I smoked myself out until the bees left me. Then I went back, closed their hive back up, and filled their feeder with simple syrup.
Just two weeks earlier on the 14th day beehive inspection, they weren’t as fiercely protective yet. Get a glimpse of Queen Puabee in this video — she is marked with blue paint on her thorax — and listen to me get all excited about larvae.
I’ve wanted this for so long and now I finally did it. I set up a beehive.
There were about 15,000 bees and Queen jammed in this traveling box for 1,500 miles. Tired and hungry for days, they were in no mood to be shaken and pounded out, even if it was into a more spacious hive where I had over half a gallon of sugar syrup waiting for them.
I couldn’t have done this without you and your support of my projects, so congratulations to you, too. WE STARTED A BEEHIVE!
I will be checking in on the queen in a few days to make sure she is feeling sexy in her new home. I’ve named her Queen Puabee, after the Sumerian Queen Puabi of the First Dynasty of Ur.
I’ve been keeping our two acres lush and inviting to pollinators and other wild creatures for years. I’m confident that there will be plenty of nectar for everybody.
It might still be a long time before I see some honey. This early stage is all about my girls building the combs for Queen Puabee to lay eggs. Once they make honey I’ll have to make sure they have enough to survive over the winter. So much to learn but I’m really excited to do it.
Some days I am insatiable. I crave sex and sensation to remind myself that I’m alive. Other days I lose myself in the abstract world, the pages of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein or the chaos of the internet. I forget I am flesh and blood until my head throbs and my stomach rumbles.
I suspect you feel the same way, caught in a pendulum of not-life and not-death. Without a routine, the distraction of jobs, and constant societal demands, we are forced to contend with the real questions. What is life about? What is my purpose? Is it the apocalypse out there or an elaborate lie? If you think we’re living in a dystopia now, it’s important to note that some people in other parts of the world have been living a version of hell for a long time. What is my part in all of this?
It’s three days before the new year (and the new decade). I was going through my period tracker app, which I also use to log my sexual encounters, and realized that I have been faithfully logging data in it since July of 2010.
This is not a new concept. Since the dark ages, the nuns in my Catholic school taught us to keep a calendar in our sex ed class. They handed out blank graphs for charting our vaginal discharges and basal body temperature. I’ve been logging my cycles and sexual encounters right alongside writing in my diary since.
My teen cycles were unpredictable. Although I was sexually active at 15, it was a good thing I wasn’t having intercourse yet at that time or I would have been a wreck constantly worrying about whether I was pregnant. I got my first p-in-v at the age of 20 and birth control soon after. I quit birth control at the age of 30 and became pregnant within a couple of months. When my cycles resumed about 8 months after birth, my body was so in tune with the moon. Let’s start with my mom-bod numbers:
From July 2010 to November 2013 my cycles were between 26 to 34 days long, an average of 27 days.
December 2013 was a blue moon with two periods. My first cycle was 19 days long, followed by a normal 26-day cycle. It coincided with my first New England winter. From then on I had off-cycles once or twice a year, usually extra long cycles during the winter.
2017 I got extra long cycles in the summer months: 52 days, 47 days, 52 days… in addition to 49 days in the winter. This coincided with getting fitted with an IUD in the spring, which I did because my previous off-cycles were stressing me out. I had been sexually active with multiple partners and no birth control prior.
2018 became even more irregular: ranging from 16 days in May to 51 days in June, average of 32 day cycles.
2019 is the year of very long cycles: ranging from a normal 28 days in February to a whopping 80 days that spanned my entire summer. My average cycle is now 47 days. One word: perimenopause. This is the beginning of the end.
As for sexual encounters, my app has a limitation of only one Yes/No tab per day. I usually have partnered sex more than once a day. I entered more detailed information in the Notes section, but it isn’t quantified by the app, so although I have the data, the numbers are not pre-crunched for me. Even so I hope you like numbers because I’m about to hit you with my slut stats:
I had sex 303 days out of 365 in 2019. I had 1 primary partner for most, if not all, of the 303 days I had sex in 2019. 4 partners I had repeated sexual encounters with throughout the year. Another 4 partners I had only one sexual encounter with in 2019, but had encounters with prior. That’s a total of 9 partners, all male. I had no female partners in 2019, no new partners.
I had sex 277 days out of 365 in 2018. I had a total of 10 partners, 9 male and 1 female. No new partners.
