There are only three things to be done with a woman. You can love her, suffer for her, or turn her into literature. ~ Henry Miller

My love is firmly planted within the soil of my man’s heart.

He’s not a perfect man but he satisfies that yearning I have for a mate who understands my mind, my heart and my need for creative expression. To be honest, he satisfies my ego and my irrepressibly sexual nature.

But there are days when only a woman will do.


There is something about a woman’s sensibilities that is like an illusive piece of magic…it’s candy for sugar addicts, it’s clouds for steaming hot days, it’s silence for an overstimulated world.

Loving a man is a beautiful adventure but loving a woman is like a cool cloth on one’s forehead after enduring the marathon that a man can be.



Feasting one’s senses on a man is delicious, finding solace in their thoughts, their wisdom and strength can occupy me for days on end.

And then there are days when only a woman will do. Softness in the poetry of a woman’s body calls to a deeper instinct – perhaps that is what men feel, what men delight in…


I don’t even need to understand it. Women are mystery incarnate after all. I just know I want it.