I had sex 316 days out of 365 in 2017. I had a total of 24 partners: 1 primary, 11 male repeats, 8 male one-time encounters, 2 female repeats, 2 female one-time encounters.
I had sex 245 days out of 366 in 2016. I had a total of 25 partners: 1 primary partner, 3 men I had sex with in the previous year that I had repeated sexual encounters with in 2016, 10 new partners with whom I had repeated sexual encounters with throughout the year, 8 male one-time sexual encounters, 2 female repeats, 1 female one-time encounter.
I had sex 220 days out of 365 in 2015. I had a total of 20 partners: 1 primary partner, 1 man I had sex with in the previous year that continued in 2015, 4 new partners that I had repeated sexual encounters with in 2015, 9 male one-time encounters, 5 of them were in a gangbang.
I had sex 190 days out of 365 in 2014. I had a total of 3 partners: 1 primary partner, 1 male partner I had sex with once but had sex with him before, 1 new male partner I had sex with repeatedly throughout the year.
I had sex 215 days out of 365 in 2013. I had a total of 2 partners: 1 primary partner and 1 male partner I’ve had sex with for years prior. This was the year we moved from California to the North East.
I had sex 246 days out of 366 in 2012. I had a total of 4 partners: 1 primary partner and 2 new male partners, 1 new female partner.
I had sex 110 days out of 365 in 2011. I had a total of 4 partners: 1 primary partner, 1 male partner I’ve had sex with for years, 1 male one-time encounter, 1 female one-time encounter.
Only 2 partners are non-binary. The rest are cisgender. Don’t even ask me to do the math for my lifetime tally of partners.
I definitely grew sluttier in the years 2015 to 2017. Maybe it’s the long New England winters. Maybe it’s me hitting my forties and feeling like I’m about to run out of my fuckable years. I grew a bit more sane in the past couple of years, but it’s still way more partners than I ever had in California during my thirties and New York in my twenties.
I’ve contracted an STI only once in my lifetime: chlamydia in 2016, after my gangbang in December of 2015. Fucking Christmas present, huh? It cleared up with a round of antibiotics.
I gave every single one of my partners orgasms each time, but in the past decade only 4 of my partners had ever made me cum. Most of my orgasms I gave myself.
My primary partner accounts for almost all of the days I had sex because he was present whenever I’ve had sex with others, even though he may not always be in the same room. It’s very rare that I don’t touch base with him after an encounter with someone else, and then you can guess what happens when I get back together with him. More sex. So really, multiply the number of days with at least 2 and you’ll get an estimate number of times I had sex each year.
Your turn. Don’t worry, I’m the last person who will judge. And honestly, anyone who reads my blog shouldn’t have any business judging either. So tell me, how often do you have sex? How many partners?
Not gonna lie, I struggled with this year’s Birthday Nude. The entire process was discomforting. I found myself being hypercritical of my aging body. I booted up my images in Lightroom and moved the texture slider all the way to the left to smooth out my spongy middle. I sent the images to Photoshop and cloned my wrinkles and belly folds away. Then in a fit of frustration I closed them all up unsaved.
For the Birthday Nude series to stay relevant in the years to come I’m going to have to post these photos unedited as I always have or I won’t do them at all.
If I continue, I will have to confront my naked self, not just my aging body. My emotional reactions reveal so much of who I am. Posting it publicly adds another layer of confrontation. I will have to ask myself the hard questions. How do I feel? Why do I feel this way? Do I feel shame? What am I ashamed of?
I have come to an age when I am proud of who I am and where I’m at in life. That doesn’t mean I look at my body with rose-colored glasses. As someone who has spent decades creating media with my body, I can look at images of myself with objectivity.
In these photos I wear nothing but make-up. I have not given in to temptations of botox or cosmetic surgery. Yet. Maybe never. I don’t know. No judgement on those who do. I haven’t dyed my hair since four months ago and I’m liking the streak of gray growing out of the right side of my hairline.
I enjoyed celebrating my birthday this year. I feel like I’ve been celebrating for weeks now, random presents, time spent with people I adore.
I look at my healthy, beautiful, smart, and talented daughter and feel successful as a mother. Mothering my child has been top priority for the past fifteen years. Everyone and everything else took the back seat. It’s worth it. I invested my time and energy wisely. Now I’m opening myself up to mothering more of the world.
My co-parent, business partner, artistic collaborator, lover, my Man. How I love my Man. We’ve been through so much, good times and nightmarish ones. For so long I’ve taken him for granted, thinking he doesn’t need my mothering because he’s eight years older than me, bolder than me, everything more than me. I was wrong. We’re holding on for dear life and rediscovering who we are to each other at each stage of the game.
College boy somehow slipped in as one of my favorite people on this planet. We’ve known each other for years and he knows most sides of my compartmentalized life. During those moments when my Man was too emotionally involved in the situation to be my friend, my boy took me in his arms and told me he’s got me. I take care of him, too.
And you… I appreciate you. Thank you for coming along on my journey.
This year marks my 20th birthday nude. We shot at home. The photo above was taken in the barn hayloft, an amazing play space when it’s warm enough. It’s a reminder to seize the moment. Winter is coming. Life goes by way too fast. My time is limited. Soon we will have to leave our 169-year-old haunted farmhouse that we’ve made even more haunted with vintage treasures. I’m a little sad to go, but excited to begin once more.
The photo above was taken in the backyard, lush with wildflowers and this abundant hydrangea bush. It’s a sanctuary for birds, bees, and butterflies. Snakes and mice. Chipmunks and squirrels. The best approach to mothering nature is to let it be wild (also applies to mothering humans).
This past year I’ve been spending a lot of time in nature, hiking up mountains and swimming in lakes. This summer I participated in a podcast with Agam, for which they paid me by planting four trees in my name. I intend to plant more trees every year for the rest of my life as part of my legacy.
On the night of Friday the 13th, the same night there was a full moon, we had a little party. Days before our guests arrived my Man and I tossed a few scenarios around. In bed we whispered all kinds of combinations, things we’d like to do with our guests. One time while kneeling between his legs and sucking on his cock I said, “I want you to go to bed with another woman, hold her close, fuck her if she lets you, but if you find yourself still horny in the middle of the night, come find me in the other room. I’ll be the maid in the servant’s quarters, waiting for her Master after she’s spent the night cooking and cleaning and serving all the guests.”
Beaver (her chosen nickname) arrived past 10pm, fresh off a Chubby Checker concert and driving her new Jaguar. I gave her a big hug at the door and served chips with homemade guacamole, which I claim to be the best guacamole east of Texas. It’s a bold claim and I’m prepared to go up against any challengers in a guacamole-off. Beaver and my Man quickly disappeared together.
The Master’s bedroom has thick drapes that block out the sun. The maid’s quarters do not. I was wide awake at 7:30 the next morning with a college boy asleep in my bed. I snuck into the dark Master’s bedroom and whispered to my Man, “Is she still here?” He nodded.
“I’m so horny.”
“Go get me breakfast juice,” he ordered.
“Yes, Sir,” I answered as I swiftly went to the kitchen for juice.
I heard crying upstairs. Beaver had quickly collected her stuff. “I’m so late… I’m going to get in trouble…”
She left in a hurry. I got in bed with my Man. The bed smelled like Beaver.
“I’m so horny,” I confided. “I want two cocks.”
“Well, this cock may not be hard by the time you get back here with your college boy,” he said as he revealed his erection. I jumped up to suck his hard cock immediately.
In between licks and sucks I said, “I can settle for having both of you one after another. I’ll take a load of cum from you right now, go back to the maid’s quarters and get a load of cum from him, then come back here for another load.”
My Man changed his mind. “I think it’ll be more exciting to have us double fuck you.”
“That’s more like it.” I got up and went to the maid’s room, crept under the blankets and found my college boy’s cock. I put it in my mouth and sucked. “Good morning. Come to the other room with me.”
He awoke and nodded. He got out of bed like a good boy, went to the restroom, then followed me to the Master’s bedroom, where he found me already on all fours sucking on my Man’s cock. He lay next to my Man so I could service both their cocks side by side. Once I got them both hard, I mounted my college boy in my pussy, then leaned forward to let my Man fuck my empty ass.
Read the full story at MAYCAM. I’ll tell you just how hard I got fucked that morning, how many loads of cum I took inside me, every dirty little detail. Most of all I’ll tell you about love.
What makes the maid fantasy so potent? Have you played one out with a partner? Have you ever had a real-life sexy maid? Tell me all about it.
🍺 So here’s to you, World Wide Web. Look at you, wireless, mobile, social, deep, and dark. How you’ve grown! You’ve changed the world as we know it, for better in some ways, for worse in others. You’ve shaped the way I live and love, make a living and make love. You’ve made me your whore. A toast to the World Wide Web! Cheers! 🍻
My daddy forbade me to get naked for a college play. He didn’t realize it was not his call to make. I was eighteen. I could make my own decisions about my body.
I had just finished a run of my first professional theatre gig. “By George!” was a musical revue of George Gershwin starring Dulce and directed by Behn Cervantes. I was a wispy little chorus girl, but I had a solo part after Michelle Gallaga in the song, “I Got Rhythm.” It was a showstopper!
Throughout the run and for weeks after it, I hung out with Dulaang UP kids. Even though I went to Ateneo, I auditioned for a part in the play “Fili,” adapted by Floy Quintos from Jose Rizal’s “El Filibusterismo.” Director Tony Mabesa must have been amused by my novelty because he cast me in a big part, the role of Kontessa, the Kapitan-Heneral’s whore.
Sisa was Eugene Domingo, who had briefly changed her name to Geena Domingo to assume a more dramatic persona. She was a student then, not the big comedy star she is now. The big star of the show was film director Mario O’Hara as the protagonist Simoun.
Rehearsals were exciting. I was getting a master class in theatre performance from the best in the Philippines. I tried my best to keep up when we read through the entire script. I was in one big scene with chunky monologues and several lines back and forth with the Kapitan-Heneral. I was off-book and ready when it was time to get the scene up on its feet.
Sir Tony had me enter with a lit candelabra in each hand. I recited my lines, projected my voice as big as I could make it. My scene partner, the Kapitan-Heneral, was played by a flamboyant opera singer. I couldn’t let my voice drown alongside his. At center stage I was directed to hand the candelabras to the Kapitan-Heneral, kneel in front of him with my back to the audience, and undress.
Sir Tony was serious. I would be getting naked onstage.
My heart raced. My face heated up. I felt small. Literally. I had no tits. I was very self-conscious about it. We weren’t even onstage at the time. We were in a rehearsal room with unforgiving flat fluorescent lighting. I sheepishly removed my street clothes and returned to my spot center stage. The Kapitan-Heneral looked down at me. He was enormous.
“Drip wax on her,” Sir Tony directed from behind a desk. The stage manager sat next to him coldly taking notes on her script.
I continued my lines, gasping every time hot wax hit my bare skin. I felt all eyes on me. Cast and crew held their collective breath as a virgin had her first taste of Dominance and submission. Public humiliation. I didn’t know any of them and none of them knew me. I was an outsider. Just a doe-eyed girl from Ateneo who thought she could run with the cool kids at UP. I felt so alone.
As the scene drew to a climactic end, Sir Tony said, “This is where you have an orgasm.”
“What’s an orgasm?” I asked.
Sir Tony laughed a big booming laugh that echoed throughout the rehearsal hall and in the back of my head for years to come.
“You poor girl.”
Sir Tony took out a cigarette and stood up. The stage manager called a break.
We worked the scene in the succeeding rehearsals. I grew in confidence each time we ran it. I was determined to conquer this role. Eventually, though, Sir Tony decided to get someone else to play Kontessa, a woman named Grace, who rumor had it was a Muslim princess. She was a grown woman with full breasts and dark hair down to her ankles. She fit the part more than I did. She knew how to have an orgasm.
I’m trying to imagine my 18-year-old self as the Kontessa. Not yet five feet tall, a tit-less waif. I would have been the child prostitute version, which is not without a visceral power of its own.
I was demoted to the part of a common whore. I wore a blonde wig and a big poofy dress. I had a couple of lines and got to kiss Sir Mario O’Hara at the beginning of the play.
I got asked out on dates a lot during the run of the play. Maybe I was fresh meat from Ateneo. Maybe it was the challenge of giving me my first orgasm. Maybe that very first wax dripping scene rehearsal played in their imaginations more often than they could bear it. More than my naked body on display, I like to think it was my innocence, vulnerability, and courage that captivated them that day.
This is an excerpt from the memoir I am currently writing. I am so proud that I got to work with Sir Tony Mabesa, who recently won the MMFF award for Best Supporting Actor in the movie Rainbow’s Sunset.